CHAPTER 24
SLOANE
The UNLV campus glimmers under the afternoon sun. Students separate after class, backpacks slung over shoulders, laughter and conversation floating on the spring air. Normalcy. A normalcy that has become almost strange to me after weeks submerged in the world of the Morozovs.
I walk down the main path, my thigh muscles protesting subtly with every step. A physical reminder of what happened two nights ago. Of Dimitri. Of the cell. Of how I surrendered completely to a man who might be exactly the monster the FBI described to me.
My mind drifts back, treacherous, to those moments. His hands gripping my hips. His rough voice against my neck. The feeling of fullness when he entered me. The devastating orgasm he tore from me with a simple command.
Come for me. Now.
And I obeyed, as if my body were programmed to respond to his orders.
A shiver runs down my spine, a mix of shame and renewed arousal. I need to focus. I need to regain control.
When I reach the parking lot, Sergei and Yuri are waiting for me next to the black Escalade, unmoving as statues under the scorching sun.
I haven't spoken to Dimitri since Saturday.
After what happened in the cell, he escorted me silently back to the game.
We played for another hour, acting as if nothing had happened, and then he took me to the penthouse with barely a few words exchanged.
"Miss Murphy." Sergei tips his head slightly in greeting as I approach. "Are your classes finished?"
"Yes, we can go back," I reply, sliding into the backseat of the vehicle.
The air conditioning is a balm against the Nevada heat, but it can't soothe the fire burning inside me since last night. As the car starts, I rest my forehead against the tinted glass, watching the campus pull away, watching normal reality fade to give way to the strange existence I lead now.
The ride passes in silence until I notice we aren't taking the usual route.
"Where are we going?" I ask, sitting up in my seat.
Sergei glances at me briefly in the rearview mirror.
"Mr. Morozov requested to see you," he replies in a neutral tone.
My pulse accelerates instantly. Dimitri? He doesn't specify which brother, but I know he isn't referring to Alexei.
"Why?" I insist, hating how my voice betrays my nervousness.
"I'm not authorized to give that information," Sergei replies, his expression impassive.
The car turns toward the back of the Tsarina, the same discreet entrance Dimitri used on Saturday. Not the main casino access, nor the VIP entrance leading to the penthouse. The entrance that leads directly to the underground levels.
A knot of anxiety forms in my stomach. Why are they bringing me here? Did he discover something about me? About the FBI? Is this a trap?
The vehicle stops in front of the unmarked metal door. Sergei gets out first, opening my door with professional deference.
"This way, Miss Murphy," he indicates, guiding me toward the entrance.
My legs feel like they weigh tons as I walk. My mouth has gone completely dry, a metallic taste invading my palate. Fear. I'm experiencing real fear for the first time since I started this mission.
Sergei enters a code on the pad, then places his thumb on the scanner. The door opens with a click, revealing the same concrete hallway I walked down the other night, but now it seems infinitely more threatening in the daylight, without Dimitri by my side.
We go down in silence, my shoes echoing against the cement floor. The hallway ends at the industrial elevator. The doors close behind us, and the descent begins. My heart is beating so hard I'm afraid they can hear it.
The air down here is different. Colder, denser, with a slight metallic scent mixed with something indefinable. Power, perhaps. The smell of absolute power that needs no justification.
When the elevator stops, we aren't in the luxurious lobby leading to the poker room. This level is distinct. Starker, more functional. Concrete walls painted pale gray, fluorescent lighting leaving no room for shadows, metal doors numbered at regular intervals.
Sergei guides me down an endless hallway, every step increasing my anxiety. Is he taking me to the cells? Is this where those who betray the Morozovs end up?
Finally, we stop in front of a door that, unlike the others, is made of dark wood. No number, no identification.
"Wait here, please," Sergei says, opening the door and stepping aside to let me enter.
I cross the threshold with my heart hammering against my ribs. The door closes behind me with an ominous click.
I'm alone in what appears to be an office.
