Page 45 of City Of Thieves

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“If you let me finish shaving you”—I pause to force a swallow down—“I’ll tell you my daughter’s name.”

I watch him drop the razor into a sink full of water and wash the shaving cream off, all the while my heart is thumping so loudly there’s not a chance in hell he can’t hear it.

Without a word, he turns and hands me the clean instrument, leaning back against the vanity unit with a frown. “If you nick the skin, I’ll be pissed.”

You cut me open last night, Renzo, and now I can’t seem to staunch the bleeding.

This morning, I awoke—like I always do—with a crystal-clear image of my daughter’s tearstained face pressed up against the glass of Konstantin’s house as I was being driven away from her.

She doesn’t know I’m her mother, I’ve never been allowed to tell, but somehow, during that last visit, it felt like she already knew. I could see it in her eyes. I could feel it in her embrace. Bloodlines are like magnets that can’t help being drawn together, no matter how strongly they’re kept apart.

When I betray Renzo later by purchasing the ‘Atonement’ for Konstantin instead of for him, when I prove his theory about people is correct, a part of me wants him to understand that it wasn’t an easy choice for me; that the link back to my daughter was always going to supersede whatever undefined madness there is between us.

That there was always a magnetic force in existence I couldn’t deny.

“Head back,” I instruct.

“Tell me about the tattoo first.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I don’t play by the rules,dolcezza…”

I pause. “I made a mistake in my past, and that’s where I’d like it to stay.”

Accepting my answer for now, he finally obliges, his fingers tightening around the edge of the vanity unit as I move to stand in front of him.

Pressing the blade to the base of his throat, I forge my own clean line up through the remaining shaving foam, following the contours of his strong,stubborn jawline until there’s nothing left but a strip of smooth, golden skin.

Washing the razor clean, I repeat the process, leaning in closer as I do, feeling the hardness of his erection against my stomach. Forcing myself to concentrate as the beat between my thighs explodes into a symphony.

On the fourth run, I sense his patience running out. Shifting my weight, I prepare to shave my fifth and final stripe. “Anastasia,” I whisper, feeling a gnawing ache inside me as I say her name. “I gave birth to her when I was eighteen years old.”

His dark eyes are burning me up again. “Where is she now?”

“Moscow. With her father.”

“Why not with you?”

Gritting my teeth, I finish up and offer him the clean razor. “The man you killed last night was my key to seeing her again, so perhaps that dogmatic outlook of yours isn’t so great for those around you.”

“Tell me why?”

I shake my head. No more. “I’ve upheld my side of the bargain, Renzo. I’ve finished shaving you, and the bathroom doesn’t look like an abattoir—”

“Did you shave him, too?” There’s a hard snap to his tone.

“Who?” I say, but I know exactly who he means.

“The father of your daughter.”

“It’s nearly eight a.m. and I have to get ready.Weatherby’sare expecting us at nine, and London traffic is just as bad as New York’s is.”

He grabs my wrist as I turn to leave. “Does your family know about her?”

I stare at the white tiled floor for a beat before shaking my head. “No one does.”