Chapter 9
Dominik
I should be tracking Archer right now, not watching his sister pace circles in the guestroom. Every Bratva contact I have in the state is hunting for the little bastard. Gavriil wants his money, wants his revenge, and he wants both yesterday.
He didn’t exactly make a request when he called an hour ago. He ordered me.
“I want every dime of my money, Dominik. I don’t care how. And if keeping the girl is slowing you down, I’ll gladly take her off your hands.”
I don’t answer right away even though I should. That’s how I know this is turning into a problem.
The thought of Gavriil getting anywhere near Alina feels wrong. He would love nothing more than to punish a pretty hostage who glares at him.
Protecting assets is my job. Wanting to put myself between her and the world is something else entirely, and I don’t like not having a name for it.
I turn back to my laptop and pull up the intel file on Archer. I’d feel better if we had eyes on him before the meet tomorrow, and I need him to have all our money.
Every few minutes, I glance at the security feed. Alina’s pacing again, her hair loose for once, chewing on her lip.
The first morning while she was in the shower, I installed a small camera in the air vent to watch her because I knew she was a flight risk. Now, I find that I need to know how she thinks.
It’s good that she hasn’t given up yet.
People who think they’re in control don’t surrender, and that’s exactly what I fear she will do if it comes to it.
And while I would love to have her surrender to me, it’ll be Gavriil who offers her what I can’t.
My burner phone buzzes. One of my men with an update finally.
SERGEI: A pawnshop in Brooklyn reported a sale last night: three high-grade tactical rifles paid in cash. Serial numbers match the ones from the crates that Archer stole.
It’s not enough to move on yet, but it tells me that if he’s going somewhere public to sell three measly guns, then he’s desperate.
Desperation makes men sloppy.
I send orders to question the pawnshop owner, then check the surveillance footage in the neighborhood to see where the asshole went when he left.
My phone rings again and I answer too quickly, assuming it’s Sergei which is a mistake.
“You’re bringing the girl to dinner tonight.”
Gavriil never asks for anything. He commands it. That’s how all his calls start. No greeting. No context. Just orders.
“She’s a hostage, not a trophy,” I say. “I’m sure you also know that bringing such a valuable asset into a room full of predators is dangerous.”
“I trust you to keep her safe,” he says, amused. “Seven-thirty. My favorite restaurant. I’ll send a dress and shoes for her to wear. Something that will make every man in the room want what they can’t touch.”
He ends the call before I can answer while I’m still grinding my teeth.
He’s trying to provoke me. See where my breaking point is.
He’s closer to it than he realizes.
I need to warn Alina, which means returning to the room I’ve been purposefully avoiding.
Her door is open, and she’s still pacing inside, fierce and restless. No doubt she’s eager for the chance to get out of the penthouse, to go into the city where she thinks there will be more chances to escape.
“We’re going out for dinner,” I tell her. “Your outfit will be delivered soon. Put it on and be ready to leave by seven.”
Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing as if she thinks this is a trap.
“You’ll sit beside me,” I continue. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to. Especially not to Gavriil. And if you even think about running, well, remember what I told you. My men are faster. Stronger. And they will break both of your legs before they let you get away.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, then gives one single, sharp nod.
She wants to test her leash again. Which is why the dress will have a tracking unit sewn into the hem. Another in the shoes if Renat can hide it well enough.
I text him the instructions.
Then, I head to my room, stripping off my shirt, already running through the thousand ways tonight could go to hell.
And the smaller, more dangerous part of me hopes no one in that restaurant looks at her the wrong way.
Because I won’t tolerate it.
And God help the man who makes me prove it.
Twenty minutes later, Alina steps into the living room in a clean, lethal line of black. The dress is modest by Manhattan standards, high neck, bare arms, hem hitting mid-thigh, but it’ll make every man in the restaurant take a second look, something I already regret.
The woman who should look delicate now looks…intimidating. The effect knocks the breath out of me for a beat.
“Shoes?” I ask. Focusing on logistics is safer than admitting the punch in my ribs at the mere sight of her dressed up like she belongs on my arm.
Alina turns and shows me a very narrow heel that will slow her down if she tries to run and sharpen her kick if needed, which is fine as long as it’s not me that she’s kicking.
“Let’s go.” I lead the way out of the apartment and into the hallway where my men are waiting for us. They all smartly look anywhere and everywhere other than Alina’s bare sexy legs.
She doesn’t speak again until we step into the elevator. “Who are we having dinner with?” she asks.
“Who do you think?”
“Gavriil.”
I hate the way his name sounds in her mouth.
“And other men who answer to him,” I add.
“Then why drag me along?” she asks.
“Because he said so.”
When the elevator doors slide shut, Alina glances up at our reflection. Her breath catches.
We look damn good together. I could get used to having her on my arm for dinners. Too easily. But by tomorrow, she’ll be back where she belongs. Away from this life. Because Alina sure as fuck doesn’t belong in our vicious world.
In the garage, my men move the cars into position strategically, like choreography built from blood and routine. I open the door and let Alina climb in first, preparing for a night I already fucking hate.