Chapter 42
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
KIRILL
We leave the penthouse in a convoy. Five vehicles, our armored SUV in the middle sandwiched between two vehicles full of my men — soldiers I’d trust with my life, or more importantly, Dinara’s life.
The Ghost attacked us once already, and I’m not giving them another chance, but I’m also not missing this opportunity to learn what we can about Marina.
We take a circuitous route through downtown before the high-rise towers give way to Tribeca’s historic streets to ensure we’re not being followed.
Dinara’s running a surveillance program that monitors every traffic camera within a three-mile radius, flagging any vehicles that show up more than twice on our route or any patterns that don’t fit normal traffic flow.
If something suspicious pops up, we’ll be notified.
As we approach Tribeca, the convoy splits. Two vehicles peel off toward the Brooklyn Bridge, one heads north, another continues west, and we cut south alone.
If we are being watched, there’s no way to tell which SUV we’re in.
Dinara sits beside me in a sexy black bandage dress that’s going to make it hard to focus.
Her blonde hair is twisted into a sleek bun, nothing that screams Evelina from Velour.
She’s been quiet since we left the penthouse, staring out the window with that faraway look she gets when she’s caught up in her head.
“What are you thinking about,” I say, sliding my hand onto her thigh.
“Tell me about Abram,” she says, turning toward me.
“These days he manages one of Ruslan’s legitimate import businesses. Keeps his hands clean, or at least cleaner than they used to be.”
I release a tight breath. “Back in the day he ran logistics for the Kupola Network. When a woman arrived, he’d inspect her, decide if she was worth keeping or moving, then handle the paperwork and transport.”
Dinara grimaces, and I pause, deciding if I should tell her the rest. “He’s the one who strangled Tasha.”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “Jesus Christ, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
I tip my head back against the seat. “She wasn’t the first or the last woman he hurt, but after tonight that won’t be an issue.”
Her fingers curl into fists against her thighs. “You think he knows about my mother?”
“The paper trail was destroyed when the Feds started sniffing around, but Abram has a good memory. And with the right motivation, he’ll tell us everything he knows.”
“And you’re not worried about blow-back from your father?”
I shake my head. “I’ve spent too much time letting Ruslan dictate my actions. This is revenge I’ve been waiting years to take.”
I meet her eyes. “And it’s the perfect opportunity. We get answers about your mother, I settle an old debt, and given where we are, it’s easy enough to stage it like a BDSM scene that went too far.”
It’s damn helpful that the Irish own this club. Marcus owes me a favor and his men will handle clean-up.
The SUV slows, pulling up to an industrial building that appears abandoned from the outside.
Only the line of luxury cars in the lot gives away what’s inside.
“We’re here,” I say, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.
Dinara straightens and adjusts the delicate silver filigree mask I gave her earlier.
I come around to open her door, offering my hand.
The heels she’s wearing put her closer to my height, but not close enough.
She has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“You look hot as fuck,” she says, her gaze dragging over my suit and the black mask covering half my face.
“Like temptation wrapped in Armani. I’m not sure I want to leave you alone.”
I pull her against me, hand splaying possessively across her lower back.
“I hate to tell you, solnyshko, but no other woman exists for me. Just you. My wife.”
She flushes with pleasure. “Good answer.”
We head toward the back entrance, where a man in a red devil mask sits at a laptop.
He glances up, recognition flickering across the visible half of his face.
“Baronov. Been a while.”
“Liam.” I nod. “It’s a special occasion.”
His eyebrows rise, but he knows better than to ask questions.
“Marcus said to expect you. Need one of the hosts to show you around, or do you remember your way?”
“Appreciated, but we’re all good.”
We step through the glass doors into an elevator. Dinara’s hand finds mine, and I bring her wrist to my lips. Her pulse jumps beneath my mouth.
“So, you’re a regular here?” she asks, her eyes gleaming with interest.
“Was a regular. Not anymore.”
The doors open to reveal a coat check area, soft red lighting, the distant thrum of music.
A woman in a leather corset and mask takes our coats, her eyes lingering on Dinara a beat too long.
I pull my wife closer.
“Possessive,” she murmurs, amusement threading through her voice.
“You have no idea.”
We push through the double doors into the main club. She inhales sharply beside me.
Low, colorful lights bathe the space in seductive shadows. The music pulses with a rhythm designed to mimic a heartbeat, to sync with the primal energy thrumming through the room.
Bodies move on the dance floor. Some masked, some collared, all willing participants in whatever game they’re playing tonight.
“Why did you come here?” Dinara asks, her voice pitched low.
“It was years ago. I was restless and searching for something I couldn’t name. I never found it. Tried a few scenes, tested a few boundaries, walked away feeling emptier than when I arrived. I’m not that man anymore,” I insist.
“Oh yeah.” She smirks. “And what man are you now?”
“Now I’m only interested in one thing.” I lean down, my mouth brushing her ear.
“My wife. And making sure no one else gets any ideas about putting their hands on what’s mine.”
Her breathing quickens. Tonight is going to test every ounce of control I have.
A server approaches with champagne. I take two glasses, handing one to Dinara.
She sips, but her eyes never stop scanning the room. There’s a lot to take in.
The room is a study in controlled hedonism. Plush couches line the walls where couples, or groups in various states of undress, let go.
A woman in nothing but a leather harness and collar kneels at her partner’s feet, head bowed in submission.
Near the bar, a man traces patterns on his companion’s bare back with a piece of ice. Her soft gasps are audible over the music.
Doorways along the perimeter lead to private rooms, curtains drawn or left provocatively open depending on the occupants’ preferences.
Everyone wears masks—some elaborate, some simple—creating an atmosphere of anonymity that invites indulgence.
