Chapter 7
ARTUR
The wire has been cut cleanly between two steel ties, its severed section held beneath Boris’s portable light as I crouch beside the northwest fence.
Damp soil darkens the knees of my lounge pants while pine needles beyond the perimeter carry shallow impressions from one pair of boots, though the marks end at the service road.
Whoever came here never crossed inside.
“The dead camera received a local signal for forty-one seconds,” Boris says. “Time to cut the wire and leave the tool. The outer team responded in fifty-eight seconds from the first alarm.”
“They wanted the response time.”
“They also confirmed we moved here.” Boris places the insulated cutters inside an evidence bag. “Nothing on the handles. The make is available in every hardware store.”
White security lights wash the fence to flatten every shadow, illuminating a section visible from the bedroom camera rather than the darker eastern boundary. The intruder chose discovery.
Katie stands behind the reinforced kitchen window in last night’s long T-shirt, its hem touching the tops of her thighs while she watches the guards search the tree line.
Red scratches burn across my back whenever I move, yet my cock reacts to the sight of her despite the cold air or damaged perimeter. Boris stands nearby and notices every failure in my concentration.
Less than an hour ago, those bare legs locked around my hips as Katie told me exactly where she wanted my hands.
The memory returns with merciless detail, from the damp heat between her thighs to the helpless sounds she tried to swallow.
Desire should have been exhausted; instead, it has sharpened around the knowledge that she chose every part of the night, including the reckless decision neither of us can undo.
The cut wire should occupy me completely, yet someone stood beyond this fence as Katie lay naked under me, within reach of the camera before testing how quickly my men would answer.
Sweat turns cold at the base of my spine as the smell of sex lingers on my skin beneath the pine air, evidence of an intimacy the watcher nearly invaded.
Boris keeps his attention on the fence. “Should I arrange separate bedrooms at the next property?”
“Should I arrange a less observant second?”
“That would reduce operational efficiency.”
He delivers the answer without looking at me, then points toward a small device near the cut. Its transmitter can interrupt one camera without reaching the house alarm, suggesting reconnaissance rather than an immediate assault.
The safe-house addresses hide behind construction subsidiaries with no public connection to my name. Boris or I can open the full relocation index, while Ivan can request sections when he plans emergency routes, approves repairs, or assigns the outer teams.
Every reason for his access is legitimate.
“Could Ivan narrow this property from last night’s convoy?” I ask.
Boris rises. “He knew we required a one-bedroom location outside the city with a hardened bedroom. That removes most of the list. He also arranged the courthouse route, so he knew which direction the convoy took before it split.”
My uncle designed half the standards that make the list narrow. I authorized his access, so it tells me nothing about the cut wire.
“Check every vehicle that left the courthouse,” I say. “Find out whether anyone followed the decoy until they identified it. Keep Ivan’s access inside the ordinary review.”
Boris seals the bag. “You don’t want him alerted.”
“I don’t want anyone alerted.”
Inside, Katie has disappeared from the window.
I find her in the bedroom holding my clean white shirt over last night’s T-shirt. Her jeans lie folded on the chair beside her duffel, but one glance returns her attention to my shirt.
I call George and keep my eyes on Katie.
“The club is still closed,” George says after I ask for the private-room records. “The repair crew hasn’t replaced the mirror because Boris ordered the frame preserved. I have the draw bag, every stone is accounted for, and the shift sheets from that night.”
Katie pulls the T-shirt over her head to expose a red mark from my mouth on the upper curve of her breast. She drapes my white shirt over one shoulder, looking directly at me until I lose track of George’s next sentence.
“I’ll be there after breakfast,” I tell George.
“You’ll be there,” Katie says. “So will I.”
I cover the phone. “You’ll stay at the mansion until the perimeter review is finished.”
She drops my shirt onto the bed.
My next breath stops halfway into my lungs at the sight of nipples still swollen from my mouth, with dried moisture shining faintly along one inner thigh.
“You need the room reconstructed from where I stood,” she says. “George didn’t see the mirrors from your chair. Boris entered after the shots. I’m the only person who watched the door before the first man moved.”
George says my name through the phone.
I return it to my ear. “What?”
“I asked whether Katie should attend.”
