Chapter Twenty-One
The memory of the man Nikita killed is a stain I can’t wash out.
It’s not the blood that haunts me, not the final, wet thud as his body hit the alley floor.
It’s the look on Nikita’s face. The cold, detached calm as he gave the order.
The way he watched, his expression unreadable, as he slashed his throat.
I should hate him for it. I should be sickened, repulsed, plotting my escape with renewed fervor.
I’m not. That’s the part that scares me the most.
I stand in front of the mirror in the walk-in closet, running a brush through my hair.
The strokes are mechanical, rhythmic. A normal activity for a normal person.
Except I’m not normal. Normal people don’t watch their husband—the man they’re sleeping with—execute a man and feel a twisted sense of safety.
That’s what it was. Safety. He wasn’t just killing a traitor. He was cleaning house. He was protecting his world and by extension, me.
The brush catches in a tangle. I yank it free, my knuckles white.
I’m becoming one of them. The thought is a cold knot in my stomach.
***
The fashion event is more like a circus. Now, it feels like a costume I’m wearing, a fragile mask over the brutal reality of my life.
I’m flitting between clusters of influencers and designers, a clipboard in my hand, a smile plastered on my face. I’m making sure the models are on schedule, the lighting is perfect, the sponsors are happy. I’m good at this. I’m in control.
And then I see a man standing by the bar, a stark figure in a tailored suit that’s too severe for the whimsical chaos of the event. He’s not looking at the art or the clothes. He’s looking at me.
Antonio. Lorenzo’s second-in-command. The man from the Guggenheim.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to keep moving. To smile. To nod at a passing photographer. I can’t let him see me sweat.
“Mrs. Gromov,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet as he falls into step beside me. “A stunning event. As always.”
“Mr. Colombo,” I reply, my voice cool. “I didn’t realize you were a patron of the arts.”
“I appreciate beauty in all its forms,” he says, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You, my dear, are a masterpiece.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“On the contrary,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “I find it opens many doors.”
I stop, turning to face him. “What do you want, Antonio?”
“Information.”
“About?”
“Your husband.”
I laugh, a sharp, brittle sound. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I’m asking you.”
He’s close now, too close. I can smell his cologne, something spicy and cloying. I can see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the only imperfection on his otherwise handsome face.
“He seems… preoccupied lately,” he continues, his voice dropping. “Distracted. I wonder why.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are cold. “I think you know a lot more than you let on.”
I flinch, pulling away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Or what?” he challenges, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ll tell your husband? I’m not afraid of Nikita Gromov.”
“You should be.”
The voice is low, dangerous, and comes from directly behind me.
I turn to see Nikita. He’s standing there, seemingly out of nowhere, his presence a sudden, chilling void in the glittering chaos of the party. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are locked on Antonio.
“Antonio,” he says, his voice flat. “I didn’t realize you were invited.”
“I’m a friend of the gallery,” Antonio replies, not backing down. “I go where I please.”
“Not here.”
Nikita steps forward, moving me subtly behind him. It’s a small gesture, but it’s absolute. He’s claiming his territory.
“Is there a problem, Gromov?” Antonio asks, his hand resting on the gun holstered under his jacket.
“There will be,” Nikita says, his voice dangerously quiet. “If you don’t get your hand off your piece and walk away.”
Antonio hesitates, his eyes flicking between Nikita and me. He’s weighing his options, and for a moment, I think he’s going to make a move.
Then, he smiles. It’s a cold, calculating thing.
“Fine,” he says, holding up his hands. “The lady is clearly not in the mood for company.”
He turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Nikita watches him go, his body a coiled spring.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Fine,” he says, turning to me. His eyes are dark, burning with a cold fire. “We’re leaving.”
“But the event—”
“It’s over.”
He takes my arm, his grip firm, and guides me through the throng of partygoers. People part for us, sensing the danger that radiates from him in waves.
The ride back to the penthouse is silent. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, a smear of color against the darkness.
Nikita sits beside me, his body rigid, his jaw tight. He’s staring out the window, but I know he’s not seeing the city. He’s seeing Antonio. He’s seeing the threat.
“He was probing,” I say, breaking the silence.
“He was testing.”
“For what?”
“Your loyalty. My weakness.”
“What did he find?”
“That you’re a liability,” he says, his voice flat.
I flinch, his words a physical blow. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair is a concept for children, Freya. In our world, there are only assets and liabilities.”
“So I’m a liability?”
“You were with him for five minutes. In five minutes, he learned that you’re my weak spot.”
“I’m not your weak spot.”
“Aren’t you?” He turns to me, his eyes burning. “He touched you. He spoke to you, and I wanted to kill him for it. If that’s not a weak spot, I don’t know what is.”
I stare at him, stunned. He’s never admitted it before. Never admitted that I affect him.
“Who is he?” I ask, my voice soft.
“Antonio Moretti. Lorenzo’s second. His attack dog.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I pause, brows furrowed. “He’s here for me?”
“He’s here for information. He thinks you know something about Ayaan, and that he can use you to get to me.”
“Can he?”
“No.”
The certainty in his voice is both terrifying and reassuring.
“Pavel,” I say, changing the subject. “The man from the club. Was he working for Lorenzo?”
Nikita nods. “For months. He was feeding them information. Shipments. Routes. Security details.”
“Why?”
“Money,” he says simply. “It’s always about money.”
“So you killed him.”
I look out the window, my reflection a pale, ghostly face in the dark glass. All I can think about is the way Nikita moved in the gallery, the way he shielded me with his body, the raw, possessive fury in his eyes.
The danger is real. Lorenzo is out there, watching, waiting. And I’m caught in the middle.
The danger is also… exhilarating.
***
I’m in the office, trying to work, but my mind is a mess. I can’t focus on the designs, can’t lose myself in the familiar comfort of fabric and form.
All I can think about is Nikita. The way he looked at me in the car. The way he admitted I was his weakness.
The office door opens. I look up, expecting Anna or one of the security guards, but it’s Nikita.
He closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. “You’re still up,” he says, his voice low.
“It’s quiet at night. I like the peace.”
He walks toward the desk, his movements slow. He’s in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. He looks… domestic. Relaxed.
I know better. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the coiled energy in his stride. He stops in front of the desk, his hands braced on the back of my chair.
“Antonio was a warning,” he says, his voice flat.
“A warning for what?”
“For me. For you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Protect what’s mine.”
He leans down, his face inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the clean scent of his skin.
“You’re mine, Freya,” he whispers, his voice a raw, possessive growl. “Do you understand?”
I just nod, my breath catching in my throat.
“Say it,” he commands.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
The words are a surrender. A capitulation. They’re the truest thing I’ve ever said.