Not a cell, not an interrogation room, but a surprisingly normal, almost elegant workspace.
Walls paneled in dark wood, a wide oak desk, shelves filled with books and binders, a black leather sofa in one corner.
The lights are dimmed, creating an almost intimate atmosphere.
I exhale slowly, part of my tension dissipating. It doesn't look like the setting for an execution.
My eyes scan the room, searching for clues about its owner. On the table are documents sorted into precise piles, a closed laptop, an empty glass with the remains of what looks like whiskey. On the wall, a detailed map of Las Vegas, with marks and notes in a language I don't recognize. Russian?
I approach the desk, the temptation to snoop too strong to resist. Whose office is this? What secrets does it hold?
I quickly examine the documents. Most look like financial records, contracts, some in English, others in Cyrillic.
In a silver frame, a photograph catches my attention: two boys, one a teenager and the other small, both with black hair and serious expressions, in front of what looks like a snow-covered Russian palace.
Alexei and Dimitri. Years before becoming the men they are now.
The sound of the opening door startles me. I spin around, feeling the heat of a blush rise up my neck, like a child caught stealing cookies.
Dimitri Morozov fills the door frame with his presence. He's wearing an immaculate black suit, no tie, white shirt open at the collar revealing the start of his tattoos. His face is an impenetrable mask, but his eyes shine with something that might be amusement at seeing me by his desk.
"Curious as always, Murphy." He closes the door behind him. "Find anything interesting?"
His voice, that Russian accent thicker when he's relaxed, sends an electric current down my spine. Memories of Saturday assault me with renewed intensity: that same voice whispering obscenities in my ear, ordering me to come, growling my name when he reached his own orgasm.
I force myself to regain my composure. I cross my arms over my chest, adopting a defensive stance.
"What am I doing here, Morozov?" I ask directly. "I have exams to study for."
He moves with that predatory grace that characterizes him, circling the desk to stand in front of me. His scent envelops me: sandalwood, leather, a metallic touch. The same smell that stayed impregnated on my skin the other night, that I think I can still smell in my hair despite showering twice.
"I want to talk," he says, leaning against the edge of the desk. "About Saturday."
My heart skips a beat. Is he going to mention what happened in the cell? Or is he referring to my unauthorized exploration?
"What is there to talk about?" I reply with an indifference I don't feel. "We fucked. It was fun. End of story."
Something flashes in his eyes. Irritation? Surprise at my bluntness?
"I'm not referring to that," he clarifies, his voice dropping an octave. "Although we could discuss that topic too, if you insist."
I feel the heat rising up my neck to my cheeks. Damn my redhead complexion that always gives me away.
"Then what do you mean?" I insist, standing my ground despite the heat spreading through my body at his proximity.
"To what you were doing in the restricted zones," he replies, inclining slightly toward me. "To why a law student is so interested in snooping in areas she shouldn't have access to."
Here it comes. The interrogation I feared. I keep my expression neutral, but my mind works at full speed, reviewing the answers I've rehearsed.
"I already told you. It was just curiosity."
"Curiosity." He repeats the word, savoring it as if it were something bitter. "Do you know how many people have died from that same curiosity, Murphy?"
The veiled threat should terrify me. Instead, I feel a strange calm. If he wanted to hurt me, he already would have.
"Is that how you convince women to sleep with you?" I shoot back. "With veiled threats?"
A wolfish smile curves his lips, completely transforming his expression. Suddenly he seems younger, more accessible. Almost human.
"I don't recall needing threats to get you to spread your legs the other night."
The crude comment should offend me, but instead, it sends a wave of heat between my thighs. This man knows my body better than I do at this point.
"If you brought me here to insult me, you've wasted your time," I reply, straightening my back. "And mine."
I take a step toward the door, but his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me with no excessive force but with undeniable firmness.
"I didn't say you could leave," he murmurs, his thumb tracing small circles over my racing pulse. "Who do you work for, Sloane? Who sent you to spy on us?"
