Chapter 3
Kolya
After waiting an ungodly amount of time for the school day to end, I follow the Volvo from Northwood Elementary’s parking lot, maintaining a careful distance of three cars between us as Chloe drives toward the center of town.
Realization dawns when she turns onto a road leading to a sprawling open-air farmers market.
Of course a kindergarten teacher would spend her time off among a bunch of patchouli-smelling hippies selling organic produce and homemade jams.
I park my black Audi next to her ancient vehicle.
This outing just switched from surveillance to target acquisition.
While the diamonds are my objective, this woman is the pathway to obtaining them. I have to fold myself into her world so that I can sharpen my search for what belongs to Roman Kozlov.
The market sprawls across a public parking lot. Instead of cars, a maze of rainbow canopies and wooden stalls line the pavement. Farmers hawk wares and shout greetings to relaxed shoppers as I scan the area.
Four main walkways. Multiple exit points. Moderate crowd density.
Not ideal, but manageable.
The scene is quintessential Americana. Couples with strollers and yappy dogs, old men in suspenders, hipsters examining heirloom tomatoes.
And Chloe D. from Northwood Elementary.
She’s impossible to miss, a sunbeam in a yellow midi dress that flutters around her calves. Her hair is gathered into a loose ponytail, exposing the curve of her neck. The afternoon sun shines on her smooth, creamy skin, like a tease or a promise.
Frowning, I remind myself of the mission.
She gushes about zinnias to an elderly seller, gesturing animatedly at the vibrant orange blooms. Her voice leeches into my mind like a warm blanket on a winter night.
I suppress a shiver.
Her affability is cozy and inviting. Still, I won’t allow her to distract me.
I remain at the periphery, observing.
Even outside of the classroom, she embodies the essence of a schoolteacher. Everything about her radiates calculated yet genuine warmth, like she’s performing a role she was born to play.
She drifts to a strawberry stand, examining the big juicy fruit with serious concentration.
Red like her mouth.
I immediately banish that thought. She’s not here for my amusement. She’s a target.
This is work. Not fun.
Her lips part as she selects a sample, and I find myself captivated when she bites into the strawberry. Her tongue flicks out to catch a juice droplet threatening to spill.
Soft. Pink. Delicate.
Her eyelashes flutter as she savors the flavor.
I’d like to give that tongue something else to lick. Find out if her pussy is just as…
I shake my head. Why the hell am I reacting like a teenager? It hasn’t been that long since I last fucked a woman. A…blond? Redhead? I don’t remember, but she was more than adequate, performing the services I paid for in a willing and respectful manner.
So why do thoughts of this teacher invade my mind so intrusively?
Time to complete this assignment and return to my real life and the roster of women seeking the same thing I am. A release with no strings attached.
And, more importantly, no connection to my work.
She spins around and spots me.
Her face lights up with recognition. She waves enthusiastically, abandoning her strawberry mission to bound toward me like an overexcited puppy. “Kolya! What are you doing here?” Her smile is a burst of sunlight breaking through the clouds. “So funny to see you last night and then today.”
“Hysterical.” My dry tone doesn’t dim her glow.
A vanilla scent tickles my nose while her cheeks flush a pleased pink.
“Isn’t this the best farmers market? They have everything.
You come here regularly?” She gestures broadly at the surrounding stalls but doesn’t wait for my answer.
Just keeps talking. “The peach guy’s here today.
He wasn’t last week. And Mrs. Lee brought her special kimchi that sells out in, like, twenty minutes. ”
Her enthusiasm for produce should irritate me, but I find myself momentarily speechless in the face of her genuine passion. Her excitement is a little infectious.
Even if it is over a produce market.
Does she ever calm down?
Or have an off button?
I regard her as I would a complex security system. What makes her tick? What vulnerabilities can I exploit?
I search for the right reply to the question she asked three sentences back. “I’ve never been here before, so I’ll have to take your word about the kimchi.”
There we go. Implying I trust her, so she should trust me. She might even invite me to join her.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, then you absolutely need a tour.”
Bingo.
“I’ve been coming here every week for years. I know all the secret spots.” She leans closer, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. “Like where they hide the good honey samples.”
She must be joking. Surely no one gets this excited over “the good honey samples.”
