Chapter 30
ANDREY
"Absolutely not." The words come out harder than I intend, but I don't soften them. "There's no fucking way you're putting yourself in that kind of danger."
Mariya's green eyes flash with anger, and she takes a step toward my desk. "It's the best plan we have. You know it is."
"I don't care." I stand, needing to move, needing to do something with the rage and fear coursing through me. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way!" Her voice rises, and I can see the frustration building in her. "The Gusevs want me. They put up a bounty. So let's use that. Let's draw them out where we can control the situation instead of waiting for them to attack again."
"No." I move around the desk, closing the distance between us. "I won't use you as bait. I won't put you in a position where you could get hurt or killed."
"I'm already in that position!" She throws her hands up. "Or did you forget about the three men who tried to kidnap me yesterday? The bomb at the library? The million-dollar bounty on my head?"
Each word is like a knife to my gut because she's right. She's already in danger. Has been since the moment I found her at that library. But the thought of deliberately putting her in harm's way, of using her as bait to draw out the Gusevs, makes my stomach turn.
"We'll find another way," I say again, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.
She moves closer, her eyes searching mine. "We can set it up carefully. Have your men positioned everywhere. Make sure I'm protected. But we need to end this, Andrey. Before someone else dies. Before they actually succeed in taking me."
I want to argue, want to tell her she's wrong, that there's a better plan. But the truth is, I can't think of one. Her idea is solid. Dangerous as hell, but solid. If we control the location and have enough men in position, we could take out the Gusevs and end this threat once and for all.
But the thought of her in the middle of it, of her being the target, makes my chest tight with fear I haven't felt in years.
"I need to think about it," I say.
She opens her mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand. "That's all you're getting right now. Let me think."
Her jaw tightens, but she nods. "Fine. But we're not done discussing this."
"I know."
We head down to breakfast in tense silence. The dining room is already set, the table laden with food that I have no appetite for. Mariya sits across from me, and I can feel her eyes on me as I pour coffee.
"It's a good plan," she says, picking up where we left off.
"It's a dangerous plan."
"Is there a safe plan?" she asks mockingly, then takes a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. "But this one gives us control. We choose the location, the timing, everything. That's better than waiting for them to hit us again."
I don't respond, just stare at my coffee like it might have answers.
The door opens, and Matvey walks in. He moves to the sideboard and fills a plate, then sits at the end of the table. His dark eyes flick between Mariya and me, and I know he can feel the tension.
"She wants to be bait," I tell him. "To draw out the Gusevs."
Matvey chews slowly, his expression thoughtful. Then he swallows and looks at Mariya. "Good idea."
I nearly choke on my coffee. Matvey rarely speaks, and when he does, it's usually one or two words. For him to offer an opinion, especially one that goes against what I want, is significant.
"You think it's a good idea?" I demand.
He nods once. "Best we have."
Mariya's face lights up with vindication. "See? Even Matvey agrees."
I glare at my sovietnik, but he just shrugs and goes back to eating. Traitor.
"Fine," I say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "We'll do it. But we do it my way."
Mariya's smile is brilliant, and despite my fear, I feel something warm settle in my chest. She's happy. Relieved. And fuck if that doesn't make me want to give her anything she asks for.
"Thank you," she says softly.
I grunt in response and finish my coffee. My mind is already working through logistics and how to keep her as safe as possible while still making the trap believable. It's going to take careful planning. Precise execution. And a whole lot of fucking luck.
After breakfast, I lead Mariya down to the basement. Not to the interrogation room, but to another section she hasn't seen yet. The shooting range.
It's a long room with concrete walls and soundproofing. Targets are set up at various distances, and a gun cabinet lines one wall. I unlock it and pull out a Glock 19, checking the magazine before handing it to her.
"If you're going to be bait, you need to know how to protect yourself," I say. "Have you ever fired a gun?"
She takes the weapon, her fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising confidence. "My father taught me."
Of course he did. Yegor Pushkin wouldn't send his daughter into the world without making sure she could defend herself. But knowing how to hold a gun and actually being able to hit a target are two different things.
