Page 62

The other side of the fence is like a different world. There’s an entire city, complete with lavish hotels, a casino, strip clubs, and bars. It’s where the triad bosses bring people they want to impress, where cartel members come to do business, a place of such luxury and decadence it seems unimaginable it could exist so close to our dull gray dormitory lives. It’s a criminal playground, one where a politician can take a bribe unseen or a government contract can be discreetly traded amid naked girls and high-stakes bets.

I catch glimpses of the city on the other side of the fence as I run. If there’s anything to be grateful for, it’s that I’m working on this side and not the other. The scam farm might be mentally and emotionally sickening, but at least I’m not having to lie on my back for strangers.

Not yet, you aren’t.

I push away the terrifying thought. There’s no point dwelling on those possibilities. Like Lucky says, we cause our own suffering.

Instead of my swamp of regret, I try to think of the good times.

Don’t think of how you deceived him, Abby. Think of how he forgave you.

Of how he loved you . . .

Malaga, Spain

Two years ago

It’s close to midnight,and Pillars is packed.

Work has the sole advantage of taking my mind off my argument with Dimitry.

I’ve picked up my phone a hundred times to apologize.

Every time, I’ve chickened out. Partly because I know that the best thing for us both is to walk away and stay away.

Mostly, though, I’m just scared.

And not just of his life, his bratva world.

I’m scared because, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Dimitry Stevanovsky. And it’s not just the sex, although to say that it is transcendent is an underestimation. I’veneverknown anything even close to the intensity of sex with Dimitry.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the way he makes me laugh. His quiet consideration, the way he noticed the wine I like on one of our first nights together, then always brought that bottle over with him. The way he holds the door for me, scans the street before I step onto it, or straps me into my seat. All small gestures, but every one of them telling in their own way.

Just like the scars on his body are telling, or the way he angles himself in public, scanning every face for danger.

Maybe those things should scream danger to me. Instead, they really do make me feel safe.

And I’m scared of that, too,I think as I serve up a bundle of drinks to a particularly rowdy English bachelor’s party.

I hope the backup security Gregor mentioned gets here soon. This crowd is getting hectic.

Then the door to the club swings open, and I freeze.

The security reinforcements are here, alright. They’re sohereit takes my breath away.

Usually I see Dimitry when his workday has ended and his formal wear is disheveled, or during the daytime, in casual clothes.

But tonight he’s clad all in black, in a suit that some tailor clearly hand stitched to fit him. His shirt is open at the neck, exposing just enough corded muscle to set the pulse between my legs thrumming. He stands a full head and shoulders above every man in the place, and in the dim light his face looks carved from granite.

He’s unsmiling, his eyes scanning the floor, and by the wary glances the other security men give him, he’s clearly in no mood to be messed around.

It doesn’t escape my notice that every woman in the place is staring at him like they’re in the desert and he’s the only fucking water source.

I’m torn between the desire to stalk past the gawking women and claim him as my own and an equally fierce urge to bolt out the back door and run for my life.

I still haven’t decided what to do when his eyes settle on me.