Chapter 2 Tony
Tony
I should’ve let her take the bullet.
That’s the thought running through my head as I unlock my hotel room door and step inside.
I should’ve used the same cold logic that kept me alive through three tours in the Middle East and two years of black ops work the CIA won’t admit exists.
Except I didn’t.
I covered her body with mine and felt her perfect ass pressed against my dick while bullets tore through the gallery around us.
I toss my jacket on the bed and pour three fingers of vodka from the bottle on the desk. The burn down my throat doesn’t touch the memory of Sasha Kozlov underneath me or the way her green eyes went wide as saucers when she realized I wasn’t what I claimed to be.
I’m too damn old to be reacting to her like this. I’ve survived war zones with steadier focus, but one look from her, and I’m nineteen again—reckless, hard, and ruled by instinct instead of sense.
God, those fuck-me eyes of hers. Deep emerald-green with flecks of gold near the pupils. Her blonde hair is the natural kind that darkens at the roots and catches every shade from honey to platinum depending on how the light hits it.
I’ve watched her the past couple of weeks. Most days, she wears it in a low ponytail or twists it up. It was pinned up tonight, and by the time we hit that alley, half of it had fallen loose around her face.
I couldn’t stop staring.
She’s about five-six. Slim, but not breakable. There’s muscle in her arms and shoulders that says regular training, and after tonight, I know someone taught her how to move in a fight.
She’s got her brothers’ bone structure, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, but where Dmitri and Alexei move like predators, Sasha moves like a dancer.
Her lips are full and naturally pink. And there’s a small scar at the corner of her mouth that I only noticed because I couldn’t stop staring at her at the wedding two weeks ago.
I clocked all of this at Alexei’s reception. Dmitri pulled her aside and, judging by his face, told her to stay the hell away from me. She still looked back once while he was talking, her eyes locking on mine across the room. Thirty feet between us, and her look hit me like a shot.
I drain the vodka and toss the glass on the end table.
This job was supposed to be simple. Adrian Belmont hired me four weeks ago to investigate the Kozlov organization and build a case against them.
The money was excellent, the target was clear, and I didn’t ask questions about why a London art dealer wanted detailed intelligence on a Moscow Bratva family.
Adrian contacted me through a referral from another client.
His message was straightforward: He needed someone with my skill set to gather intelligence on a Russian organized crime family.
He wanted financial records, operational details, security intel, and anything else I could dig up on the Kozlov Bratva.
The pay was double my usual rate. Triple if I delivered actionable intelligence within eight weeks.
I should have asked more questions. Should have pushed harder about what he planned to do with the information. But I’d just finished a job in Berlin that went sideways, my bank account was thin, and Adrian’s offer came with a fifty percent deposit.
So, I took it, flew to Moscow, and began building my journalist cover. Contacted people adjacent to the Kozlov organization. Attended events where the family might appear. Gathered surface-level intelligence about their legitimate business interests while looking for cracks in their security.
Then, I met Sasha at Alexei’s wedding, and everything got messy.
She was standing near the bar, watching her brother dance with his new wife. The green dress she wore was modest by most standards but still managed to showcase a body that occupied entirely too much of my mental real estate.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked in perfect English with just a hint of British influence from her time in London.
“Very much,” I replied honestly.
“My brother would break your hands for looking at me like that.”
“Which brother?”
“Either of them.”
That should have been my cue to walk away. Instead, I bought her a drink and tried not to stare at her mouth the whole damn time.
Sasha isn’t just another target’s family member. She’s smart. Observant. She caught inconsistencies in my cover story within five minutes of talking to me. Asked pointed questions about my background. And tonight, she counted every move I made while taking down those idiot criminals.
It makes sense. She’s trained to spot fakes, and I’m not the journalist I pretended to be.
I pull my weapon from the shoulder holster and set it on the desk next to my laptop. The Glock 19 is well-worn, its grip molded to my hand from years of use. I should clean it, but my focus keeps going back to the gallery.
Sasha’s body pressed against mine. The way she moved into a defensive crouch without panic. How she’d demanded answers in the alley instead of thanking me for saving her life.
Most people freeze when bullets fly. Not Sasha. She stayed calm the whole damn time.
Dmitri and Alexei’s sister isn’t another Bratva princess. Anyone with eyes can see that. What I can’t figure out is why Adrian wants intel on this family.
I strip off my shirt and head for the bathroom. The shower kicks on with a hiss. Moscow hotels are hit or miss. This one’s a miss, but the water gets hot, and that’s all that matters right now.
Steam fills the small bathroom as I step in. The heat hits my shoulders, where the muscles are still tight from the gallery. I brace one hand against the tile and let the water beat down on my shoulders.
