Page 23

23

DMITRI

I watch Tash move through the Egyptian wing of the museum on my tablet. The security feeds give me eight angles of her speaking with staff, checking displays, and making notes on her tablet.

My fingers trace the edge of my coffee cup. The memory of waking up with her curled against me in her pajamas strikes an unfamiliar chord. No sex. Just... presence.

"Sir, the Lebedev situation requires your attention." Akim hovers at my office door.

I wave him off, eyes fixed on Tash as she pauses to adjust the lighting on a particular exhibit. Such precise movements. Such care for every detail.

The feeds show her stopping to speak with Officer Chen. Chen leans in too close, but Tash steps back smoothly. Professional, controlled, mine.

I pull up the morning's security logs from her apartment building. Everything is normal. There is no suspicious activity. But the comfort of knowing she's safe conflicts with an unsettling vulnerability in my chest. I've never let anyone affect my focus like this.

Last night replays in my mind—her falling asleep during the movie, her body soft against mine on her expensive leather couch. I could have woken her. Instead, I'd lifted her carefully and placed her in bed, settling in next to her and breathing in the scent of her shampoo until sleep claimed me, too.

The morning light caught the copper highlights in her hair as she reached for the coffee filters. It was simple, but it pierced through years of carefully maintained control. No woman has ever made me feel so exposed.

I drum my fingers against my desk, unable to focus on the reports before me. The domesticity of it all haunts me—her designer t-shirt, bare feet padding across her gleaming kitchen tiles, the way she'd smiled when I'd known exactly how she took her coffee. No pretense. No power plays. Just... us.

The danger in that terrifies me more than any business rival or enemy ever could. I've spent decades building walls, maintaining perfect control, and keeping everyone at a calculated distance. Yet one morning of casual intimacy with Natasha has cracked foundations I thought impenetrable.

My phone buzzes with a text from Nikolai about the Lebedev situation. Apparently, Lebedev is not taking the kidnapping of his daughter too well. It's a stark reminder of who I am and what I do, and it sends ice through my veins. This softness that I feel when I'm with Natasha is a liability. Every enemy I've made would see her as a weakness to exploit. Every rival would view her as leverage.

I close my eyes, remembering how she'd curled against me on her couch last night, trusting and unguarded. The urge to protect wars with the need to control. I want to lock her away somewhere safe, yet I know that would destroy what draws me to her—that fierce independence, that fire.

The simple truth is that I'm compromised. The careful compartments of my life are bleeding into each other. The man who wakes up with Natasha, who makes her coffee and kisses her good morning, cannot be the same man who orders hits and orchestrates takeovers. Yet somehow, impossibly, they are becoming one and the same.

I glance up from the security feeds as Nikolai strides into my office. The grim set of his jaw tells me everything before he speaks.

"What is it?" I place my coffee down.

"Lebedev." Nikolai's voice carries the weight of impending violence. "He found out about Katarina."

My fingers tighten around my phone. "And?"

"He hit the main warehouse. Blew the whole thing sky high." Nikolai runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "Two million in product, gone. Along with three of our men."

Ice slides through my veins. Not a retaliation—a declaration. "Names?"

"Martinez, Kovac, and Chen."

I nod, memorizing them. Their families will be compensated generously. "He's escalating faster than anticipated."

"This isn't escalation, brother." Nikolai's steel-gray eyes meet mine. "This is war."

The word hangs between us, heavy with promise. I rise from my desk and walk to the window overlooking the Boston skyline. Somewhere out there, Lebedev is making his next move. The game board has shifted, and pieces are scattered.

"We need Erik to move Katarina to the secondary location." I keep my voice measured and controlled. "And we need to double the guard rotation. No one gets within a hundred yards without clearance."

"Already done." Nikolai moves to stand beside me. "But Dmitri... Igor won't stop until he has his daughter back."

"Or until we break him completely." The words taste like ash in my mouth. A war with Lebedev means casualties on both sides. It means violence spilling into the streets. It means no one is safe—not our people or interests.

Not Tash.

"How are we going to retaliate?" I turn from the window to face Nikolai.

A cold smile plays across his lips. "It's already in motion. Within the hour, his art galleries start going up in flames. Then, the auction houses. By morning, every legitimate front he uses to clean his money will be ash."

"The police?—"

"They will be all over this, yes." Nikolai adjusts his platinum cufflinks, which is a habit when he considers angles. "Let them. It's better they focus on property damage than bodies. For now."

I process this, appreciating the elegance of the move. Hit Igor where it hurts—his reputation, his legitimate enterprises. The art world loves old money and old names. Once his galleries become liability magnets, they'll scatter like rats from a sinking ship.

"The insurance investigations alone will tie him up for months," I note.

"Exactly." Nikolai moves to pour himself a drink. "And every investigator, every adjuster, every fire marshal will be asking questions. The kind of attention a man in his position can't afford."

"How many properties?"

"Six galleries. Three auction houses. His wife's antique shop." Nikolai tosses back his scotch. "All carefully timed to overwhelm emergency response capabilities."

The scale of it sinks in. This isn't just retaliation—it's a declaration of our own. Igor will have no choice but to respond in kind.

I nod slowly, weighing the implications. "Do it."

"Already happening, brother." Nikolai's lips curl into that familiar predatory smile. "I wasn't asking permission."

He moves toward the door, then pauses. "One more thing. Your little curator?—"

"Leave her out of this."

"That's exactly my point." He turns, fixing me with a hard stare. "The moment Igor discovers your connection to her, she becomes a target. And unlike Katarina, she has no protection."

The truth of his words hits like a physical blow. I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white.

"Keep your distance," Nikolai continues. "At least until this plays out. Unless you want to explain to her why she needs armed guards following her to work."

He leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. I spot the first plume of smoke rising against the skyline through the window. Lebedev's flagship gallery, no doubt.

My phone lights up with a text from Natasha.

Still on for dinner tonight?

Such a simple message. So ordinary. Yet, it carries the weight of everything I stand to lose. Every moment of peace with her comes with escalating risk. Every soft morning could end in violence.

I close my eyes, remembering how she felt in my arms this morning. Safe. Trusting. Completely unaware of the monster she's let into her life.

My fingers hover over the phone. The smart move would be to cancel. To create distance. To protect her from the war that's about to engulf this city.

Instead, I type a reply.

I'll pick you up at eight.

Because I'm selfish. Because even as smoke rises and empires burn, I can't bring myself to let her go.