Page 5 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

Chivalry ain’t dead; it’s just… rough around the edges.

The security here is so intense that it would be obvious to anyone paying attention that this is not a typical wedding.

The grounds have an iron fence encircling the perimeter to limit access, and the estate house has an alarm system, with magnetic cards to swipe at every door.

Prior to entry, security checked ladies’ purses, and men had to open their coats to show they were not carrying.

Our invitations were scanned, collected, and deposited into a locked case.

Cameras point at the grounds from every corner of the building.

Armed guards are posted in doorways, at key points on the grounds, and mill about among the guests.

Only important people with something to protect take this many precautions—the very wealthy, celebrities, politicians, and in this case, Bratva Pakhans .

It was a simple matter to identify the leader of this Bratva ; he has been surrounded by sycophants and sentinels all evening.

But that is fine. My goal tonight need not be to kill a middle-aged man.

Thanks to Wesley’s creativity and technological know-how, I have been taking photos by pressing the button wired to the back of my cufflink.

The wire runs through my jacket arm, up to the camera in my breast pocket disguised in the pocket square, and there is a wireless transmitter stitched into the fabric of the hem .

I know I do not blend particularly well into a crowd, but it is a large wedding. We all assumed Felix’s invitation would buy me entrance, and my accent and fluency in Russian would afford me credibility.

But despite my efforts to blend in, I am being followed.

If I had to guess, the man on my tail is likely a bratok , a specialized soldier. It is a relatively low-ranking position, but with a singular, important purpose—to protect the Pakhan , even at the cost of your own life.

My heart races, adrenaline surging and infusing my limbs with strength. It will be no simple matter to hide his body; I must be vigilant and efficient. If I can manage it bloodlessly, perhaps I can make it look like he passed out from too much drink.

“I need somewhere private to handle my tail,” I say, keeping my voice low. The man has followed me through the manor, across the dance floor, and outside into the gardens.

Wesley mans the screens as usual; however, tonight the van has been stripped of its decal—no one would wish to see an exterminator at a wedding venue.

He is in charge of ensuring that no one will ever know I was here.

Instead of being saved to a secure cloud location, the footage from the cameras is being routed through Wesley’s laptop and deleted.

Tomorrow, Volkevich’s security team will find nothing saved in the 12 hours after the event began.

“ There’s a blind spot by the corner of the house that I can’t see in any of my feeds,” Wesley informs me. “If you’re quick and discreet, you shouldn’t have any witnesses. He’s about 20 yards behind you.”

I head in the direction that Wesley recommends, keeping my pace slow and purposeful, as if I am strolling and blithely unaware of my shadow. I make it to the end of the path and make a show of looking both ways…

Fuck. Of course the only convenient blind spot on the property is occupied by a woman sitting on a bench, stargazing.

I realize I have only an instant to choose my next move.

If I ask for more assistance from Wesley, the guard might be close enough to overhear.

If I keep running, he will catch up with me and it is equally likely that he would kick me out as it is that he would force me at gunpoint to a holding cell on the property where I would be questioned and quietly disposed of for daring to crash a Bratva wedding.

I may have an invitation and a matching ID, but I do not look much like the man actually invited.

However, there is no better cover at a wedding than having a date.

The woman on the bench is alone. If I join her and act correctly, it should appear as if we are lovers meeting to the bratok .

I am not what people would consider charismatic, but I can usually speak with a woman without frightening her. When I want to.

And now that I have seen this woman, I find I want to. I like the look of her very much. As my father would have said, she would not blow away in a Moscow winter.

She turns with a curious expression when she hears my feet against the small stones, and our eyes meet. The world narrows, tunneling my focus for a breathtaking instant.

Her stare is pure amber—a honeyed color that makes the air between us taste sweeter.

Her dress leaves little of her shape to the imagination.

It clings to wide hips, cups large breasts, and ripples against a thick waist. Her hair is tied up, long and wild, with golden-brown curls spiraling out around her head.

As she tilts her head, I am drawn to the soft curve of her jaw that flows into a graceful line down her neck.

The oval shape of her face is common in my country and considered desirable, though her darker coloring would be unique among people as pale as the snow they live in.