Sasha’s face fills my mind the second I close my eyes.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. I should be focused on the job, gathering intelligence, and maintaining the cover that’s already starting to crack. But all I can think about is the way she felt underneath me when I covered her body with mine.
My cock twitches, hardening despite every rational thought telling me this is a stupid fantasy to entertain.
Still, I wrap my hand around my length and give one slow stroke. My head falls back as pleasure sparks through me, and I curse under my breath because this kind of distraction gets people killed in my line of work.
But I don’t stop.
I pump myself slowly at first as I imagine Sasha on her knees in front of me, her green eyes looking up as she takes me in her mouth. Would she be tentative, or bold? Teasing, or taking what she wants the same way she demanded answers in the alley?
I squeeze a little harder, imagining her lips wrapped around my cock and her tongue on the underside while her hand works what doesn’t fit. She’d be good at it. Confident. The kind of woman who commits fully to whatever she does.
I stroke faster while the water pours down my body as the fantasy shifts.
Now, she’s spread out on a bed, legs open and inviting.
I’d start by kissing up the inside of her legs, taking my time, making her wait for it.
She’d probably try to stay quiet at first. Try to maintain that control she wears like armor.
But I’d break through it.
I imagine running my tongue through her folds as I taste her for the first time. She’d be wet and ready for me, and the thought pulls a groan out of me. I’d work her clit with my tongue, switching between soft licks and firm pressure until she forgot every reason this was supposed to be wrong.
My hand moves faster on my cock as I picture making her come on my tongue and how her thighs would shake. She’d gasp my name, fisting her hands in my hair when the pleasure got too intense to stay quiet.
The thought of Sasha coming apart because of me makes my balls draw up tight.
I imagine what would come after. How I’d rise from between her legs and line myself up at her entrance. How wet she’d be from my mouth on her, and how she’d feel as I pushed inside, inch by inch, letting her body adjust to the stretch.
She’d be tight; I know she would. That thought alone makes my rhythm stutter. I’d have to go slowly at first and let her body accept me, but soon enough, she’d wrap her legs around my waist and demand more.
In my mind, I fuck her slowly and deeply, with one hand braced beside her head while the other grips her hip hard enough to leave marks. She’d meet every thrust, taking everything I gave her and asking for more with her gorgeous eyes locked on mine.
I’d fuck her hard.
Deep.
The way I suspect she’d want it, despite her polished exterior.
And then she’d come first, her pussy clenching around my cock, and only then would I let myself go.
“Fuck,” I groan to the empty bathroom.
The orgasm slams through me without warning. My cock pulses in my hand as I come hard, working myself through every spasm. My breathing turns rough, echoing off the bathroom walls, and for several seconds, I can’t think about anything except the release tearing through my body.
Then, reality crashes back in.
The water continues to run, and I watch my release wash down the drain as I try to ignore the guilt settling in my chest.
I’m supposed to be building a case against her family. Gathering intelligence on their operations. Identifying vulnerabilities Adrian can exploit for whatever vendetta he’s nursing against the Kozlovs.
Instead, I’m jerking off in the shower to fantasies about Dmitri Kozlov’s little sister.
I quickly finish washing and step out of the shower, only bothering with a towel around my waist before walking back into the main room. My phone sits on the desk next to my laptop, its screen lit up with a notification.
Adrian.
The message is short and demanding, like every other communication I’ve received from him in the past four weeks.
Update required. What do you have on Kozlov operations?
I stare at the phone and try to figure out what the hell to tell him.
The truth? That I’ve spent two weeks thinking about Sasha Kozlov instead of investigating her brothers? That I saved her life tonight and blew my cover as a mild-mannered journalist in the process? That the only intelligence I’ve gathered is what her eyes look like when she’s suspicious?
None of that will satisfy Adrian’s demands.
There’s something obsessive about his interest in the Kozlov family. Something personal in the way he phrases questions about their operations. Twice now, he’s asked specifically about Sasha. Where she lives, what she does, and who she associates with in Moscow.
I wrote it off as thoroughness. He’s gathering intelligence on all family members to identify any potential weak points. But after saving her life and seeing the fear in her eyes turn to something else when she looked at me, those questions feel different.
They feel like a threat.
The smart play would be to give him something small. A detail about security rotations at Kozlov-owned businesses. Which establishments they use for meetings. Names of low-level associates who might be vulnerable to pressure.
But every piece of intelligence I provide is a weapon Adrian can use against the family. Against Dmitri and Alexei. Against their wives and associates.
Against Sasha.
And I don’t like the idea of that one fucking bit.