18. Ivan
18
IVAN
A long, polished table stretches down the center of the room, surrounded by men who have killed for me.
Maxim sits at my right, a cigar dangling from his fingers as he scrolls through intercepted communications. Across from him, Dmitri leans back in his chair, watching everything with an unreadable stare.
I place the decrypted flash drive on the table. Inside it is the key to ending this war.
The door opens.
Cora walks in.
The men barely react. They know better than to disrespect my wife. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see the flickers of curiosity, of surprise, in some of their expressions. Me, the coldhearted monster, shacked up with a woman?
A single glance tells me she’s exhausted. But she holds herself tall, her chin lifted, her eyes burning with determination.
I push back my chair and stand. The room tenses at once.
"Put out your cigars. Open the windows." My voice is calm. Final. Absolute.
They hesitate for less than a second. Then, one by one, the cigars are extinguished. Maxim exhales smoke through his nose before pressing his into a crystal ashtray. Dmitri follows suit without a word. Someone gets up to crack the windows open, letting fresh air cut through the haze.
I feel Cora’s gaze on me, but I don’t look at her. My wife is pregnant. She will not breathe in smoke.
I sit back down.
I tap my fingers against the edge of the table once before continuing.
"Darren is a threat," I say. "Soon to be eliminated. The cartel has been feeding Darren resources, laundering his money, and helping him traffic women across the border. Drugging them. Selling them in Mexican brothels."
Cora stiffens.
I don’t look at her.
I can’t.
Because I already know what I’ll see.
Anger. Pain. A silent plea that I fix this.
And I will.
"They’re fighting for what’s left of Vito Lombardi’s empire," I finish, rubbing my jaw.
My meaning is clear.
The cartel will not let go of their investment. They will fight for what Darren was building.
And that means they will come for her.
The words send a slow, cold fury through my veins.
I meet Maxim’s gaze. My voice is calm. Final. Absolute.
"We use the flash drive," I say, my voice cold and certain. "Set a trap. Bring it to life in one of our locations. Bring Darren to us. Kill the head of the snake and watch the body die away.”
Maxim nods in agreement. Dmitri remains silent, arms crossed, his expression still unreadable.
But then—Cora speaks.
"And what about me?"
I turn to her.
My patience is razor-thin, but I give her my full attention.
"You stay here of course," I say, voice clipped, sharp. "Under our protection."
Her eyes burn with defiance.
"I’m not a prisoner, Ivan. It’s my plan you’re executing, remember?”
No one dares to speak. Maxim taps his fingers against the table once, a silent observer, while Dmitri simply waits. They all know better than to get involved.
Cora glares at me, and I can already see her mind working.
I arch a brow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
She squares her shoulders. Stubborn. Reckless. Mine.
"I spent a week with him," she says. "I know how he thinks. He’s impatient. Short-tempered. Self-centered. And most importantly, he never suspects he’s being played because he’s too arrogant to believe anyone could outsmart him. But bring him to your location? You really think he’ll fall for that?”
Cora’s eyes flick around the table, reading the men around her, and then she steps closer to the monitors on the far wall, where Darren’s face stares back at us from surveillance footage.
"The best way to get him is to appeal to his ego," she explains. "Make him think he’s won."
I cross my arms, considering her words.
"How?"
She takes a breath, steadying herself. "I pretend I want to make a deal—seemingly alone, holding the flash drive as bait. He’ll think I’m desperate, that I’m looking for a way out. He’ll believe I’m playing both sides, and that’s exactly the kind of arrogance that will bring him straight to us. You watch and when I give the signal, you pounce."
Silence stretches in the room.
I hate the thought of her being any part of this. I hate that she’s offering herself up as bait like she’s nothing more than a pawn in this game.
But the truth is—it’s a good plan. She said us, not her. She’s already accepted this world.
Maxim exhales through his nose. "It could work," he admits. "Darren wouldn’t be able to resist taking the bait if he thinks she’s selling us out."
Dmitri tilts his head. "Risky, though. If he catches even a whiff of an ambush, he won’t show."
"That’s why I have to make him believe I’m doing it alone," Cora says. "That I want out of this mess just as much as he does."
I tap my fingers against the table, considering. I don’t like it. But I can’t deny the logic in her words.
"And what do you suggest we do when he arrives at your location?" I ask.
Her jaw tightens. "Make sure he doesn’t leave."
She’s breathing hard, eyes bright, alive with the fire of someone who refuses to be caged. She thinks she’s proving something here. That she’s more than just the woman I’m keeping safe.
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to prove anything.
But I can’t. Not now.
Because she just made herself part of this war.
Maxim nods at her. Respect.
Dmitri tips an imaginary glass. Approval.
"It’s a good strategy," Maxim finally says. "We can refine the details, but the foundation is solid."
Cora exhales slowly.
And then, without another word, she sits back down.
The meeting drags on, but my focus never fully leaves Cora.
