5. Ivan
5
IVAN
I can’t sleep.
The city hums far below the balcony. I hear the distant drone of traffic, the occasional wail of a siren cutting through the night.
I should feel satisfied. My muscles are loose, sated, but my instincts are wired tighter than ever.
Something is very wrong. I’m on edge.
I’m never on edge.
I exhale slowly, running a hand down my face. Maybe I’m being paranoid. That wouldn’t be new. A lifetime in this business turns paranoia into survival. It’s what’s kept me alive while men smarter, stronger, and more ruthless than me ended up in the ground.
That’s all this is. Paranoia. I tell myself it’s nothing more than that. Her connection to Darren. A way for her to cheat me, to make some kind of deal with him. Would she do that?
I glance over my shoulder at the woman in my bed.
Cora.
She’s sprawled across the sheets, her dark hair tangled, her lips parted slightly in sleep.
It didn’t take long to get her to sleep. She’s desperate for stability but I can’t provide it. I must not let her get close.
She doesn’t belong in my world. I know that. I knew it before I touched her. But I did it anyway.
Because for a few hours, I let myself forget who I am. I let myself have something warm. Something real.
But warmth doesn’t last. And reality is a cruel bastard. Can’t help reminding me I don’t deserve soft things.
My jaw clenches.
She needs light, not a monster like me. I am nothing but darkness. She’s got the money. She can make a fresh start and I can keep an eye on her, that’s all. Nothing more.
I walk back inside.
A small sound escapes her lips. A whimper.
Another.
Then suddenly—she’s thrashing.
Her hands clutch at the sheets, her body twisting, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
A nightmare. That’s all.
I should let her deal with it. I don’t do this—comfort, reassurance. People handle their own demons. No one ever helped me deal with mine.
But something about the way she trembles, the way her face twists in pain, makes it impossible to sit back and watch.
I reach for her before I can think.
"Cora." My voice is low, rough. I shake her lightly. “Shush, you’re all right.”
She jerks upright with a strangled gasp.
Her eyes snap open—wild, unfocused. Her breath comes in harsh, uneven pants. Her fingers curl around my arm in a white-knuckle grip, like she’s holding on for dear life. She claws at me, eyes closing again, fists slamming into my chest. “Help them,” she cries. “Get them out.”
She’s not here. Not in this room. Not in this bed.
"It’s just a dream," I murmur, my voice quieter than it should be.
A lie.
Because whatever haunts her? It’s real.
I can see it in the way her body won’t stop shaking. In the way she swallows hard, trying to force herself back to the present.
Her breathing is uneven, her body trembling against mine. I should let go, should put space between us, should remind myself that her burdens aren’t mine to carry.
But I don’t.
Instead, I hold her, my grip firm as her movements slow to a stop. She opens her eyes again, seeing me for the first time.
She sniffles, her fingers curling into my arm like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
"It was the fire." Her voice is hoarse, small. "Smelling the smoke today, it brought it all back to me."
I want to find the people who did it, torture them to death.
"I was only a kid," she whispers as the truth slips from her. Her throat bobs as she swallows. "How could someone do that?”
I rub a slow, careful circle against her back. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but it works.
"But it’s over," I say quietly. “Done with.”
“The assholes that did it ended up dead a month later. Some shootout or other.” She lets out a hollow laugh. "What a waste of lives.”
I don’t like the way she says it.
I don’t like any of this.
My world seeped into hers. Men like me killed her parents.
“What happened after the fire?” I ask. “Who looked after you?”
“No one,” she replies, voice shaking. "Cops got hold of me. Sent me into the system. I bounced around foster homes." She takes a shuddering breath.
The way she stiffens, I already know where this is going.
"The last one was the worst," she says, voice hollow. "He was connected to the Italians. Had a thing for young girls."
My grip tightens before I can stop myself.
"The first time he tried, I froze but the doorbell interrupted him.”
“Give me a name and he’s dead.”
She gives me an icy cold smile. “He already is.”
