CHAPTER 5
DIMITRI
"Are you sure you can't come with us to the airport?" Alexei's voice sounds through the phone, laced with that subtle suspicion he's always had when he knows I'm lying.
I run a hand through my hair, pressing the phone against my ear as I look out the office window toward the Strip. Morning in Las Vegas is a mirage of normalcy: tourists, cabs, the sun setting the hotel glass ablaze.
"I have a meeting with the heads of security for the southern perimeter." I lie smoothly. "And then I have to interrogate the Irish guys we grabbed last night."
The silence on the other end of the line tells me Alexei doesn't believe me.
"All right," he finally says. "We'll be back in about two hours."
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes until she's here. In our casino. In our territory.
"Yuri will handle everything. I made sure the perimeter is locked down."
Another pause.
"Dimitri..." Alexei rarely uses that tone, half big brother, half father. "Whatever is going through your head, remember that Sloane is my wife's best friend. My pregnant wife."
I rub my forehead, feeling the start of a throbbing headache.
"Nothing is going on." I growl, and at least that's the truth.
I hang up before he can say anything else. Before he can dissect my behavior any further with that fucking intuition he's perfected since we were kids.
The next two hours are torture. I pace the casino like a caged animal, barking unnecessary orders, checking security systems that are already working perfectly, intimidating employees who haven't done anything wrong.
"Mr. Morozov." The head of the dealers, a seasoned guy who's been with us since the opening, intercepts me near the roulette tables. "About the new rotation system you proposed..."
"Not now." I cut him off, not even slowing down.
His face falls, but he steps out of my way. Like everyone. Always. The fearsome Dimitri Morozov. The family attack dog. The monster everyone avoids.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. A message from Yuri: "Escalade five minutes out. South garage entrance."
They're here. She's coming. She is coming.
My heart races as I head to the private elevator. I press the security level button harder than necessary. The descent feels eternal, even though it's only four floors.
The control room is the brain of the casino. Twenty-four screens displaying every corner of The Tsarina, operated by a team of six people on rotating shifts. When I walk in, three technicians are monitoring the cameras, speaking into their headsets to the guards scattered throughout the building.
"Out," I order, without preamble.
The three of them look at me, confused.
"But sir, we're in the middle of a shift change and..." the supervisor starts.
"I said out."
My voice comes out lower, more controlled. It's the voice I use before smashing someone's face in. They know it. Everyone knows it.
I don't need to repeat it. In thirty seconds the room is empty; it's just me and the hum of electronic equipment.
I sit in the center chair, facing the main panel. My fingers fly over the keyboard, locating the south garage cameras. I adjust the focus, zooming in on the entrance. And I wait.
The black Escalade appears punctual as a Swiss watch, gliding down the access ramp with the silent elegance of a predator. It stops exactly at the designated spot, between two columns. The lighting is perfect for security cameras.
I hold my fucking breath.
The driver gets out first, circling around to open the back door. Alexei emerges like what he is: a king in his domain. He offers his hand and helps Harper out. My sister-in-law, with her belly slightly rounded under a loose dress, smiles as she points at something inside the vehicle.
And then...
Fuck .
It's as if someone punched me directly in the solar plexus. The air leaves my lungs in an involuntary breath.
Sloane Murphy emerges from the Escalade like a vision of fire.
Her red hair shines even under the garage's artificial light, pulled back in a high ponytail that exposes the delicate curve of her neck.
She's wearing her leather jacket, the same one from the photos I've studied with sickly devotion, tight black jeans, and combat boots that add a couple of inches to her height.
But it's not her appearance that hits me the hardest. It's her attitude. The way she moves, like a wild animal in strange territory: cautious, alert, assessing every shadow. Distrustful. Ready for a fight.
One of the bodyguards approaches and tries to take her suitcase.
I almost laugh when I see her reaction. She takes a step back, gripping the handle tighter, and shoots him a look that could freeze hell over.
She shakes her head and says something I can't hear, but I read "I've got it, thanks" perfectly on her lips, which looks more like a "don't fuck with me. "
My cock hardens instantly under my jeans. That defiant attitude, that fierce independence, shouldn't turn me on so much, but it's as if she were designed specifically to awaken my most primitive instincts. The desire to tame her. To protect her. To be the only one she allows to get close.
You're sick, Dimitri. Deeply fucked.
But I can't look away.
I punch in a series of commands and switch to the cameras that will follow their path. I watch her walk next to Harper, who's talking nonstop, gesturing enthusiastically. Alexei follows a few steps behind, his posture protective, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings for potential threats.
I notice how Sloane studies everything discreetly. It's not the normal behavior of a tourist, or even someone visiting a friend. It's the behavior of someone assessing hostile territory.
Smart. Cautious. Perfect for surviving in our world. Even though she doesn't know it exists.
I wonder what she'd do if she found out we're killers.
Sloane is completely out of my reach.
They reach the private elevator. I switch to the interior camera. Sloane enters last, positioning herself in a corner, maintaining her space. When the doors close, I watch her exhale slowly, a nearly imperceptible gesture of relief. Or resignation.
The elevator will take them directly to Alexei's penthouse. The part of the casino I don't have visual access to. My brother is strict about the privacy of his home: only he has access to the cameras.
My fingers pause over the keyboard, tempted to do something I've never done: hack Alexei's system, access the cameras he has installed. I could see her. Keep watching her.
You could officially become a stalker.
I pull my hands back as if the keyboard burned me. I rub my face, feeling the roughness of my stubble, the cold sweat on my forehead. What the fuck is happening to me? This isn't me. I don't obsess. I take what I want, and then I forget it.
But her... she's different.
The screen changes automatically when the elevator reaches its destination. I see them get out, Sloane always last. Alexei enters the code on the security panel, and the penthouse doors open. Harper goes in first, pulling Sloane along enthusiastically. My brother follows them, and the doors close.
She's gone. She's out of my sight.
I lean back in the chair, feeling a strange emptiness in my chest. The tension in my muscles begins to dissipate, leaving a weariness that settles in my bones. As if I'd been holding an impossible weight and could finally let it drop.
For a few minutes, I stare at the empty screen, unable to move. Then, with a growl, I stand up abruptly. The chair falls backward, crashing against the floor with a metallic clatter.
No. I'm not doing this. I'm not going to turn into some fucking obsessed teenager. She's Harper's friend. Untouchable. Forbidden.
And even if she weren't... what could I offer her? Bloodstained hands? A heart that doesn't know how to feel anything but anger and lust? A life surrounded by violence and death?
Sloane Murphy deserves something better than a monster like me.
I storm out of the control room, slamming the door with all my might. The security technicians are waiting in the hallway, restless, not daring to ask when they can go back to their stations.
"All yours." I growl as I pass them.
I need to get out of here. I need air. I need to forget she's a few floors away, under the same roof, breathing the same air.
I head to my car. I'll drive out to the desert. Shoot at empty cans. Punch a bag until my knuckles bleed. Whatever it takes to burn off this energy consuming me from the inside.
Because the only alternative is surrendering to this obsession.
No. I'll keep my distance. I'll stay away from Sloane Murphy, even if it kills me.
The problem is, with every fiber of my being, I know I'll end up breaking that promise.