The others keep discussing the details of the trap, the timing, the positioning, the weapons. Plans are being made, war set in motion, but in the corner of my vision, Cora is too still.
She hasn't spoken since we agreed on the plan. Her hands press against her lap, her nails faintly digging into her palms. She looks pale.
Then, suddenly, she bolts from her chair.
The room doesn’t react—but I do.
I move instantly.
She disappears into the hallway, and I follow.
She turns a corner, and when I reach her, she’s in the nearest bathroom, gripping the sink with white-knuckled fingers, her head bowed forward.
She’s sick. Again.
I don’t hesitate.
I move beside her, steady, immovable. My hand slides over her back, firm but careful, feeling the tremble in her shoulders. She tenses at first, but then she exhales, and some of that fight drains from her.
When she finally leans away, breathless, too stubborn for her own good, she mutters, "I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me."
My fingers tighten against her skin.
"You’re not fine." My voice is unrelenting, absolute. "And you’re not going to Darren if you can’t stay out of a bathroom for more than ten minutes.”
Her eyes flick to mine, defiant, vulnerable, so goddamn strong it makes my chest ache.
"I’m fine, really," she insists. "You don’t need to babysit me."
I stand, grab the glass from the counter, fill it, and hand it to her.
"You’re not fine," I repeat, my tone leaving no room for argument. "And I’ll look after you however I damn well please."
She glares.
But she takes the water.
A few moments pass before Maxim’s voice calls from the hall.
"Ivan. We need to finalize these plans."
I don’t move. My attention stays locked on Cora. “It can wait,” I yell back.
She’s watching me carefully, her fingers wrapped around the glass but not drinking yet.
"I’ve made legal arrangements," I tell her, my voice dropping lower. "If I die during this final battle, my estate—everything I own—goes to you."
Her breath catches.
"Ivan—"
"You’ll be able to look after the child," I continue, ignoring the way my chest tightens at the thought of not being here.
Her fingers tighten around the glass. "I never asked for that."
I nod. "I know."
Then, I kiss her.
The moment our lips meet, the world outside ceases to exist.
No war. No plans. No cartel waiting to burn everything down.
Just her.
She’s warm, soft, and so goddamn real beneath my hands, her breath catching as I deepen the kiss, tasting the slight bitterness of the water she just drank, the heat of her mouth against mine.
My hands slide down, fingertips brushing over the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach where our child grows. Dr. Roth has confirmed it many times. I keep insisting on appointments. The baby is fine.
She shudders against me, and I swallow the sound, letting it sink into my skin, branding it into my bones.
This woman. Mine.
She leans into me, her body pressing against my chest, her nails digging lightly into the front of my shirt like she’s trying to hold on, trying to pull me closer. As if she doesn’t realize I’d already give her everything.
I kiss her harder. Slower.
My tongue sweeps against hers, coaxing, owning. Her knees go weak, and I guide her back against the sink, my palm bracing against the marble beside her hip, my other hand sliding into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, exposing her throat.
"Ivan," she whispers.
"Shh, printsessa," I murmur against her lips, watching her eyes flutter shut, the rise and fall of her chest quickening. "Let me take care of you."
Her lips part, but she doesn’t protest.
So I do.
I trail my mouth down, along her jaw, the column of her throat, feeling the pulse hammering beneath her skin. She tilts her head to the side, giving me more, her body relaxing, surrendering.
Fuck.
This woman, so strong, so fierce, melting for me like this.
I drop to my knees, my hands skimming over the soft fabric of her dress as I pull it up, as I expose the smooth skin of her thighs. I press my lips against the sensitive skin just above her knee.
"You’re beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "Every inch of you."
She shakes her head slightly, but I grip her hips, hold her still.
"You are," I insist, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against her inner thigh.
She gasps.
I do it again. Softer. Deeper.
Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her body trembles.
I look up, finding her watching me, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling too fast.
"Ivan—"
"Let me worship you, printsessa," I murmur, dragging my mouth higher.
Her head falls back against the mirror, her breath coming in uneven gasps.
And I take my time, making her forget everything except the way I make her feel.
I kiss her, taste her sweetness, drag her to the edge again and again until letting her cross over. She comes hard, grinding against me, her body shaking, her fingers tugging at my hair as she moans my name.
Only then, when she’s spent, do I rise, pulling her into my arms, pressing my forehead against hers.
She’s breathing hard, eyes dazed, lips swollen from mine.
And fuck, I love her.
I don’t say it. Not yet.
But I let her feel it in the way I cradle her face, in the way I press one last, lingering kiss against her lips.
"Mine," I murmur against her mouth, soft, but unyielding.
She swallows hard, fingers curling into my shirt.
"Yours," she whispers back.
“I’m spending the rest of the day with you. What do you want to do?”
“What about the plans? The mission? All those men, waiting for you?”
“Fuck ‘em.”