And he should have guessed that they’d be watching, that they knew. Because of course Russian Bratva assassin Damien Gustov stood in the shadows by the curtains, cleaning a blade wrapped in a hotel hand towel. Unhurried. He wore dark clothing, tactical, the uniform of a man who didn’t exist.
“You’re late,” Damien said. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind about her.”
Alan’s weapon came up. For the first time in years, his hands shook. “You?—”
“Careful.” Damien didn’t flinch. “You’re the one who taught me to always have an exit strategy. You don’t think I’d come alone, do you?”
The words hit like ice water.
You’re the one who taught me.
His jaw clenched. Because yes, that’s how this had started. Ten years ago, in Budapest, when Damien was the deputy minister’s son, with too much money and too many Russian friends, Alan had recruited him. Spotted the potential in those cold eyes and decided to shape it. Turned Damien Gustov from a corrupt diplomat’s kid into an asset.
Into this.
“Why?” The word scraped out of his throat.
Damien tucked the towel into his pocket, the blade disappearing somewhere beneath his jacket. “Because you forgot the rules, Alan. You started to care.” He spat out the word. “The Bratva noticed. They don’t appreciate their assets developing attachments.”
“She had nothing to do with?—”
“She had everything to do with it.” Damien’s voice hardened. “She was an op. Intel extraction. That’s all she was ever supposed to be.” He tilted his head. “But you started . . . thinking.” He tapped his chest. “Forgetting who you are.”
Alan’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“She was also getting too close.” Damien lifted a shoulder. “Asking the wrong questions. Looking into the wrong files. She suspected the dating site was being used to activate sleeper agents.” A ghost of a smile. “She was onto you.”
MyAmore.com. The site Alan had used to contact her.
His stomach dropped. She’d been investigating him. Or at least, the network he was part of. All those late-night messages, the connection he’d thought they were building—had she suspected? Had she been playing him too?
He swallowed.
“I saved you,” Damien said. “You should thank me.”
Alan shook his head, lowered his weapon. “I’m done.” His voice came out flat, dead. “Tell Crowley I’m out. I won’t?—”
Damien moved.
Fast—faster than Alan remembered he could. The blade appeared from nowhere, sweeping toward his gun hand. Alan jerked back, squeezed the trigger, the shot going wide as Damien closed the distance between them.
They crashed into the dresser. The mirror shattered. Alan grabbed Damien’s wrist, twisted, but the younger man was stronger than he used to be, trained by people who made Alan’s methods look gentle.
“You made me,” Damien hissed in his ear. “Remember that. Every skill I have, you gave me.”
Alan headbutted him. Damien’s grip loosened for a half second—long enough for Alan to drive an elbow into his ribs, create space, bring his gun up again?—
The blade flashed.
Fire split Alan’s forehead, just above his right eyebrow. Blood poured into his eye, blinding him on one side. He staggered, firing blind, the shot punching through drywall.
When he wiped the blood away, Damien was by the adjoining door. Not even breathing hard.
“You don’t leave the Bratva.” Damien’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “And a reminder: You don’t get to care about anyone. Not anymore.” He paused, hand on the door. “Next time, it won’t be someone you’re just starting to love. It’ll be someone you’ve loved for years.”
Alan only had one person he’d loved for years, and she was already gone. But . . . Timea’s family. The thought stabbed through him. Her mother in Budapest. Her sister. Her brother’s little girl.
“Stay in line,” Damien said. “Do what you’re told. And they’ll stay breathing.”
