Chapter 7
Nika
I don’t run from the hotel. I walk, my heels clicking against slick pavement in a confident rhythm that suggests I know exactly what I’m doing.
Behind me, the gala’s golden glow spills through the windows, the auctioneer’s voice carrying all the way out here.
My breath frosts the air. Though the sidewalks have begun transforming into slippery obstacle courses now that the sun’s set, the chill settles me.
I’m halfway down the block when my sixth sense alerts me to someone watching.
Because, despite Max’s taunts, I have what he wants too.
My beating heart.
Roman might want me alive, but I read murderous intent in Max’s gaze.
A small smile tugs at my lips. Only the rain and the shadows bear witness to Max stalking my every step.
The skirt of my dress blows around my legs as I exaggerate the sway of my hips.
Eat your heart out, Max.
The boutique hotel appears half a block away, tucked between a high-end restaurant and some tech start-up’s office.
The Queen’s Quarters.
A place that caters to people who crave luxury without spectacle, privacy without questions. According to the reviews, the thick walls drown out the neighbors. Small, discreet, and perfect.
Pausing at the corner, I casually twist to glance over my shoulder. I can’t see him through the dark sheets of rain, but he’s hiding in the alley’s shadows. Blending in with all the window-shoppers.
I hold the look for three seconds to ensure Max sees which building I’m entering. Long enough to ensure the invitation’s clear and make him wonder why I chose this place.
Business or pleasure?
Or both?
My heart thumping with excitement, I whirl and waltz through the hotel’s entrance.
Warmth and subtle luxury swaddle the lobby.
Muted tones, paisley designs, and polished copper dominate the area.
A few overstuffed loveseats and armchairs furnish the small space, tall green plants in the corners and heavy drapes over the front windows.
The cloying sweetness of artificial vanilla perfumes the air.
Though no one lingers in the lobby, soft conversation drifts in from the attached restaurant.
A young woman in her early twenties with perfect posture and a professional smile stands behind the front desk. Her name tag reads “Vanessa.”
I approach, letting my own practiced smile emerge. “Hi. I’d like a room, please. I’m…meeting someone. I’m sorry I don’t have a reservation.”
“Of course.” Vanessa’s fingers fly across her keyboard in efficient strokes. “We have a king. Not a suite, but it’s very spacious. How many nights will you be staying with us?”
Funny how she assumes I’m here to rendezvous with my affair partner.
She’s not entirely wrong.
I pull my card from my pocket. “Just tonight.”
Vanessa’s attention locks onto the black plastic between my fingers. “Wonderful. Actually, if it’s just for the one night, we do have more options. What kind of room would you prefer?”
I don’t hesitate. “Your biggest suite.”
I need space for what I have planned.
Her smile brightens. “We do have our penthouse available. It’s quite lovely. Two bedrooms, full kitchen, private balcony—”
“Perfect.” I slide my credit card across the counter. “I’ll take it.”
My card’s under the same shell company I used to send the Petrov Collection to St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library a few months ago. Dimitri taught me how to build fronts when I was barely a teenager.
Vanessa’s fingers pause over the keyboard as she processes the payment.
“I should mention I have a friend joining me in a bit.” I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s tall, maybe six-two, and wearing a suit. Has dark hair that’s adorable when it falls into his arctic blue eyes. When he asks for my room, please send him up immediately.”
Her professional mask slips just a fraction. The kind of interest that comes from working nights at a hotel sparks in her eyes. “Of course. I’ll make a note.”
“Thank you.” I take the keys and my card. “He should be here soon.”
The old-fashioned elevator features brass fixtures, wood paneling, and a mirror that’s probably seen a thousand reflections of people heading up to rooms they shouldn’t be in with people they shouldn’t be with.
People like me.
Entering, I tap my room key against the button to the penthouse floor.
As the doors close, my own reflection stares back at me from the mirror.
I look…flushed. No, excited. My cheeks warm again as I recall the events in that ballroom. Max’s hands on me…his voice in my ear…the solid line of his body pressed against mine.
I blow out a small breath, fogging my face in the glass.
