CHAPTER 6
SLOANE
Two days in the Morozov penthouse, and my mission is getting more complicated by the minute.
The problem isn't the lack of access—Harper has shown me practically every corner of the apartment—but what I'm seeing. Because the more I watch Harper and Alexei together, the less they fit the pattern of kidnapper and victim the FBI described to me.
It's in the little details where I notice it most: the way Harper smiles when Alexei walks into a room; how he subconsciously places his hand on the small of her back when they walk together; the looks they exchange when they think no one is paying attention.
"Do you want more toast?" Harper interrupts my thoughts, holding a plate out to me. We're having breakfast on the terrace, the morning sun bathing Las Vegas in a golden glow.
"No, thanks," I reply, taking a sip of my coffee. "If I keep eating like this during my stay, I'll have to roll to campus tomorrow."
Harper laughs, that familiar sound transporting me back to our years in Brooklyn. She seems happy. Genuinely happy.
"How did you sleep?" she asks, spreading jam on her toast. "Is the room comfortable?"
"Like I'm in a five-star hotel," I admit. "That mattress probably costs more than our entire apartment in New York."
The glass doors slide open, and Alexei emerges onto the terrace, impeccably dressed in a dark suit despite it being Sunday.
"Good morning," he greets, his voice deep and formal as always.
"Good morning," I reply, watching him as he leans down to kiss Harper.
It's a brief kiss but charged with intimacy. His hand automatically finds Harper's rounded belly, a protective gesture I've noticed he repeats constantly. That's not the attitude of a man holding someone against their will.
"Did you sleep well?" Alexei asks, taking a seat next to Harper.
"Perfectly, thanks," I say, adding before I can stop myself, "This place makes our apartment in Brooklyn look like a shoebox."
A fleeting smile crosses his face, softening his severe features for a moment.
"I'm glad you're comfortable."
"Your classes start tomorrow, right?" Harper chimes in. "Are you nervous?"
"A little," I admit, grateful for the change of subject. "Joining once classes have already started is always tricky."
"I'm sure you'll do great," Harper says. "You've always been the smart one."
"Says the designer who was offered a position at three different studios before graduating," I shoot back, provoking another laugh from her.
"Speaking of which," Harper lights up, "I have to show you my studio. Alexei gave me an incredible space right here."
I look at Alexei, whose expression reflects a pride that doesn't fit the image of the manipulative mobster painted for me.
"A studio here?" I ask.
"On the same floor as the marketing department," Harper explains. "It's... well, you'll see. It's perfect."
After breakfast, Alexei says his goodbyes to attend to "casino business," and Harper takes me to her creative sanctuary.
The space leaves me speechless. It takes up a huge room, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the mountains.
It's equipped with state-of-the-art design technology: professional graphic tablets, color-calibrated screens, high-definition printers.
"Harper, this is..." I'm breathless as I walk through the space. "Incredible."
"I know." She smiles, running her hand along one of the worktables. "Alexei set it up as a surprise, based on pictures of what I wanted."
I examine some of the digital sketches on the screens. They're unmistakably Harper's style, but there's a new maturity to them.
"Do you only work for the casino?" I ask, seeing The Tsarina logo on various designs.
"Mainly." She nods. "I'm redesigning their entire visual identity. But I still keep a few freelance clients too."
We spend hours there, with Harper showing me projects and explaining her future plans. She's the same passionate Harper as always, but with a newfound serenity she didn't have before.
By mid-afternoon, after a light lunch, I feel the familiar restlessness that invades me when I've gone too long without physical activity.
"Do you have a gym in this palace?" I ask, stretching my arms. "I need to move or I'm going to go crazy."
Harper smiles knowingly.
"I knew you'd ask soon. You haven't changed a bit." She gently caresses her belly. "I should get some exercise too. The doctor says it's good for the pregnancy."
"So there is a gym?"
"Of course. Several floors down, in the private area. It's incredible, it has equipment that would make Coach Morrison cry."