“You?” I ask, suddenly understanding.
“Stabbed him while he slept then got the hell out of there.”
I don’t realize how hard my jaw is clenched until it starts to ache. Something sharp and ugly claws inside me, looking for a target.
She shifts, her cheek pressing against my chest. She’s still trembling. “Should have done the same to Darren,” she mutters.
I press my lips into a thin line.
I should tell her it’s over. That none of those men can touch her now. That she’s safe.
But I don’t. Because I won’t lie.
I shift, turning just enough so that I can tip her chin up, forcing her to look at me.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with tears, her lips parted in the aftermath of sobs she’s still trying to swallow down.
"You’re not on your own anymore,” I say. "And no one will ever hurt you again."
“Says the man who told me we only get one night.”
I don’t answer. No one touches her. No one. She doesn’t need to know I’ll be watching her, keeping her safe. If she knew, she’d think we could make this work and we can’t.
“We’ll talk in the morning,” I say, helping her to settle. “Get some sleep.”
She stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, slowly, she relaxes against me. I stroke her forehead lightly, muttering a Russian lullaby in her ear.
Her body settles against mine, the tension unwinding.
Eventually, her breathing evens out. The shaking stops. And before I know it—she’s asleep again.
I don’t move.
I don’t let go.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The tension in my gut shifts. The air in the room feels wrong all of a sudden.
The city is still humming outside, but something about the stillness inside the suite is off.
My body tenses. My instincts sharpen. Years of survival whisper in my ear.
I glance down at Cora. She doesn’t stir. Knows I’ll protect her.
The feeling coils tight in my gut, years of instinct screaming at me to move. I don’t question it.
I slide out of bed, fingers curling around the gun on the nightstand.
The moment my feet hit the floor, the suite door slides silently open.
A figure creeps in, gun in his hand. His eyes dart around the room but he’s yet to see me. I step out of the darkness, one hand behind my back. “Evening, Peter,” I say coolly.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he says, jumping back from me. "I came with intel.”
“Marcus gave you a key?”
“Yeah, told me to come straight up.”
I grab him by the scruff of the neck, pressing my gun to the side of his head. “How much did Darren pay you to switch sides?”
“You going to shoot me, Ivan?” he asks, trying to squirm free.
“You going to tell me why you betrayed us?”
Cora’s voice cuts through the air. “What’s going on?” She rubs her eyes as she emerges from the bedroom, blanket wrapped around her naked body.
My focus fractures as I glance back at her. For a split second, I’m distracted, enough time for Peter to raise his gun and fire.
Cora screams.
The bullet misses me by a fraction, hitting the mirror behind my head. Glass explodes in a hail of jagged shards.
I yank the gun from his hand. He lunges for mine. We collide. Our bodies crash against furniture, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. My gun is ripped from my grip in the struggle, clattering across the marble floor.
Peter isn’t much better off. His weapon has gone under the couch. Neither of us has time to retrieve them.
His fist slams into my ribs, driving me backward. Pain flares hot in my side, but I don’t hesitate.
I retaliate. A savage elbow to his throat. “You fucking traitor,” I snap. “Sold us out to the fucking Italians.” I hit him again. “Good men dead because of you.”
He staggers, gasping. His hand scrambles over the bar cart, fingers closing around a heavy glass bottle of whiskey. “Should’ve paid me more,” he replies as he swings the bottle my way.
I duck. The bottle whistles past my head, missing by an inch. It crashes against the table, shattering into shards of amber glass and spilled liquor.
I don’t give him a second chance.
I grab the nearest object—the suite telephone—and smash it into his face.
It’s an old-school model, heavy and solid. He grunts in pain, blood trickling from his nose, but he’s already moving, already countering.
His knee slams into my gut.
White-hot agony explodes through my ribs. I barely manage to shift before his fist comes down again, catching my jaw in a brutal hook.
"Come on, Ivan," he sneers, wiping blood from his mouth. "Is this the best you’ve got?"
I spit blood onto the carpet. "You talk too much."