This is a trap. Nothing more. I’m luring Max somewhere private, somewhere I control, to finish what we started in that parking garage.
This has nothing to do with what happened at the gala.
After I retrieve the locket, I’ll kill him. I won’t let physical distractions veer me off course.
The elevator rumbles to a stop, and I peek into the short penthouse hallway before exiting. One dark wooden door waits at the opposite end, brass fixtures gleaming beneath the soft light. I unlock it and venture inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the far wall, offering a view of Seattle’s skyline from ten stories up. Heavy leather furniture clusters around the living area, a full bar occupies one corner, and a dining table for four sits near that expansive view. Plush gray carpet muffles my heels.
Nothing like built-in soundproofing.
A shadowy kitchen looms beyond an archway to the left. To the right, doors cut into muted crimson walls that probably lead to the two bedrooms.
I venture further inside. If I plan to fight Max here, I need control of the landscape.
Not much time, and so much to do.
First, the lights.
I cover the windows with the heavy black curtains, switch off the lamps, and unplug whatever I can reach. The TV, the radio, the digital clocks, and the microwave all go dark.
Next, hurdles.
I relocate furniture from sensible positions and transform the main room into an obstacle course.
An ottoman’s placed in an optimal location for tripping the unsuspecting, and a side table’s angled to catch someone’s shin. I shift the coffee table three feet to the left, disrupting the natural path through the room. A towel falls to the floor, creating the perfect tripping hazard.
Dimitri dedicated years to drilling this kind of tactical preparation into me.
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket to find “D” flashing across the screen.
Speak of the devil. “Yes?”
“Where the fuck are you?” Barely-leashed anger strains Dimitri’s voice.
He only curses when he’s truly pissed.
Whoops.
I’ve never lied to him before and don’t intend to start. “Seattle.”
Several seconds tick by before he releases a long, drawn out exhale. “You went after him.”
Irritation buzzes at the base of my skull. “I intercepted him.”
“You put yourself at risk.”
Is he serious? “You trained me to handle danger.”
“Not Max. That man is beyond dangerous.” His words crack like a whip. “You should have waited for me. We had a plan, Kai. A good one.”
The irritation fades, and I close my eyes, hating that I upset the only person I have left. “I had to do this alone, Dima.”
He grunts in response.
I put the phone on speaker and return to setting my trap. Max will arrive at any minute.
“Why?” The question comes out quieter. Almost gentle. “Talk to me. Why did you have to do this alone?”
“Because it’s Max.”
Max Belov. My father’s weapon. The man Roman uses to enforce his will, eliminate threats, and do the dirty work that keeps the Kozlov empire running.
If I can destroy Roman’s most menacing asset, that’s a victory worth the trouble. “I’m going to take down Roman’s berserker and send him back one piece at a time.”
“Kai—”
“I’m handling it, Dimitri.”
His breathing rate slows, becoming more measured. The same technique he taught me to ease panic or stress.
“If anything happens to you…” He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice softens. “You’re all I have, Kai. You understand that? You mean the world to me.”
I brace myself against his unspoken plea that I stay safe.
For the first time, I have to deny him. “I know.” And I mean it. “But I can do this. You trained me for this.”
“I trained you to be smart. To calculate risk. Not to—”
The elevator at the end of the hall dings. “He’s here.”
Standing on the ottoman, I smash the overhead light with the butt of my knife. Glass rains down as the room plunges into blackness.
“Kai, wait—”
I hang up and silence the phone before running my thumb over the wicked blade. With six inches of surgical steel, weighted perfectly, the molded handle fits my grip. I flip the weapon once and catch it, feeling the familiar balance.
Footsteps stop outside the door.
I crouch beside the couch, angling the blade downward to avoid reflecting any stray light.
As I wait, my heart hammers against my ribs. Though adrenaline sings through my veins, my breathing remains slow and silent. In through the nose and out through barely parted lips.
The lock chirps, and the handle turns.
At first, the door only opens a few inches. A few seconds tick by before the crack widens, eventually revealing Max’s silhouette in the threshold between the suite and the hallway.
I tighten my grip on the knife and smile.
Action time.