Chapter 16 Ghosts
Ghosts
Fee:
The assassin emerges from beneath the lover I've come to know. "Seven years," he mutters.
His arm tightens around my waist, the pressure almost painful. I watch the complete change in his features, his eyes hardening to steel.
"What happened seven years ago?" I ask, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Anton is holding me close to his body, still. His thumb traces my back now with devastating gentleness that contradicts the rage I can feel building beneath his tense muscles.
"Someone is hunting me," he says, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through my body. "And they're using you to do it."
"The attack at the boutique?"
His free hand cups my face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "They were after you specifically. To get to me."
"Why?" I keep my voice steady despite the tremor threatening to break through. "What happened seven years ago, Anton?" He watches me for a long, quiet moment. His expression gives nothing away.
Anton releases a long, slow exhale.
"My first job with the Basovs. Not just any job, but the one that earned me their complete trust and respect."
I shift slightly against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest beneath my palms. The penthouse is utterly silent except for our breathing and the distant hum of Manhattan outside.
"The Basovs had a problem," Anton continues. "A brotherhood of gangs kept raiding their shipments, sabotaging operations. They were taking advantage of weakness."
"Weakness?" I press.
"The Pakhan was ill." His eyes meet mine, storm-gray and lost in the darkness of his job.
"Roman was sick?" I ask, trying to picture that strong man being that sick.
Anton shakes his head. "No. His grandfather had cancer. He lived for two more years after that. I think the strong man needed that time to ensure Roman was ready to take over the entire operation. Back then, Roman was only handling the New York division."
I process this, filing it away with all the other fragments of Basov history I've collected. "So what happened?"
Anton's jaw tightens. "I eliminated an entire operation that night."
"How is what's happening now connected to that night?"
"One of the men I killed had a sword tattoo.
Not just any sword, a specific one, from The Motherland Calls in Volgograd, Russia.
The Armenian men I interrogated this morning had the same tattoo.
That type of symbol can only denote some sort of brotherhood, especially since the men are not Russian.
" Anton sighs. "Plus, there are no coincidences in this business.
Someone connected to that night is looking for revenge. "
Anton's grip on my waist is still firm, possessive even. I gently push off his chest.
"Can I..." I start, and he immediately understands, stepping back just enough to give me room without breaking contact.
In one motion, Anton lifts me by the waist and places me on the kitchen island, positioning me so we're closer to eye level, though he still towers over me.
I place both hands flat against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath my palms.
My mind races, trying to piece together this shadow from Anton's past. "Seven years is a long time to hold a grudge. If they've been after you that long, they must have followed you everywhere, waiting for the right moment."
The thought sends a chill through me: someone watching Anton, and by extension, me, calculating their revenge for years. They must be one hell of an assassin to want to go after Anton, but perhaps this is why they've taken their time to prepare for this moment.
"Where were you before we met?" I ask.
"My team and I were in Europe for several months before I returned here. We moved through Prague, Vienna, Amsterdam...wherever the work required."
"So we could assume they followed you across continents."
"Yes. This isn't about money or territory or power. This is about revenge."
I exhale slowly, my eyes searching his. "Someone who's waited seven years, who's studied you well enough to know I'm your weakness.
..they're not just looking for a quick kill.
They want to make you suffer first." My hands slide up to frame his face.
"Whoever this is, they're willing to go through extraordinary lengths to hurt you.
And I can't—" My voice finally cracks slightly. "I can't be the reason they succeed."
I drop my hands to his shoulders, a sudden realization washing over me. "My guards were hit first," I continue. "Shane almost died. Now you're at risk. And here you were, so worried about me."
Anton's expression shifts, the deadly seriousness giving way to something warmer as his hands find my waist.
"Solnishko," he says, voice deep and deliberate, "there's something you should know about me." His face remains grave. "I'm like the roaches of New York."
I blink, thrown by this unexpected turn. "What?"
"Unkillable." A hint of humor flickers in his eyes. "People step on us, try to crush us, but we don't die. We just..." he makes a crunching sound with his mouth, "...and keep going."
The absurdity of this deadly hitman comparing himself to a cockroach, complete with sound effects, breaks through the tension. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, genuine and surprised.
"You're funny," I say, my eyes widening slightly as I realize I mean it. "Dangerous, lethal, terrifying..." I tap his chest with my finger, "...and funny." My smile widens. "Who would have thought? Oh, and you're also really tall. Even with me up here, I'm still looking up at you."
His mouth quirks into that half-smile. "Is that a problem, Solnishko?"
"Oh no, not at all." I reach up, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I like having to look up at you."
The steel in his eyes settles momentarily as he steps between my legs, hands resting on either side of my hips. This close, I can smell his bergamot cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"This might sound ridiculous given the situation, but there's never going to be a moment for us, is there?" I ask.
Anton's eyes search mine. "Our relationship started in chaos, but it's very real to me." His hands tighten slightly on the edge of the counter. "Fee, I swear to you, I will make this right." His voice drops lower. "Would you give me the chance to make this right by you?"
I cup his face between my palms. "I've been here through the bullets and the blood and the not-great parts that were definitely not horrible either." I smile. "Yes, I'll stay for the best parts too. Not like I have much choice anyway."
His storm-gray eyes darken with an emotion caught between worry and dread.
"You always have a choice, Fee. Always." His voice turns gravelly, almost desperate.
