Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kirill
Michael leans back in his chair, nodding like a bobblehead.
“Fine. I’ll take your advice and leave Milana alone for now. We’ll go with your plan.”
I don’t show the relief that floods through me. The sound of her name in his mouth makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.
If I didn’t need him alive a little longer, if I hadn’t spent the last few weeks trying to figure out a way to keep her safe without blowing everything up, I would have put a bullet in his head the second he said her name.
The thought of him even thinking about touching her makes something violent and ugly rise in my chest.
I should be in bed right now with my girl. Instead, I’m here wasting time with this entitled little shit who inherited guns and money from daddy dearest and thinks starting a war is a good idea.
This morning, waking up with Milana pressed against me, her soft body curled into my chest, her breath warm on my skin… it felt so fucking good.
I never thought I’d want that. Never thought I’d crave it. But now I do. I want her in my bed every single morning.
I want her scent on my sheets. I want to wake up and pull her closer instead of slipping out before she opens her eyes.
It makes no sense. I don’t do this. I don’t yearn. But with each passing day, my need for her grows stronger. My resolve is dying.
Last night I even kissed her. It was just a brush of my lips against hers when she was half-asleep.
I don’t kiss. But with her, I wanted it. I wanted to taste her mouth, to claim it, to feel those soft lips under mine.
And when I finally did it, it felt better than I ever imagined.
I’m slipping. Badly.
I can’t let Michael have her. Over my dead body.
If her brothers ever find out what I did to the real Ilya, or what I’ve been doing with their sister, they’ll kill me without hesitation.
But right now, that feels like the only path that doesn’t end with Milana hurts.
I need a plan. A real one.
Because the longer this goes on, the more I realize I’m willing to burn everything down. My cover, my alliance with Michael, even my own life, if it means keeping her safe.
Michael points to one of the goons standing behind him, a big, silent bastard with a shaved head and dead eyes.
Ever since I threatened to put a bullet in his head, the idiot has started surrounding himself with more muscle. Like that would stop me if I really wanted him dead.
He doesn’t understand that I could still kill him before any of them could draw.
“Nico will go with you,” Michael says. “Bring the real Ilya back. We’ll have some fun with him while you use the girl to get more information from her brothers. Then we strike the final blow.”
I keep my face blank, but inside I’m seething. The casual way he talks about using Milana, makes me want to paint the walls with his blood. But I nod instead.
This buys me time. That’s all I need right now.
We leave the warehouse. I get into my car and tell the goon to follow me.
The whole drive back to the penthouse, my mind is racing. Time is running out. Michael is getting impatient.
If I don’t come up with a solid plan to take him out soon, he’s going to get bored with the real Ilya and come for Milana.
When we reach the building, I head straight for the basement elevator instead of going up to the apartment.
The goon follows silently. I pull my gun, a suppressed Glock 19, from the holster under my jacket, checking the chamber out of habit.
The second the elevator doors open, I know something is wrong.
The basement door is wide open. I always keep it closed.
I let the guard watching Ilya take a few hours off for an emergencybecause I thought I’d be back sooner and the prisoner was too weak to cause trouble.
Now the door is open. How come?
I raise the gun, moving fast and silent. The goon behind me does the same.
I step inside, gun raised, but it's empty. Ilya is nowhere in sight. The chains are broken on the floor, links scattered.
A pair of bolt cutters lies nearby, clearly used to smash them open. Someone helped him. The real Ilya is gone.
The goon whips out his gun, pointing it at me with shaking hands. “What the fuck is going on? Where is Ilya? Is this some kind of sick setup? Are you trying to fuck us over?”
I move fast, slapping the gun away from my face. “Get that shit out of my face. Why the fuck would I set you up? If I wanted to play games, I wouldn’t have left him chained here in the first place. I’m trying to find out what happened.”
I spot the trail of blood on the floor, fresh drops leading out of the room and up the stairs.
“I'm calling Michael—”
“No one’s calling anybody.” I pocket the phone. “He couldn’t have gone far. He’s badly injured. We find him, I hand him over, and we’re done. Clear?”
His nostrils flare, his jaw ticking as he glares.
I tighten my grip on the Glock, keeping it trained on his chest.
One wrong move, and I’ll put a bullet in him.
“Fine,” he grits out. “Just find the guy so I can get out of here.”
“Come on,” I snap, taking the lead as I follow the trail of blood.
The drops get thicker as we climb the stairs. My mind is racing. If Milana found him… if she helped him…
The trail leads straight to my apartment door, and right there, in the middle of my kitchen, stands the real Ilya weak, bleeding, barely on his feet.
And beside him is Milana, eyes wide with shock and betrayal as she stares at me.
The look on her face says everything. She knows. I’m fucked.