4. Killian
4
KILLIAN
I can’t wipe the smirk off my face whenever I think about Boris Sokolov’s fury this evening.
He was positively livid at my intrusion on his meeting, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s reaching his breaking point.
Perfect.
That’s exactly what I’m aiming for. Because an angry man is more likely to misstep.
And when he does, I’ll be waiting.
Loosening my tie, I peer out at the waves crashing against the shore behind my beachfront property. In the quiet gated community of Seagate, it hardly feels like I’m in the bustling city of New York anymore. And that’s just the way I like it.
If not for the brilliant lights that stretch across the water of the bay, I could easily lose sight of that fact.
Even though it’s not quite as grand of a social statement as living in the penthouse of Central Park Tower, I like the extra room to stretch my legs. Not to mention the fact that all my walls—and floors and roof—belong only to me. And it doesn’t take a ten-minute elevator ride to get to my front door.
And I don’t have to rely on the building’s front-desk security to protect me. I have a round-the-clock guard to do that. Trusted men who walk the perimeter constantly—all who answer to Lance, the foster brother I trust intrinsically.
The best part is I even get a yard with my coastal Brooklyn property. And in my opinion, it’s got the best view in town. Since it backs up to the Lower Bay, I can look out on miles of watery horizon—and enjoy the private beach. Which is exactly why my west-facing walls are entirely made of glass.
They look out on the glassy water of the bay. Off in the distance, the shimmering lights of Staten Island reflect back at me, filling me with a sense of peace.
My kid sister, Quinn, usually drinks her morning coffee on the open deck two floors below. But at this time of night, she’s sound asleep in her wing of the house.
Glancing at the time, I note that my plans to undermine Boris Sokolov have, yet again, cut into my eight hours.
I need to get better about calling it quits for the night—as Lance has told me countless times…in so many words.
Turning away from my calming view, I toss my tie onto the back of my white leather tufted reading chair, followed shortly by my steel-gray suit jacket. And as I unbutton my dress shirt, pulling it out from the waist of my slacks, I head into the bathroom to wash my face.
It’s been a long day.
Long but fun.
I love winding people up. And it’s been my solitary mission to do so to Boris Sokolov for weeks now. It’s going to be even more fun when I manage to push him past his breaking point.
“There’s a thin line between strategy and a death wish.” Lance’s words ring clearly in my mind as I wipe my face dry.
He’s not wrong, and though that’s all he had to say on the matter, I know he’s thinking about Boris’s secret weapon. But the jury’s still out on whether his faceless spy and assassin of unmatched skill is even a real person. I think they’re just rumors stirred up to make the Sokolovs seem that much more untouchable.
Still, I can’t deny the proof. Boris is considerably older than the other New York patriarchs who could threaten his reign. And it’s been years since anyone’s even tried to step forward and challenge him…
Not that I have anything to worry about. This place is locked down like Fort Knox, and trying to get past Lance or my guards anywhere else around town is a laughable idea. Boris’s assassin would have to be a phantom to get to me.
Tossing my dress shirt in the hamper, I quickly follow it with my undershirt, then head back into my bedroom to finish off my Redbreast.
The twenty-seven-year Irish whiskey goes down smooth, even neat, and I suck in a breath as I set the tumbler back on my dresser, releasing an audible sigh of appreciation.
Then I frown.
Something about my room is different.
Different from just moments before.
Turning slowly, I scan the spacious room. The empty bed with crisp, clean sheets. The armoire, the reading chair and dresser beside me.
Then my eyes flick to the sliding door that opens onto my patio.
It’s unlocked and—if I’m not mistaken—ever-so-slightly ajar.
The flash of movement comes so suddenly, I have no time to react beyond instinct.
And as a blade flashes in the golden light of my reading lamp, I bring my forearm up to block it.
“Bloody hell,” I gasp as the tip just barely nicks my skin.
But I have no time to think about that. Because my attacker is already on the move. Dressed head to toe in a skintight black bodysuit, he’s lean and lithe—and a full head and shoulders shorter than I am.
Still, he’s fast .
All I can see of the knife-wielding aggressor is the eyes in the open panel of his black ski mask. But his nose and mouth are completely covered, making him look as much like a ninja as his flawless movements do.
And after I manage to block the first attempt to stab me, he brings his other hand across my midriff as if to disembowel me.
I jump back, barely managing to avoid the blade in his other hand.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand, swatting away a third and fourth attempt to cut me because this person means business.
So much so, he doesn’t even bother answering me.
It’s a good thing Lance and I spar daily. Otherwise, I’d already be dead.
As it is, my attacker has me on the defensive. I’m barely fast enough to step out of range before he makes his next sweeping attack. Blades held expertly in each hand, he shifts tactics as he slashes and stabs, stabs and slashes in rapid, almost-unending succession.
And just when I manage to get a sense of his rhythm, he scoops low, transitioning into a sweeping kick that slams me back against my armoire.
“Damn,” I grunt as the heavy piece of furniture rocks back on its base.
But the aggressive strike to my midsection also gave me just enough space to regain my balance. So as the assassin springs forward, coming at me for a fresh wave of attacks, I quickly unbuckle my belt and yank it free of my belt loops.
The sharp gray eyes of my attacker flash down to see what I’m doing. And in my moment of vulnerability, he slashes out, opening a long, shallow cut across my bare chest.
“Alright, asshole. Playtime’s over,” I growl, wrapping my wide leather belt around one hand and gripping the buckle loosely in the other.
Sinking into a defensive stance, I get lower to ground myself.
I don’t know how this guy got in here, but he must be good if he managed to get past the front gate and all my on-duty guards. It’s time to take this fight seriously.