She bends to retrieve the shirt, giving me an unobstructed view of her ass.
“Apparently the decision has been made,” I answer.
Katie buttons the shirt from her breasts to mid-thigh, leaving the collar open before rolling the sleeves until her hands appear. Her panties are somewhere in the room, but she makes no attempt to find them.
I disconnect. “You require underwear.”
“Your semen is still leaking out of me. Underwear sounds abrasive.”
The crude fact makes my cock hard inside the lounge pants.
Katie closes the distance between us. “Try ordering me to stay behind now.”
“Put on my coat.”
She smiles and reaches for it.
The mansion kitchen becomes contested territory before nine, though sunlight pours through its tall windows with enough elegance to make the dispute look civilized.
White stone counters gleam under hanging copper pans, coffee waits in silver pots, and warm bread scents a room large enough for an entire staff to pretend they aren’t listening.
Niko stands in the doorway with both hands behind his back.
He joined the outer security team six months ago, still believing every instruction has one correct interpretation; this morning someone told him breakfast would be served in the small dining room, information he has converted into a blockade.
Katie faces him in my white shirt with my black overcoat hanging open. “I’m asking for coffee, not the launch codes.”
“I can have coffee brought to you, Mrs. Dymova. The kitchen is a staff work area.” Niko speaks with the grave patience of a man defusing a bomb.
“I survived two shootings and your boss. I can handle toast.”
The housekeeper at the central counter puts one hand over her mouth, and the two kitchen assistants look anywhere but at us.
Niko looks toward me for help.
“You chose the position,” I tell him. “Defend it.”
Katie folds her arms under her breasts, pulling the shirt higher on her thighs. “Stop me, and you’ll have to explain why you touched Artur’s mostly naked wife.”
Niko steps aside.
The housekeeper laughs first, followed by one kitchen assistant before the other joins in. Even Boris lowers his head to hide his mouth as Katie walks through the surrendered doorway.
She ignores the coffee waiting in silver pots to ask the housekeeper how the commercial machine works, listens to the answer, then makes a cup herself.
Soon she knows where the bread is stored; Niko burns one side of her toast despite the machine’s six settings, prompting Katie to study his gun before silently returning the blackened slice.
The housekeeper gives up pretending not to laugh.
People who have served me for years speak quietly when I enter a room, correcting their posture while waiting for instructions from the man who signs their checks. Katie arrived wearing my shirt with no underwear, then made everyone forget what they were supposed to be doing.
The kitchen feels occupied rather than staffed; I prefer the noise to their usual caution.
The courthouse stylist enters carrying garment bags, and her gaze moves from Katie’s face to my shirt, then pauses at the bare leg visible when Katie reaches for toast.
“I brought trousers and underwear,” the stylist says. “That shirt isn’t long enough when you move.”
Katie looks at me over her coffee. “It was long enough until your employer became involved.”
“He appears pleased with the result.” The stylist says it plainly before leading Katie upstairs.
Boris checks his phone. “I’ll move the morning meetings to noon.”
“Move them to tomorrow.”
He changes the schedule without comment.
When Katie returns, black trousers follow her hips closely beneath a cream sweater soft enough to look expensive. The staff looks up as she crosses the entry hall, prompting Niko to open the front door ahead of her.
“You learn quickly,” she tells him.
“Hopefully, that will apply to the toaster too.”
Katie laughs and pats his arm on the way outside.
Niko watches her enter the armored SUV before closing the door with the solemnity of a guard accepted into a joke. After one cup of coffee, my household has begun adjusting around her.
Her effect on them happened too fast to ignore. I follow her outside, wanting to see what she does next.
Velvet Fortune smells of glass dust beneath industrial cleaner. The main floor remains dark, but work lights burn along the upper corridor toward plastic covering the damaged private-room doorway. Beyond it, the broken center mirror still hangs above scattered evidence markers.
George waits at the table with a printed schedule and the sealed velvet bag. A shallow tray holds the fake gems, each photographed after every dancer returned hers. Nobody has touched the empty bag since Boris sealed it.
Katie removes her coat and walks around the damaged chair. One front leg has left a curved scrape through the carpet pile.
“This began closer to the center mirror,” she says. “I pulled the chair toward me before I sat on him.”