His closeness is intoxicating. The heat of his body, the scent of his cologne mixed with something purely masculine, the pressure of his fingers on my sensitive skin. Everything converges to cloud my judgment.
"No one sent me," I insist, looking him straight in the eyes. "I came for Harper. Only for her."
Something softens in his expression for a fleeting instant.
"Harper is happy here," he says, as if that settled any argument. "My brother adores her."
"And that justifies kidnapping her?" The words escape my mouth before I can stop them.
His hand tightens on my wrist. Something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
"So that's it," he says slowly. "You believe the fairy tales you've been told. By who? Harper's father? The police?"
I stay silent, aware that I've revealed too much.
"You know what's really funny?" he continues, his voice surprisingly soft. "That you've spent weeks with them and still believe that garbage. Have you seen how my brother looks at her? Have you seen how she looks at him?"
"I've seen a lot of things," I reply, recovering some composure. "Including cells and torture chambers in your basement. I don't think that's part of the legitimate business of a casino."
Dimitri lets go of my wrist but doesn't back away. If anything, he seems to move closer, invading my personal space.
"I never said everything we do is legal," he admits with surprising frankness. "But we aren't the monsters they've made you believe we are, either."
"Aren't you?" I challenge, holding his gaze. "Then explain the cells. Explain the interrogation room with drains in the floor."
"You have no idea what world you've gotten into," he replies, his voice hardening. "The things we have to do to survive. To protect our own."
"Enlighten me, then," I dare him. "Tell me the truth. Who is Dimitri Morozov really?"
A dry laugh escapes his throat.
"And why should I do that? So you can run and tell whoever sent you? I'm not that stupid."
We stare at each other, two wills clashing. The air between us seems charged with electricity, a storm about to break.
"This is a waste of time," I say finally, pulling away from him. "If you're finished acting like an idiot, I have to go up and study."
I turn toward the door, half-expecting him to stop me again. He doesn't. When I reach the exit, his voice stops me, low and threatening.
"I'm going to find out what you're plotting, Murphy. And when I do, you're going to pay for every lie you've told."
I turn slowly to face him one last time. He's standing by the desk, the light behind him turning his silhouette into something almost mythological. A perfect predator, patient, waiting for the moment to strike.
"Is that a threat?" I ask, the challenge evident in my tone.
A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips.
"It's a promise," he replies, his gaze raking down my body with an intensity that leaves me breathless. "And when that moment comes, you'll remember the cell as child's play compared to what I'll do to you."
A shiver runs down my spine, but it isn't fear. It's anticipation. Desire. Despite everything I know, despite everything he represents, my treacherous body responds to his threat as if it were a caress.
"Good afternoon, Dimitri," I say, leaving before he can see the effect his words have had on me.
Sergei is waiting in the hallway, his expression as blank as always. Did he hear our conversation? Does he know what happened between his boss and me?
"Back to the penthouse, Miss Murphy?" he asks in a neutral tone.
"Yes, please," I reply, following him toward the elevator.
As we go up in silence, my mind is a whirlwind of contradictions. The FBI told me the Morozovs were ruthless criminals, that Harper was a victim. But every passing day, the evidence contradicts that narrative. Harper genuinely loves Alexei. And Dimitri...
Dimitri is an enigma wrapped in contradictions. A man capable of brutal violence, who keeps cells in his basement, but who also defended a harassed waitress. A man who interrogates me with veiled threats, but whose hands held me with surprising gentleness.
A man who should terrify me, but only manages to arouse me more every time I'm near him.
What am I doing? What have I become? Am I really willing to betray my mission, my integrity, for the attraction to a man who represents everything I should be fighting?
When the elevator finally reaches the penthouse, I step out with hesitant steps. My head hurts from the doubts assaulting it, from the unanswered questions.
The only thing I'm clear on is that I'm losing sight of the line between duty and desire. And the most terrifying part is that a part of me no longer wants to find it.