I remember my old instructor in Brooklyn, ex-military, who considered any machine from after 1990 "for the weak."
We get changed in the penthouse. As we descend in the private elevator, I feel the familiar pre-workout anticipation, that tingle that always helps me clear my head.
And God knows I need clarity right now.
The elevator opens directly into an elegant hallway with dark wood walls. Harper guides me toward double doors at the end of the hallway.
"It's an exclusive zone for VIP residents and executives," she explains. "Usually it's pretty empty at this time."
When we open the doors, the first thing that hits me is the sound. Male grunts. Sharp thuds. Orders shouted in what sounds like Russian.
The gym is enormous, with state-of-the-art equipment distributed throughout the room. But what dominates the space is a professional boxing ring in the center, surrounded by about ten men watching what's happening inside.
And then I see him.
Dimitri.
The one missing in action since I arrived.
Not that I care in the slightest about not having seen him.
My gaze locks on him, and I feel like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
He's in the ring, shirtless. His body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat that makes his tattoos glisten under the lights.
His muscles—and there are plenty of them—tense and flex as he moves with surprising agility for someone his size.
His opponent is taller, but Dimitri handles him like a beginner.
It's not his physique that leaves me breathless, although God knows it's impressive.
It's the intensity on his face. The absolute concentration.
There's no uncontrolled rage in his expression, but something more disciplined, more terrifying.
It's the look of someone who has turned violence into a precise art.
He dodges a punch with a fluidity that defies his bulk and counters with a combination that forces his opponent back against the ropes. There is cruelty in his movements, calculated efficiency. Every strike has a purpose.
Damn it. I feel a treacherous heat spreading through my belly. Seriously, Sloane? Does watching a criminal beat someone up turn you on?
Apparently, yes.
One of the men surrounding the ring sees us and freezes. Like a domino effect, the rest turn their heads toward us. Silence falls over the room.
Dimitri's opponent, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, throws a punch that connects with his jaw. The sound of the impact echoes in the silence.
Dimitri barely blinks. Slowly, he turns his head toward the entrance. Toward us. Toward me.
Our eyes meet across the room. Recognition reflects in his gaze, followed by something darker. Something that makes my skin prickle as if I'd brushed against a live wire.
In a fluid movement, Dimitri grabs his opponent's arm as he comes in with another hit, immobilizes him with a lock, and says something in Russian. The man nods, taking a step back.
"Training is over for today," he announces, his voice rumbling in the silence.
The men begin to disperse with an efficiency that confirms this wasn't a casual session between friends. It was something more organized. More professional.
Dimitri hops out of the ring with surprising agility. He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his face and chest. Although he doesn't look directly at us, I feel like he's painfully aware of our presence.
"Hi, Dimitri," Harper greets, breaking the tension.
He nods briefly.
"Harper." His gaze slides to me, barely a second, but enough for me to feel a shiver run down my spine. "Murphy."
He only says my last name, pronounced like it's something unpleasant.
"Morozov," I reply with the same cold tone, refusing to show any reaction. "I see you're just as charming as ever."
A muscle tightens in his jaw. Without saying another word, he grabs a black t-shirt hanging from the ring ropes and pulls it on in one go. The fabric stretches over his torso, and I hate myself for following the movement with my eyes.
"The gym is all yours," he says, heading for the exit. "The men have orders not to bother you."
And just like that, he leaves. Without looking back. As if he couldn't get away from us fast enough. From me.
Harper lets out a low whistle when the door closes behind him.
"Well, that was... intense."
"He's an idiot," I murmur, feigning indifference.
"He's a... complicated man," Harper says with a thoughtful expression.
I distract myself by setting up a treadmill. I'm not interested in Dimitri Morozov in the slightest.
He's not my problem.
The only thing I have to do is ignore this treacherous attraction I feel toward a man who, if he discovered who I really am, would probably kill me without hesitation.
Brilliant, Sloane. Just brilliant.