"Show me," I say, gesturing to the range.
She moves to the firing line, her stance perfect, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and arms extended. She sights down the barrel, her breathing steady, and then she fires.
The shot echoes through the room, and I watch as the target at the far end jerks. Dead center. Right in the chest.
She fires again. And again. Five shots, five perfect hits. All center mass.
I stare at her, my mouth slightly open. "Fuck."
She lowers the gun and turns to me with a smirk. "My father was very thorough."
"I can see that." I move closer, taking the gun from her and setting it on the counter. "You're better than half my men."
"I had a good teacher." Her expression softens. "He wanted to make sure I could take care of myself. That I'd never have to rely on anyone else for protection."
The irony isn't lost on me. Yegor trained his daughter to be independent and strong, and now she's married to a Bratva boss who wants nothing more than to keep her locked away where she's safe.
"Come on," I say, taking her hand. "There's something else I want to show you."
The gym is on the main floor, a large room with weights, machines, and a matted area for sparring. I've been looking forward to this since the moment she stabbed me in that alley. I want to see what she can really do. I want to test her skills against mine.
"We're going to spar," I tell her, moving to the center of the mat.
Her eyes light up, and she grins. Actually grins, like I've just offered her a present. "Really?"
"Really." I pull off my shirt, tossing it aside. "Show me what you've got."
She strips off her sweater, leaving her in just a sports bra and leggings that hug her ass so perfectly, I have to force myself to focus. This is about fighting. About seeing her skills. Not about how fucking incredible her body looks.
We circle each other, both of us assessing, looking for weaknesses. She moves with the grace of someone who's trained extensively, her body balanced and ready.
She strikes first, a quick jab aimed at my face. I block it easily, but she's already moving, her leg sweeping toward my knee. I jump back, avoiding the kick, and counter with a punch to her ribs.
She blocks it and spins, her elbow coming toward my head. I duck and grab her waist, using her momentum to throw her off balance. She goes down but rolls immediately, coming back to her feet with that same grin on her face.
"Not bad," she says.
"You're better than I thought." I move in again, testing her defenses. She's fast, her blocks precise, her counters well-timed. But I'm bigger, stronger, and I've been doing this a lot longer.
We trade blows, neither of us holding back. She lands a solid kick to my thigh that'll leave a bruise, and I catch her with a punch to her shoulder that makes her grunt. The fight is exhilarating, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, mixing with something else. Something hotter.
I finally get her pinned, my body covering hers on the mat, my hands holding her wrists above her head. We're both breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin, and I can feel every inch of her beneath me.
"I win," I say, my voice rough.
"This time," she pants, but there's heat in her green eyes. Heat that has nothing to do with the fight.
I lower my head and capture her mouth with mine. She responds immediately, her body arching against me, her legs wrapping around my waist. The kiss is hungry, desperate, and I can taste the salt of her sweat mixed with her unique flavor.
My hand slides down her body, finding the waistband of her leggings. I pull them down along with her panties, and she lifts her hips to help. Her sports bra follows, and then she's naked beneath me, flushed and beautiful.
I strip off my own pants, my cock already hard and aching. I position myself at her entrance and thrust inside in one smooth motion. She moans, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Move," she demands, wiggling her hips. With a chuckle at her impatience, I do.
I set a hard, fast rhythm, my hips slamming against hers. The mat beneath us provides just enough cushion, and the sound of our bodies coming together fills the gym. She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs tight around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," I growl against her neck.
She doesn't respond with words, just moans and gasps that drive me crazy. I reach between us, finding her clit and circling it with my thumb. Her body tenses, her inner walls clenching around me, and then she's coming, her back arching off the mat as she screams my name.
The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I follow her into oblivion, burying myself deep as I come inside her.
We lie there for a long moment, both of us trying to catch our breath. My body covers hers, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest. I should move, should let her up, but I can't seem to make myself do it.
Because lying here with her, feeling her soft and warm beneath me, I realize something that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
She's not just my wife. She's not just a means to an end or a way to find Yegor Pushkin and the stolen heirlooms.
She's becoming everything.
And that scares the shit out of me.