Except her open expression suggests otherwise, and the sparkle in her eyes and the way she vibrates with energy draws me in. So much enthusiasm for such an inconsequential thing. It’s…
Excruciating, I decide, but this weakness will grant me unrestricted access to my target and a chance to uncover her connection to the missing diamonds.
I wave her forward with a flourish. “Lead the way.”
She beams as if I just informed her she won the lottery rather than simply advanced my own agenda. Her smile sears my chest, leaving raw burns in its wake. Her sweet, innocent teacher act comes with a surprising and unexpected amount of intensity.
She navigates us through the market while I observe her. A predator tracking prey through her natural habitat. She speaks in a stream of consciousness, making it difficult to follow her abrupt shifts in topic.
If she weren’t so unapologetically luminous, she might be hot.
Still. She’s useful. A talker lets things slip, so despite the inanity of most of what she says, I listen.
She rambles about classroom craft projects and her disastrous attempts at creating slime. Occasionally, her chatter pivots to organic kale and the injustice of bruised peaches.
“People always push them aside.” Her brow furrows as she points toward a box of discounted fruit overlooked by picky customers. “It’s so wasteful. It makes me so sad. They still make great juice and jelly and smoothies.”
Her genuine distress for imperfect produce catches me off guard. I study her profile, once again scouring for signs of deception, but find none.
Instead, she’s utterly guileless, practically brimming with earnestness and optimism. This brand of sweetness is foreign territory to me.
I exist within shadows and purpose. The work I do carries meaning, consequences that ripple through power structures. I never had the chance to choose otherwise.
Roman decided my life for me when he recognized my talents for violence and calculation and chose to shape me into a weapon.
But here I am, tethered to a woman who’s infused my life with more brightness in two encounters than I’ve experienced in years.
At least she’ll be easy to exploit. Unless this is her cover.
Her hand brushes my arm as she gestures toward a cheese vendor, and I tense at the contact. Not from aversion…just the opposite. Her warmth seeps through my shirt sleeve, lingering even after she pulls away.
When we lock eyes, I spy the flutter of her pulse in her throat. A blush creeps across her cheeks, and she licks her lips before dropping her gaze, her eyes flitting anywhere but me.
She wants me.
The realization ignites a primal urge.
I want to taste her throat as she swallows. Press my lips to that pulse and feel her thundering heart.
My hands itch to close around her neck.
Her life—so easy to take—between my fingers.
Controlled. Owned.
She’s practically humming with desire, and I harden at the thought of that energy, that innocence, pliable beneath my grip. I imagine her on her knees, lips parted, waiting for my command.
How simple it would be.
She’d let me do anything if I pushed the right buttons. She’s the type who would flourish with praise and just the right amount of discipline. The way her innocence would shatter, crumble into oblivion…
“Which child is yours again?”
Her simple question yanks me from my lust-fueled daydream, and her eyes shine with expectation as she awaits an answer.
A foreign wave of panic crashes over me. I’ve spun countless lies to seasoned criminals, crafted elaborate covers under threats of violence, and yet this sweet, beautiful, naive kindergarten teacher has managed to disarm me.
I need a child’s name. Shit, I should’ve had one on hand since last night. Think…
“Roman.”
I immediately curse myself for giving up the name of my Pakhan. If he ever finds out, I’m a dead man.
Or worse, a laughingstock.
The teacher’s otherworldly cheer has scattered my brain.
“Roman?” Her forehead creases, then her face lights up. “Oh, you must mean Manny. He’s such a creative soul. Always drawing during story time, but I don’t mind. Some kids process information better when their hands are busy.”
“I’m divorced.” I steer the conversation toward an uncomplicated explanation. One that hopefully prevents her from expecting to see me with a kid in tow. “I have him on weekends.”
She nods, her expression flickering with…interest? Relief?
“That must be hard, sharing time with him.” Her hand brushes my arm again in a soft, comforting touch that lingers a moment longer than necessary. “But I’m sure you’re a wonderful father.”
I stifle a snort at the laughable idea that I’m capable of nurturing another human being. Her words create a hollow sensation in my chest, as if she’s identified an absence I didn’t even realize existed.
The warmth she exudes seeps into my skin, igniting my nerves and reminding me that a person resides beneath the Bratva monster.
Ridiculous.
I need a distraction. “I’d like to think I’m a wonderful daddy.”
Daddy, she mouths, blushing redder than the beets behind her. Perfect.
My blood heats.