Chapter 5 #4
I have never seen a man so blind to his own stupidity and arrogance
Training took over before thought could interfere.
My right hand moved first.
In one fluid motion — muscle memory drilled by years of tactical repetition — I swept backward, fingers gripping the handle of my Glock 19 concealed at my lower back.
Reverse draw.
Smooth. Efficient.
I rotated my body forty-five degrees to create a clean sight picture.
The weapon came up.
Muzzle aligned directly between his eyes.
My finger indexed along the frame — discipline preventing premature pressure.
Then it settled onto the trigger.
My breathing slowed. “I’m not the weak Elena you knew back then,” I said quietly.
My voice was lethal now. Controlled.
“If you mess with me, I will drop you right here.”
My gaze didn’t waver. “And nothing will happen to me.”
I tightened my stance.
“Now open the fucking door.”
He didn’t look afraid.
He smiled. Not mockingly. Not nervously.
Slow. Unbothered.
Almost...
Fond.
“You underestimate me, Elena.”
The calmness in his tone made my jaw tighten.
“I wouldn’t want you hurt,” he continued conversationally, as if we were discussing dinner plans instead of a standoff.
“But the moment your finger tightens on that trigger?”
His eyes flicked slightly upward. “Snipers positioned on elevated vantage points will neutralize you.”
My stomach dropped.
What?
“Non-lethal rounds first,” he added casually. “Rubber impact. Taser projectiles. If you still move after that — lethal response.”
My chest caved under the implication.
He had countermeasures already in place.
My gaze shot upward instinctively — scanning the cornices, the dark balcony railings, the mezzanine shadows above us.
Cameras. Hidden platforms. Possible sniper nests.
I shouldn’t have looked.
The second my eyes shifted away from him, his body moved.
Fast. Explosive.
His left hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.
He twisted.
Pain detonated through my arm as he executed a textbook gun-disarm technique — torque applied to force my wrist outward and break my grip.
My fingers nearly lost control of the weapon.
He yanked my arm upward — forcing the muzzle to angle away from his face.
At the same time —
His right arm wrapped around my waist.
He pulled me backward violently.
My back slammed into his chest.
Air knocked from my lungs.
His grip tightened — locking my gun arm upward and pinning it useless.
Then I felt it.
Pressure. Hard. Unmistakable.
Pressing firmly against the small of my back through his trousers.
My brain stuttered.
What the fuck?
I was threatening to kill him —
And he was getting hard?
His lips brushed the shell of my ear.
Warm breath skimming my skin.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He murmured low, “To build a case against me and lock me up... my cute little FBI agent?”
My pulse exploded in my veins.
He knew.
He had known all along.
This wasn’t ignorance. It was calculated tolerance.
He had allowed me to walk freely through his house.
Allowed me to inspect.
Allowed me to access restricted areas.
Because he was confident. Too confident.
“Do you really think,” he continued softly, tightening his grip slightly, “that I let you disappear for four years without eyes on you?”
My stomach twisted.
“You think your brothers were the only ones watching?”
His fingers pressed harder around my wrist — forcing the barrel of my gun higher, controlling its direction.
“I had people shadowing you.”
His voice dropped further. “Silently. Invisibly.”
My breathing accelerated.
“Every photo. Every training session. Your graduation ceremony at the academy.”
My mind flashed through memories.
FBI academy. Field exercises. Diploma day.
Was he telling the truth?
Or bluffing?
“I watched you join the Bureau.”
The words landed like a violation.
“I watched you graduate.”
My skin crawled.
“And your boss — Vincent?”
My heart froze. “He works for me.”
The sentence detonated inside my chest.
No. Impossible.
Vincent was Bureau through and through.
Trusted. Clearances verified. Background vetted.
“Lies,” I snapped — but my voice lacked conviction.
Ruslan’s lips curved near my ear. “Check his offshore accounts. Check the shell companies tied to his investments.”
The betrayal hit me like a second gunshot.
Vincent.
The name detonated inside my mind with brutal clarity.
The man who had handed me my badge.
The man who had signed off on my undercover clearance.
The man who had personally assigned me to infiltrate Ruslan Baranov’s circle.
My superior.
My mentor.
Maybe...
My betrayer.
Ruslan’s hand slid lower without hesitation.
His fingers splayed across my abdomen in a slow, possessive glide — not sexual, not gentle — but deliberate.
Claiming. Marking.
“Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence?” he said quietly, leaning close to my ear. “That you were sent to California — back to your husband — after four years apart?”
His voice lowered.
“Does it not cross your mind that it could have been orchestrated? I believed I had given you enough time to heal... so I asked Vincent to send you here.”