He’s a tool to get close to the Baronov organization and uncover what happened to my mother. That he’s hot as sin, that his dominance makes my pulse race, that I like the way he looks at me—none of that matters. None of it changes why I’m here.
He can fuck whoever he wants. Rada. A dozen other women. It’s irrelevant.
What matters is maintaining my cover and using whatever means I can to find out the truth.
Calmer now, I step out of the stall and cross to the sink to wash my hands.
It’s late. I won’t learn anything helpful at this point. I’ll find my friends and let them know I’m going home. I’d like to make an exit before Marco corners me again or I have to see Rada draped all over Kirill once more.
The bathroom door swings open and Marco stumbles through, his eyes unfocused and his tie loosened.
“There you are,” he slurs, a grin spreading across his face. “I knew you wanted me to follow you.”
Ice slides down my spine. “You thought wrong. This is the ladies’ bathroom. You need to leave.”
“Don’t play games.” He steps closer and I move back on instinct.
“You’ve been eye-fucking me all night. You practically begged for me to follow you here.”
He turns and locks the door behind him. Panic creeps up my throat, but I force it down. Staying calm is the only way I’m getting out of this. I assess my options. He’s bigger and stronger than me, but he’s drunk. That means slow reflexes, which I can use, but it also makes him unpredictable.
“My friends are waiting for me outside. If I don’t come out soon, they’ll come in here looking for me.”
He laughs. It’s an ugly sound. “No one’s outside that door, baby. I checked.”
“The security cameras will show you following me in here. That won’t look good for you.”
He crosses the distance, backing me against the sink. “No one gives a shit about that. It’s a party. Loosen up a little.”
My heart pounds in my throat. I could scream, but the music’s too loud and the bathrooms are far from the main area. If it comes to that, I’ll fight him.
I try one more time to talk sense into him, keeping my voice steady. “You’re drunk. You’re going to regret this tomorrow. Walk away, and we can both pretend this didn’t happen.”
“Or…” He presses closer, his breath hot and sour against my face. “We can make this quick. No one has to know.”
His hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist, yanking me against him. His other hand knots in my hair, pulling myhead back, and then his mouth is on mine, his tongue forcing past my lips.
Revulsion turns to fury as he releases my wrist and slides his hand down to grab my ass, squeezing hard.
I react on instinct, driving my knee up into his groin with everything I’ve got.
He stumbles back with a choked sound, doubling over, but the pain just makes him angrier. His skin flushes red, and a second later he lunges at me with a roar.
His fist swings toward my head, but I duck left and his knuckles graze my cheekbone. I pivot and drive my elbow into his kidney. He grunts, reaching for me, but I’m already moving. I catch his arm mid-grab, wrench it behind his back, and slam my knee into the back of his thigh. His leg buckles and he drops hard.
But drunk men don’t feel pain the way they should. He breaks free and swings again. This time his knuckles connect with my shoulder, and I stumble back against the counter, pain shooting down my arm.
He lunges forward. I grab his tie, step to the side, and use his momentum to send him crashing face-first into the mirror. The glass shatters on impact.
Marco staggers back, blood streaming from his nose and a deep gash above his eyebrow. He drops to his knees with a howl, clutching his face while crimson seeps between his fingers.
Adrenaline sings through my veins. I push away from the counter, breathing hard, and put distance between us as he collapses onto the tile.
The door explodes inward, the lock blasted apart, wood splintering as it slams into the wall.
Kirill’s frame fills the doorway, his gaze locking on Marco, his expression deadly. The pistol in his hand tells me exactly how he got through the lock.
“Did he put his hands on you?” His voice is emotionless, the kind of flat inflection that comes before violence.