He lunges, ramming me backward. We slam into the bar cart, toppling it over. Bottles spill onto the floor, liquor soaking into the plush carpet.
His fingers curl around a jagged shard of broken glass.
I catch his wrist before he can drive it into my throat.
“You’re getting old,” he hisses. “I get Chicago when I take you down, old man.”
I bare my teeth. "You think Darren will share with a turncoat?”
With a vicious twist, I force the glass from his grip, cutting deep into my own palm in the process.
I slam his head into the bar. Hard.
He stumbles, dazed but not down.
He recovers too fast, grabbing a metal ice bucket and swinging it at my skull. I barely get my arms up in time, the impact sending a shockwave through my bones.
He goes for my throat, hands wrapping around my windpipe.
I throw my weight forward, twisting, and we both go crashing over the couch.
We hit the ground hard, rolling, grappling for dominance.
I get an elbow into his ribs.
He gets a fist into my temple.
Pain explodes behind my eyes, the world tilting for a second. He hits me again and I stagger. I lunge for him but he sidesteps, getting an arm around my windpipe.
“Any last words?” he says, groping down for the gun on the floor.
“You tell me,” I say as Cora appears above him, a knife from the room service tray in her hand.
She plunges the blade into his side. He gasps, staggering away from me, eyes blown wide in shock. “You bitch,” he says, fingers clawing her way.
I seize the opening, grabbing his head in both hands.
And then I snap his neck.
A sharp, clean twist.
The body hits the floor. A final, shallow breath.
The taste of blood lingers on my tongue. My knuckles are raw, my ribs aching, but none of it matters.
I turn to Cora. She’s staring at me. Something dark is rising up inside me. Something primal. Possessive.
My voice is rough when I speak. "I had it in hand."
Cora crosses her arms. "Could’ve just said thank you."
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Almost.
She has no idea.
No idea that she just tied herself to me in a way that neither of us can escape.
She just killed for me.
I want to pull her close. To press her against the nearest wall and taste the sharp, intoxicating edge of her defiance.
But the moment shatters before it can settle.
She looks afraid and I know why. She’s terrified I’m turning her back into the killer she once was. She wants to forget that life. Now I’ve dragged her back into it.
Her body stiffens.
Her pulse spikes.
And then—she runs.
I know the exact second she makes the decision. It’s in the way her shoulders shift. The flick of her gaze toward the door.
She grabs the duffel bag but I get to the door, blocking her way.
I snatch the bag from her grip, shove it behind me.
“Give that back,” she snaps as I grab hold of her.
"Get dressed first."
Her nostrils flare. "Give me the damn bag."
My voice sharpens. “You’re naked. What’s the plan? Wear the bag as a coat?”
She glares at me, but then looks down at herself, like she’s waking up from sleepwalking.
“Go on,” I tell her. “I won’t stop you leaving but put some fucking clothes on first.”
She glares at me. “Swear it.”
“I swear. Now get dressed.”
She disappears into the bedroom as there’s a knock on the suite door. I pull it open. Marcus is standing there, as immaculately dressed as ever despite the lateness of the hour.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “We had some noise complaints from this floor.”
I step back so he can see Peter’s body.
“I apologize,” he says. “I will send the cleaners up at once.”
Cora appears, tying her hair behind her head. She looks from Marcus to me and back again.
"Take care of yourself,” I say, handing her the bag.
She hesitates. Her fingers tighten around the strap but I don’t let go yet. She stares at me, eyes narrowing.
"I’m sorry," I add.
Her lips press together. "For what?"
My jaw tightens. "For not being what you need right now.” I loosen my grip.
Something flickers in her gaze. Something raw. She nods once, slings the bag over her shoulder.
And then she’s gone.
I turn my attention back to Marcus. “Is the tracker live?”
“Of course,” he replies.
“Where did you put it?”
“In the heel of her shoe before the clothes were sent up.”
I smile to myself. She can go wherever she wants. I’ll be watching the whole damned time.