Because a fighter of this caliber could only be the Sokolovs’ phantom assassin I’ve heard so much about.
None of his countless other victims have survived to catch or identify him.
Only a handful of family members lived to spread the rumors of his unparalleled skill.
Which is why Boris has managed to stay one step ahead of destruction all this time.
Slowly, a grin creeps across my face.
It would seem I’ve finally pushed Boris past his breaking point.
“What are you smiling about?” the assassin growls, lunging forward with such menace I know that my good humor has provoked him.
And I’m surprised at how young he sounds—almost boyish. It would match the slight frame. But I honestly hadn’t pictured a youth being this lethal. From the height of his pitch, I’d say his balls haven’t even dropped yet.
“Oh, you can talk,” I taunt. And I snap the buckle end of my belt with such force, I manage to dislodge one of the knives from his hands. “I was starting to wonder if you were a mute.”
With a feral scream, the assassin launches himself at me. He switches his blade from his right to left hand with such speed, I can hardly track it. But I manage to bring the belt up just in time.
The blade pierces the leather lengthwise, and the tip quivers less than an inch from my eye as I hold the belt taut between my palms.
Taking advantage of the near-death experience, I give the ruined leather a sharp twist, wrenching the second blade from my attacker’s grasp. I toss it aside, leaving my would-be assassin weaponless.
And still, he keeps on attacking.
Switching to hand-to-hand combat, he lands five blows in quick succession—two knees to the ribs, an elbow to the solar plexus, a fist to the jaw, finished off with a roundhouse kick to the stomach. I don’t even see it coming.
The wind rushes from my lungs, and I wheeze as my back hits the wall behind me.
Christ, this kid could actually kill me if I don’t get it together.
I’m done messing around.
Staying bent in half, I pretend to be incapacitated as he closes the distance between us, his quick steps so light, he could almost be dancing.
But as he brings one foot up to take me out with a kick to the temple, I’m ready for him.
I grab his ankle, jerking his slight frame forward to knock him off balance, and the moment I have the upper hand…
I go for his throat.
Wrapping my fingers around his neck, I lift him effortlessly off his feet.
And turning, I slam him forcefully against the wall I was leaning against moments before. The drywall gives slightly beneath his black-shrouded head, and his gloved fingers scramble to loosen my grip around his throat as I pin him down.
It was a dirty move, considering I must weigh at least twice as much as him. But all’s fair in love and war, and the bastard did come at me first—with two knives no less.
“You thought you could kill me?” I taunt, and I loosen my grip ever so slightly to avoid choking the guy to death before I can get the answers that I want.
A string of Russian curses issues from the assassin’s mouth, calling me every filthy name under the sun. And it confirms my suspicion about who sent him. I tighten my grip once more until a strangled sound cuts the tirade short.
“So, you do exist—Boris Sokolov’s secret weapon.” I smirk. “I must admit, I never imagined you’d be so…little,” I tease.
“ Fuck you,” he hisses, lashing out futilely with his feet.
His knee comes dangerously close to my groin, so I shift my grip. Leaning against his throat with my forearm, I pin him against the wall with my body, bringing my face just inches from his. And the subtle smells of amber and cinnamon reach my nose. A bit girly if you ask me. Then again, this guy’s badass enough to pull it off.
His eyes widen, showing off their unusual silver-gray with a thin black ring around the irises. And his struggles turn frantic as he grows desperate for oxygen.
“I suggest you behave unless you want me to strangle you right here and now,” I warn, letting my voice dip into a deadly register.
The assassin nods, and I ease up on his neck just enough to let him suck in a ragged breath.
“Now, let’s take off that mask and reveal who’s behind Old Man Sokolov’s unshakeable reign?”
My taunting question triggers a fresh wave of defiance, but I have the youth so thoroughly pinned down now, there’s nothing he can do.
Gripping the top of his mask, I give it a firm jerk, pulling the stretchy nylon up over his head in one swift motion.
And my jaw nearly hits the floor.
“As I live and breathe.” I stare down at my female captive, my thoughts racing. “Natasha Sokolov?” I murmur.
“I’d rather hoped you wouldn’t be by now,” she retorts scathingly.
Deep, genuine laughter rumbles up from my chest, reminding me of how close we are to one another. And suddenly, I’m distinctly aware of the subtle curves beneath her bodysuit.
But Boris Sokolov’s younger daughter looks far from amused. In fact, Natasha glares up at me with such intense hatred, I’m surprised I haven’t burst into flames.
She’s the masked assassin? His secret weapon that’s taken out his potential rivals before they could become a real threat?
My mind reels as I try to make those puzzle pieces fit together.
Never in a million years would I have thought that the shy, demure little princess could be so lethal.
Hell, she almost bested me, and I’m nearly twice her size in muscle alone. But where I might be strong and powerful, I’ve never seen anyone as quick and flexible as Natasha. And her confidence in her skill with a blade is unparalleled—for good reason.
This stunning beauty had me completely fooled. She plays such a poised young woman in public. So soft and gentle and petite. And during the few conversations we’ve shared in passing, I’ve always found her wildly attractive if not a bit timid.
I never dreamed the elegant, almost fragile-looking brunette could be so fiery and fierce. She might look like a ballerina, but she’s a force to be reckoned with.
And as she breathes heavily now, fluttering loose strands of her neatly French braided hair fall into her face, I suddenly find her intoxicatingly appealing.
This is a woman who could give me a run for my money.
I can feel her vitality thrumming beneath my body. And that makes me want her all the more. The sexual tension is palpable, and though she’s looking at me with murderous fury, I suspect that if I kissed her, she wouldn’t try to stop me.
“Tell me, love,” I murmur playfully. “Now that I’ve got you at my mercy, what should I do with you?”