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“No, I was miles away,” I tell her, taking the glass of apple juice.
“I’m getting some breakfast ready for you.” She hands me a rolled-up magazine. “I thought you might like to do some light reading while you wait for breakfast.”
There is something in her eyes. Like they say,Take the magazine.I smile and take it. “Thank you.”
She smiles warmly and walks away.
For a while, I also thought Konstantin wasn’t a bad person. Now I’m conflicted. Yes, I know I was an assignment. Yes, I know I instigated the texting. Yes, I know what I was walking into. Well, part of it. My brow furrows. But at least I know he really is Konstantin Romanov. What I want to know is who the fuck Damien Romanov really is. I had a one-night stand with a man who didn’t even give me his real name.
I drop the magazine as I’m so deep in thought wondering who the fuck Damine Romanov is, that I forget it’s in my hand. I bend to scoop it up and freeze. It’s a Russian magazine with the headline: Moscow Number One Law Firm, Dragunov Law…”
The rest of the headline fades away as my eyes fall on the picture of Ruslan Dragunov, and my breath catches in my throat. My fingers feel stiff, and my body goes cold, and the book roars in my ears as I find the answer to my question—Damien is Ruslan Dragunov!
17
RUSLAN
The second I step into the Romanov Hotel, the air shifts.
Whispers trail behind me. Heads turn. Staff straighten like I’ve just marched into a damn inspection. While they may snap to my attention. I know that it is the Romanov domain. Even though Konstantin is my second-in-command, here he is the boss, which means one of his staff members is already about to give him a heads up that I just walked in the door.
Pavel follows behind, silent and stone-faced. He knows better than to speak right now. I’m holding back the storm—but just barely.
“Boss!”
I glance to the side. Alexi rushes toward me from the shadows of the lobby, his shirt half-tucked, hair still wild from sleep. He looks like hell.
“Where is he?” I ask, not slowing.
“Upstairs.” Alexi straightens his hair with his hands. “He has not come down or one of the men on shift would’ve alerted me.”
I nod but don’t break stride.
The porter who mans the private penthouse elevator immediately opens it for me. I climb in, followed by Pavel and Alexi, and press the penthouse button. The elevator ride feels like it’s taking a lot longer than normal. I clench my fists, jaw locked, while my blood thrums like a war drum under my skin.
I’m not sure if I’m here for answers or vengeance. Both feel the same right now.
It was my instruction—get close to Tara, do whatever it takes to get her away from Gavriil. But every day Konstantin has been getting closer to Tara has been torture. The more I tried to ignore it, to push it away, the more it seemed to stick. Like one of those thorn trees that gets a hook in you, and before you know it, you’re tangled in it.
My obsession with the woman I shared one night with has both strengthened my cause and broken down a lifelong friendship. The elevator dings.
The penthouse is too quiet when I walk in. Tense silence. Like the walls are hiding something. I walk through the open space, straight to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. My boots hit the polished floor with deliberate weight. No one meets me. No one stops me.
I don’t knock.
I slam open the door to Konstantin’s room.
He jolts upright on the bed, bare chest heaving, hand already diving for the Glock on his nightstand. He’s halfway up, gun pointed, eyes wild with sleep-hazed reflexes.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “Ruslan!”
“You were expecting someone else?” My voice snaps like a whip.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he groans and lowers the weapon, dragging a hand through his hair. “I could’ve shot you.”
“Where is she?” My voice is low and level.
He frowns, confused for a moment. “Who?”