"It would kill me if you decided not to be with me, but I will never force you.
I force enough people in my life. I kill people when they don't do what needs to be done.
" He shakes his head. "I don't want that with you.
" His fingers brush my cheek with devastating gentleness.
"I will never force you to do anything."
Anton's lips brush against mine in a soft kiss that feels more intimate than anything we've shared so far. When he pulls back slightly, his eyes transform completely, the hardened assassin gone.
"You've gotten so deep into my heart, Solnishko," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Into my mind. My soul."
Oh fuck. Those eyes. The way they're looking at me right now, so goddamn sexy.
The penthouse door clicks open, and we both turn to look. Yuri walks in, stopping abruptly when he sees us, me perched on the counter, Anton standing between my legs, our faces inches apart.
"You said to come up," Yuri says, his expression perfectly neutral despite the intimate scene he's walked into. "I can come back later."
Anton doesn't move away from me.
"It's fine," Anton tells him, his hand finding mine and squeezing gently. "We need to work on our Volgograd problem anyway."
I grip Anton's shoulders as he easily lifts me from the counter. The strength in his arms makes me feel weightless as he gently deposits me onto the stool. His hands linger at my waist, reluctant to break contact.
"Hello, Ms. Quinn," Yuri says with a slight nod.
"Hi, Yuri." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how intimate Anton and I must have looked when he walked in. "And please, it's Fee."
Yuri's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts, a subtle acknowledgment.
Anton's thumb traces small circles against my hip. "We should move to the office. The setup there is better. It has monitors, a larger desk space where you two can work side by side."
I glance down at Anton's oversized T-shirt I'm wearing. Thank God I'm wearing jeans under it.
"I should change into a top that's not your T-shirt."
Anton looks at me, and without warning, he slides one arm behind my back, the other under my knees. "Allow me to fulfill your wish to be carried everywhere."
Yuri watches us, and I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll take your laptop to the office while you change," Anton says, nodding toward where it sits on the kitchen counter.
As Anton carries me toward the bedroom, I loop my arms around his neck, breathing in his bergamot scent.
I can't help but study his face, the sharp angles, and that teardrop tattoo that tells a silent story of grief. There's something so inherently male about the way he moves through the world—confident, powerful, protective.
"All you Basov men have really impressed me," I say as he sets me gently on the bed. "The way you treat your women. The respect, the love." I run my fingers along the edge of his T-shirt that I'm still wearing. "The Quinn men are shit, including my father. He's had a parade of mistresses."
Anton's eyebrow raises slightly.
"It's why my mother spends all the time she can in Europe," I continue. "She was forced to marry him, to give him children. He's never really loved her." I sigh. "I used to be so angry at her for leaving, but eventually I learned to understand her."
Anton sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Did you not go with her?"
"As young girls, we used to," I explain, remembering those early years.
"We had someone homeschool us during those trips.
But as Moira and I got older, we craved some freedom.
Dad allowed us to go to regular school, where we made a few friends.
" I smile, thinking of those simpler days.
"Plus, Sage's mother filled the void of not having a mom around much. "
Anton's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
"Roman, our Pakhan, doesn't tolerate mistreatment of women," he says, his voice taking on that formal tone he uses when discussing Bratva business.
"He doesn't dictate what his men do with their personal lives, but once someone is married, he doesn't tolerate games that could compromise the Basovs. "
I look up at him, intrigued by this glimpse into his world.
"Women have a high place with the Basovs," Anton continues. "You know, the next in line to become the head of the Basov Bratva wasn't Roman, it was his mother, Yelena."
"Really?" This surprises me. The criminal world isn't exactly known for its gender equality.
Anton nods. "She decided to give it to her son once her father passed. Mrs. Yelena Basov still has a strong say in the business, and Roman respects that." His lips quirk slightly. "Now, she enjoys being a babushka."
The Russian word rolls naturally off his tongue, and something warms inside me hearing his native language.
"Even though I am not a Basov," Anton says, his fingers lifting to brush my cheek, "the Bratva sees me as family. And as such, you will have a high place by my side."
"By your side. I like the sound of that."
His eyes darken, and I see the struggle there, the need to get back to Yuri and address the threat, warring with his desire to stay with me.
I tell him, "That motherfucking Volgograd problem isn't going to solve itself, and I want to help."
Anton leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You are extraordinary, Fee Quinn."
I smile up at him. "And don't you forget it."
As Anton leaves the bedroom, I'm struck by the sudden quiet. The person hunting us is methodical. Creating false identities. Manufacturing evidence. Staging elaborate traps.
We need to beat them at their own game.
If they're constructing realities to get to us, we need to do the same. Build a narrative they'll believe, one that puts them exactly where we want them. Bait them into the open where Anton can end this.
I grab my phone, needing to check on Moira before diving into this mess. I text: How are you feeling?
While changing out of Anton's shirt, my phone pings with Moira's reply: The headache is better, but it won't go away.
I frown, texting back: Have you called your doctor?
Her response comes quickly: He's sending someone.
My fingers freeze over the phone screen as realization strikes like lightning.
Blood pressure issues. Headaches. A killer who monitors everything and manipulates finances, who likely knows every move we make.
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck."
My sister. My pregnant sister. She's in danger because of me.
"Anton!" I yell, bursting out of the bedroom. "I need to go to Providence! Now!"