Page 33 of Possessive Bratva’s Kidnapped Virgin

"He's looking for a pressure point." Dan paused. "The Meridian's operating licenses are clean. But the underground room is a different architecture."

"Our legal insulation on the underground room is thorough."

"It is, boss. But thorough isn't invisible, and White has been building a case for two years. He may have found a thread worth pulling." I could hear the sound of paper moving. "I want to bring our legal team in today. Full audit, identify any exposure before he does."

"Do it." I set down my pen. "The Monroe research."

"Still processing, boss. The contact I mentioned needs another day." Then there was another pause before he noted in a lighter tone, "She was up early."

I looked at the window. "Isla."

Something about the fact that he saw her awake first and she probably didn’t know where I was rubbed me the wrong way.

"She ordered coffee at 5:45. Mira says she asked for a notebook. For her work, maybe.”

I was quiet for a moment.

"She'll be with me tonight," I said. "The casino. Coordinate with Mira on dress, timing."

"Done, boss."

Then he added, "White will be there. I can't confirm his attendance, but his pattern suggests he won't miss it. He'll want to see."

"Good," I said. "I want him to."

*****

The main floor operated every evening with the energy of a room that spoke excellence in hushed tones—and tonight had no reason to be an exception. There were high rollers, guests, the specific cross-section of Vegas wealth and influence that I'd cultivated over a decade of careful relationship management; politicians who needed to believe they were understood; business figures who needed to believe they were untouchable; and the occasional international visitor whose presence in this city was itself a statement about where power currently resided.

But tonight, it would carry a different signal than usual.

Isla was ready when I came into the bedroom, our bedroom, at 8 pm.

She was standing at the window by the bed—of course, she was at the window—and she turned when she heard me. I couldn’t stop my eyes from pausing on her appearance.

Her dress was deep green. Her hair was up in the way it had probably been when she'd been running events. It was neat, precise, and chic, probably the professional version of herself that the gala photographs would have captured. The earrings were small and gold, not stealing attention from that beautifully flawless face my hands itched to touch.

"You look like you're about to walk me into a war," she uttered, turning completely to face me.

"Not a war," I said. "A statement."

"The distinction again," she commented, her tone almost playful.

Something had shifted between us in the night—not exactly softened, nothing about Isla Monroe-Golovin was going to soften just like that, but shifted. This argument, if I could even call it that, had a different tenor. The edges were the same, but the temperature underneath them had changed.

I extended my hand.

She looked at it for a moment—in that characteristic beat of assessment of hers—and then she put her hand in mine. I felt her pulse under my fingers, and it was steadier than it had been.

I saw her eyes flick to our joined hands for a second before she looked away.

It’s new for me, too, baby.

"What do I need to know?" she inquired.

"Stay at my side. If someone says something you don't know how to respond to, don't respond. You can ask me afterward." I held her gaze. "You don't owe anyone information about yourself. You don't owe anyone warmth. You owe the room nothing except your presence."

"That's the most useful thing you've said to me in two days."