The mission should be the only thing on my mind, but with Dinara beside me and the air thick with sex and possibility, every fantasy I’ve buried about her surfaces with exacting clarity.
Her eyes capture mine, darkening as she reads the filthy turn of my thoughts.
“Should we come here another time?”
“Absolutely.” My voice drops, gravelly with need. “I want to tie you down and watch you squirm. Spank that perfect ass until your skin turns pink under my palm. Find out if you like the sting of a flogger or if you prefer my belt. Make you come so many times you forget your own name.”
“You can’t say things like that to me right now,” she breathes, fanning herself.
“I’m already—” She cuts herself off, her body going still.
Following her gaze, I find Abram, dressed in an expensive suit, his mask doing nothing to hide his identity.
His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, gray at the temples, and despite being in his sixties, he carries himself with the kind of confidence that comes from wealth and power.
I smirk. His left hand is wrapped in bandages, a souvenir from the ice pick I drove through it.
He’s alone. Scanning the room with the interest of someone browsing a menu.
I set down my champagne and turn to Dinara. “Are you sure about this?”
Now that the moment’s here, now that she’s about to walk into a room alone with a man who helped destroy countless lives, every protective instinct I have rears to life. I think about calling the whole thing off.
She’s capable, but this is different. What if something goes wrong, if Abram recognizes her?
“I’ve got this,” she says quietly, her hand brushing over mine. “Trust me.”
“I do, but it doesn’t make this any easier.”
She rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to my jaw before making her way toward the bar where Abram waits oblivious to the fact that he’s already a dead man.
DINARA
I don’t look back at Kirill as I make my way toward my target.
I can’t afford to be anything other than whoever Abram Volkov needs me to be.
The mask makes me anonymous, unrecognizable. Between that and my hair pinned back, nothing about me should be familiar.
Abram’s attention locks on as I get close, dark eyes tracking every step.
The silk dress clings as I move, the slit revealing flashes of thigh with each step. His gaze drops, lingers, and returns to my face with obvious appreciation.
By the time I reach the bar, he shifts to make space beside him, body angling toward mine in invitation.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, exuding polished confidence.
I let a slow smile curve my lips. “I would like that.”
“You’re new,” he says, voice smooth, cultured. American accent with the faintest hint of something Eastern European buried beneath decades of assimilation.
“That obvious?” I settle onto the barstool beside him, close enough that our knees brush.
“Beautiful women are always obvious.” He signals the bartender without looking away from me. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you recommend.”
His smile widens. “A woman who trusts easily. Dangerous trait in a place like this.”
“Who says I trust you?” I lean against the bar, bringing our arms a breath apart, even though it makes my stomach turn.
“Maybe I like the way you’re looking at me.”
The bartender sets down two glasses of champagne. Abram hands me one, his fingers grazing mine.
“And how am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re trying to figure me out.” I take a sip, holding his gaze over the rim.
“Good luck with that.”
He laughs, low and arrogant. “I like a challenge. So. You’re not from New York?”
“Just passing through. Leaving tomorrow back to Denmark. Early flight.”
“Shame.” His eyes travel over me slowly, appreciatively. “One night doesn’t leave much time to get acquainted.”
“Depends on how we use the time.”
I tilt my head, letting my eyes trace over him—the expensive suit, the silver-fox hair, the arrogance bred from decades of power.
“You look like a man who’s used to getting what he wants.”
“Usually.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, cataloging every curve the dress reveals.
“Though the best things are worth working for.”
The music shifts, something slower, heavier with bass. Bodies on the dance floor press closer together, the energy in the room thickening.
“So what brings you here?” he asks, turning fully toward me now. “Besides the obvious.”
“Curiosity.” I let the word hang between us for a beat.
“And boredom. But you caught my attention. I prefer older men. Younger guys are all ego and no substance. They think they know what they’re doing, but they’re fumbling in the dark.”
“And what is it that you like?”
I meet his eyes directly, letting heat simmer beneath the surface. “To be in control.”
His interest sharpens into genuine intrigue.
“Interesting choice of words.”
I take another sip of champagne, letting the moment stretch.
The dress I’m wearing isn’t accidental — black silk, structured bodice, leather accents at the waist.
The kind of thing that whispers dominance without screaming it.
“You don’t strike me as someone who gives up control easily,” I say, voice dropping lower.
“But maybe that’s the appeal. Letting someone else take the reins for a while.”
His pupils dilate. Got him.
“You’re perceptive.”
“I pay attention.” I set down my glass, angling my body toward his.
“How do you feel about continuing this conversation in a private room?”
His hand finds my lower back, possessive and eager. “I can work with that.”
He leads me toward a hallway lined with doors, his hand never leaving my back.
As we walk, he leans in close.
“Do you want an audience?” he asks. “Or a private playroom?”
I pretend to think about it. “I prefer privacy. The most private room here. Soundproof, if possible.”
His eyes light up. He probably thinks I want privacy because we’re going to get loud and wild. Uninhibited.
I suppose we are. Just not in a way he’ll enjoy.
“I know the perfect room,” he says, steering me toward a door at the end of the hall.
Abram opens the door to reveal a warmly lit room with dark walls.
A large bed dominates the center, with leather cuffs attached to each post. My focus locks on the high-backed chair positioned near the foot of the bed.
It’s solid, with arms wide enough to accommodate restraints.
“After you,” he says, voice rough with anticipation.
I step inside, my heart pounding with clear purpose.
“Now that we’re in the playroom, you will call me mistress. Strip and seat yourself in the chair.”
“Yes, mistress,” he says, loosening his tie with eager excitement.
The smile that curves my lips is genuine. Kirill won’t be far behind.
And when he gets here, Abram Volkov is going to suffer.