Page 21 of The Bonventi War

Paintings, art supplies, stacks of documents. Nothing outwardly suspicious, but my gut tells me he thinks there's more to this than meets the eye.

"Morning!" Steve's voice startles me. I turn to see him approaching me. "Umm, what's going on here?"

"Ask him," I say, gesturing toward Gio without looking at him. "I'm going downstairs."

I don't wait for a response. I need to get away, to breathe, to think.

The restoration room is my zone, the one place where I feel in control. I put on my apron, set up my workstation, try to focus on other things.

A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs.

I tense and wish I could run, but I'm trapped.

"We need to talk," he says, his voice low.

I whirl around and sigh. "No, you need to leave. This is my space. The one place where I don't have to deal with anything going on in my life. So," I say, standing to face him, "please get out."

He doesn't move. Instead, he steps further into the room, his eyes fixed on mine.

"Those crates," he says, his voice dangerously low. "Your brother?—"

"Stop!" I yell and see red. I lash out at him, and he doesn't even seem to budge as I push him away.

Before I can even process what's happening, I'm slammed against the wall, a heavy weight keeping me in place. I try to move, and then I see it—Gio's hand wrapped around my throat, pinning me. Not hard enough to choke me, but enough to show me who's in charge.

My breath catches in my chest, fear and adrenaline. His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense.

"You want to fucking play games, Raven?" he growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my body. "They end right here. You don't get to call the shots. Not now. Not ever."

I stare up at him, my heart pounding. I should be terrified, and I am, but there's something else there too. A spark of defiance, of wanting to see how far I can push him.

His gaze drops to my lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he's going to kiss me. And so help me God if he tries.

But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles and leans in closer, his breath hot on my ear. "Stop the theatrics. Stop hiding whatever the fuck it is you are. I will find out sooner or later," he whispers. "And if my suspicions are true," he trails off, giving my throat a light press before releasing me and stepping back.

"Now," he says, his voice back to its usual controlled tone, "tell me about the Russians."

I rub my throat, fighting to regain my composure. "I don't know anything about any Russians," I say, my voice hoarse.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing me. "Try again."

I take a deep, shaky breath. "Fine. I'll tell you what I know, then you get the fuck out."

He nods.

I clear my throat as I move closer to the stairs. "Okay, but you have to promise not to freak out."

He doesn't blink.

I let out a deep sigh, shaking my head. "I'm actually a Russian spy. Been one this whole time. And guess what? You cracked the case, Sherlock. Congrats."

His nostrils flare. "Are you done?"

I smile. "Not quite. I also moonlight as a jewel thief, run an underground fight club with Boris on Wednesdays, and—oh, this one's my favorite—I'm the secret heir to a Russian billionaire fortune. But you already knew that, right?"

I pat his chest twice. "Good talk. I'd love to stay and chat about those Russians and all that I'm hiding from you, but I got work to do. Watch me on your cameras, perv."

I turn and hurry up the stairs before he can stop me, feeling pretty fucking proud of myself.