CHAPTER 20
DIMITRI
I know one thousand six hundred and forty-seven different ways to kill a man with my bare hands. I’ve practiced at least two hundred of them. However, as I watch my brother smiling with that smug look, none seem painful enough for what he deserves.
"They need an escort I trust," Alexei repeats, not bothering to hide his amusement at my obvious discomfort. "And I have meetings all day."
We’re in his office, the inner sanctum from where he controls our empire. Through the panoramic windows, Las Vegas stretches out like a game board under the morning sun. Alexei, perfectly dressed in a steel-gray suit, watches me from behind his mahogany desk.
"Can’t they shop at the Casino stores? And can’t you assign Harper a security team?" I ask, controlling my tone. "Why do I have to be the one to go shopping with them?"
"Because Harper trusts you," he replies, and then adds with a meaningful look. "And because you and Sloane seem... comfortable together."
My jaw tightens. Of course Alexei noticed. Shit. My brother has always had a knack for detecting my weaknesses. And Sloane Murphy has become my most obvious weakness, no matter how much I try to deny it.
"You don’t know what you’re saying," I reply, gritting my teeth. "And I’d rather supervise the new shipment arriving this afternoon."
"Viktor can handle the shipment," Alexei counters, his tone making it clear it’s not a suggestion. "Harper is five months pregnant. She wants to buy baby things in the city and Sloane offered to go with her. And you are going to make sure they’re both safe."
I sigh, admitting defeat. When Alexei gets set on something, the discussion is over. He’s exactly like me.
"For how long?" I ask, resigned.
"As long as they need," he replies, returning to the documents on his desk. "They’re women shopping, Dimitri. It could be hours."
Fuck .
"And one more thing," he adds, without looking up from his papers. "Try not to kill anyone."
"I’m not promising anything," I murmur as I head for the door.
Alexei’s laughter follows me into the hallway.
The Fashion Show Mall, right on the Las Vegas Strip, is exactly my idea of hell: too many people, too many lights, too much noise. And now, on top of that, too much Sloane Murphy.
She walks ahead of me alongside Harper, chatting enthusiastically about baby clothing brands I neither know nor care about. She's wearing tight jeans that hug her curves in an almost obscene way and a simple black t-shirt that, somehow, seems more provocative than any evening gown.
I've been avoiding her for three days, ever since the night of the poker game. Since I saw something in her eyes that terrified me: understanding. As if she'd seen right through my facade, down to the man beneath. The man I might have been in another life, if I weren't who I am.
It's dangerous. She is dangerous. And now I'm trapped in a mall with her for hours.
"Oh, look at this store!" Harper exclaims, pointing to a shop selling baby goods. "They have everything for the nursery."
Sloane smiles, nodding enthusiastically, and both of them head toward the store. I follow them at a safe distance, my eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. Two of my men are with us, far enough back to give them the illusion of privacy, but close enough to intervene if necessary.
While the women examine cribs, musical mobiles, and small furniture, I stay near the entrance, watching.
Harper seems genuinely happy, her face lighting up as she holds tiny articles of clothing.
Pregnancy looks good on her; there's a glow about her that makes me understand why my brother is so obsessed.
Beside her, Sloane shows an enthusiasm I didn't expect. I see her feel the softness of a blanket, help Harper choose between two mobiles, laugh at a onesie with a funny message. There's a naturalness to her I hadn't seen before.
Our gazes meet occasionally. Each time, she holds eye contact a second longer than necessary, with a silent challenge that irritates and arouses me in equal measure.
After what seems like an eternity, they walk out of the store with several bags that my men hurry to carry. Harper checks her watch.
"We should rest a bit," she suggests, stroking her belly. "The baby is practicing kickboxing."
"There's a coffee shop on the next level," Sloane says, pointing to the escalators.
I nod in silence, and we head that way. As we walk, I notice Sloane lingering slightly behind until she's by my side.
"Having fun, Morozov?" she asks with that provocative smile that sets my nerves on edge.
"Immensely," I reply dryly. "There's nothing I like more than buying baby clothes."
She lets out a soft laugh, and the sound runs down my spine like static electricity.
"Could be worse," she says, leaning slightly toward me. "We could be shopping for lingerie."
I glance at her sideways, trying to determine if she's joking or if it's a veiled threat. The amusement in her eyes suggests both.
"Don't push your luck, Murphy."