“May I join you?” I rasp.

I watch with fascination as the goosebumps rise on her upper arms and spread down the deep V pointing to her cleavage like an arrow. “If you’d like.” She shifts her body to the very edge of the bench to make room for me .

Unbuttoning the single hold of my suit jacket, I take the spot next to her. She is obviously very tall for a woman—the top of her head is level with my mouth—and I catch a whiff of something mouthwatering and feminine as the breeze drifts between us.

“Thank you,” I say, because I can think of nothing else.

“No problem.”

“What brings you out here?”

“I’m hiding from my date. You?”

Her voice wraps around me. It is deeper than most women’s and some men’s, and the low register is calm and soothing.

I angle myself closer, so our legs nearly touch, then let my eyes drop to her full lips. She tracks the movement, follows my lead, and shamelessly looks her fill. Her eyes on me feel like a gentle caress.

For the first time in a long time, I am unsettled as I wait for the judgment of another person. Will she see the darkness in me? Will the twisted scar repulse her? Why does the thought of her rejection make my chest burn with the echoes of years of ignored anger?

Her eyes flick across my face, spending no more time on the scar than any other feature, then travel the length of my torso and down my legs, quietly measuring, assessing, and—fuck me—liking what she sees.

The pink tip of her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip before she takes that lip between her teeth, and I nearly groan aloud.

Triumph and satisfaction swell in my veins at the tentative interest and curiosity.

“I came to admire the view,” I say, remaining focused on her.

Her eyes widen, and her chest expands at the lower edge of my vision. I have to fight not to watch it swell and contract.

“Was that a line?” she asks almost breathlessly, and her eyes are smiling.

I cock my head. “A line of what?”

She stares for a second, transparently deciding whether or not to believe my ignorance, and decides that my accent is thick enough to absolve me of suspicion. “Never mind. It is a beautiful night.” She returns her attention to the overlook, allowing me the opportunity to take in her strong profile.

“What has your date done to deserve such scorn?” I ask.

She laughs once, almost a self-deprecating noise. “Does it matter?”

“Perhaps I would like to know so that I do not repeat the same mistake.”

“Wait, what’s… happening? Is Big D… flirting?” James’s half-formed questions ring in one ear.

“So much for being on the job,” Wesley quips. “I think he must have taken your advice about having a life to heart, Mac.”

They are buzzing in my ears so loud that I nearly miss her sharp intake of breath at my statement. It could mean many things. Is she nervous? Excited?

“Um… unless you plan on generally being an asshole, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

The accusation from the woman at the bar the other night echoes in my memory. She called me an asshole, too. “I would never plan this—it happens naturally.”

She laughs. The husky sound punches me in the gut, then shoots down my spine and tingles at the base.

I never expect anyone to laugh at the things I say.

James and Wesley sometimes do, though it is more a shared, private amusement at my cost. This is nothing like that—this is her enjoyment of a clever turn of phrase, and it makes me feel… curiously warm.

I follow the movement of her fingers hungrily as she holds out her hand at chest height. “I’m Nicole.”

“D-Lev,” I remember almost too late.

Fuck. I almost gave her my real name. I am clearly too distracted to be here with her, but now that I am, I cannot pull myself away .

Her hand in mine is warm, dry, and calloused, and her handshake is firm. When we touch, her fingers brush the scabs on my knuckles, and her eyes drop to the nearly healed skin before she lets go.

“Lev,” she repeats the name.

“Nicole,” I say, enjoying the flavor of hers.

“What happened to your hand, Lev?”

A deep grumble escapes my chest at the sound of the wrong name in her musical voice. Jealously, I do not want to hear her speak another man’s name. I want to know what she looks like wrapping her lips around my name. I want to hear her scream it in ecstasy.

She misinterprets the noise for something else, because she hurries to explain herself, “Not to be nosy… I’m an ER nurse. It’s hard-wired in me to ask.”

“I got into a fight.”

Her eyes flick back down, but her posture does not change. A small, secret smile of what might be amusement curls at the edges of her mouth. She is not easily rattled by violence, then. This is good. “You must have won.”

“You could say that. What gave it away?”