Page 205 of Sexting His Assistant

Her apartment is at the end.

The door is ajar.

That single inch of darkness does more to me than a gun ever has.

Sergei moves with me, quiet and fast, his hand inside his jacket, his eyes sweeping the hallway while mine stay fixed on Nina’s door. There’s no sound from inside the apartment.

The small gap between the door and the frame sits there like an insult.

I know, before I touch it, that something is wrong.

I push the door open with the side of my hand.

The living room light is on.

For one second, my mind registers the room in pieces.

The overturned coffee table.

The couch cushions thrown onto the floor.

A drawer pulled out and emptied.

Then I see Nina.

She is on the floor near the entrance, half on her side, her dark hair covering part of her face, one hand loose near her phone. The black dress she wore to the gala is twisted around her legs, and one of her shoes has come off.

Everything inside me goes silent.

I start toward her.

A movement comes from the hallway near the kitchen.

I turn just as a man comes at me.

He is dressed in dark clothes, face partly covered, one hand raised with something blunt and metal gripped tight. He swings for my head, and I step in instead of back, catching his wrist with my good hand while his shoulder crashes into mine.

Pain tears through the wound so much so that my vision sparks white.

I don’t let go.

The man tries to jerk free, but I drive him sideways into the wall, hard enough to knock a framed print down. Glass breaks under our feet. He grunts and throws an elbow toward my ribs. I take the hit because I need my weight on him, then slam my forearm into his throat and force him back until his head hits the wall.

Sergei shouts from the doorway, “Boss.”

“Clear the rooms,” I say.

Sergei hesitates for less than a second, then moves past us with his weapon drawn.

The man uses that second to twist his wrist. The metal baton slips lower in his grip, and he tries to bring it up between us. I catch his arm again, drive my knee into his stomach, and rip the baton free. It hits the floor and rolls under the overturned table.

I hit him once.

His head snaps to the side. He staggers.

I hit him again, harder, and he drops to one knee.

Then I grab the back of his collar and drive him down onto the floor, twisting his arm up behind his back until the joint strains. He curses into the rug, muffled and furious, and I press my knee between his shoulder blades.