Her smile widens, and a shiver of premonition runs through my body. This woman is going to be my undoing.
She already is.
SLOANE
I enjoy watching Dimitri Morozov, the fearsome Russian mobster, completely out of his element a little too much. He's been following us through the mall for three hours with the expression of a man on death row, answering in monosyllables when Harper asks his opinion on some item.
It's almost adorable. If you can consider a six-foot-three man of tense muscle, menacing tattoos, and a perpetually furrowed brow adorable.
After a brief break at the café, where Harper devoured a piece of cake that would make any nutritionist cry, we head toward the last stores on our list. We walk calmly, Harper in the center, Dimitri and I flanking her like oddly mismatched bodyguards.
That's when I see it: a Victoria's Secret store, its window display gleaming with lace, silk, and promises of seduction.
An evil idea crosses my mind.
"Harper," I say, pointing at the store. "Didn't you mention you needed new bras to fit your...?" I make a vague gesture toward her chest, visibly more generous due to the pregnancy.
Harper nods, completely oblivious to my true intention.
"Right! The ones I have barely fit anymore. Do you mind if we go in for a sec?"
I turn my head toward Dimitri just in time to see his expression transform from boredom to something resembling panic. His eyes narrow, catching my game perfectly.
"Of course," I reply, deliberately ignoring his murderous glare. "I need a few things, too."
Harper heads cheerfully toward the store. Dimitri grabs my elbow before I can follow her, his fingers like an iron band around my arm.
"What do you think you're doing?" he whispers, his voice a low growl.
I shake off his grip with a fluid movement, enjoying the spark of surprise in his eyes.
"Shopping, Morozov," I reply with feigned innocence. "Isn't that what we're here for?"
Without waiting for his answer, I follow Harper inside, conscious of the withering glare boring into my back.
The interior is a sanctuary of femininity in pink and black. Mannequins in skimpy lingerie, racks packed with lace panties, and the brand's characteristic sweet scent. Harper heads straight for the maternity section, leaving me free for my little revenge.
I walk deliberately toward the most provocative sets, feeling Dimitri's presence like a dark shadow several yards away. He's opted to stay near the entrance, visibly uncomfortable, but his eyes don't leave me for a second.
Perfect.
I pick up a black lace bra, holding it against my body while I pretend to evaluate the size. Then, a blood-red set with a matching garter belt. Each garment more scandalous than the last. With every choice, I look directly at Dimitri, as if silently asking his opinion.
His jaw is so tight I'm afraid he'll break his teeth. His fists, clenched at his sides, are turning white at the knuckles. The vein in his neck is pulsing visibly even from this distance.
Harper, bless her, is so focused on her own shopping she doesn't notice any of the silent duel we're waging.
When I get to a sheer lace bodysuit that would barely cover the essentials, I decide to up the ante. I walk over to him, the garment dangling provocatively from my index finger.
"What do you think?" I ask, my voice innocent but my eyes anything but. "Too bold?"
His eyes, usually gray, are almost black now. I can almost see the control crumbling behind them.
"Get. Out. Of. Here," he articulates, each word like a shard of ice.
"Why?" I ask, feigning confusion. "I'm just asking for your opinion. Since you must be an expert on women."
Something savage flashes in his gaze.
"Murphy, if you keep this up..."
"What?" I challenge him. "Are you going to drag me out? That would draw quite a bit of attention, don't you think?"
For an instant, he seems to be considering exactly that. Then, his expression recomposes into a cold mask.
"Do whatever you want," he says, turning as if to leave.
"I'll tell Yuri to help me," I snap.
The idea of another man watching me while I shop for lingerie bothers me in a way I didn't expect.
"Does it bother you? The idea of someone else seeing me pick out my underwear?" I ask, following him a few steps.
He stops so abruptly I almost crash into his back. He turns slowly, and the intensity of his gaze almost makes me recoil.
"No one is going to see you choose your fucking underwear," he says, his voice so low I barely hear it. "Not Yuri, not anyone."
I should feel intimidated. I should back down. But there's something about his possessiveness that ignites a perverse flame inside me.
"And who are you to decide who sees me and who doesn't?" I retort, taking another step closer. "Whoever I want to see it, will see it."
It's like watching an avalanche in slow motion. The exact moment the last barrier of his control breaks. His eyes go completely dark, and in a fluid movement I barely register, his hand closes around my wrist.