6. Danika
DANIKA
My shoes hit the ground outside Bogdan's window hard.
I roll with the impact, absorbing the shock through my legs, then I'm up and sprinting, clutching the hard drive in my right hand.
The cool night stings my cheeks, and a few strands of loose hair fall over my face. I push them out of my eyes and keep running.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, drowning out the ache in my side where Victor's shoulder connected when he tackled me. My lungs burn as I push harder, trying my best to dart between the shadows of the quiet residential neighborhood.
I don't look back as I run, not yet. I need more distance just in case.
My hand grips the hard drive tight, the plastic edges digging into my palm. The main reason why I came here in the first place, and for Bogdan, of course.
I round the corner at the end of the block, my pulse hammering in my ears. Only then do I risk a glance over my shoulder.
At first, my eyes play tricks, turning overgrown bushes and long shadows into him, but I blink and they all come into focus as the things they are.
There's no footsteps, no silhouettes, nothing. He's not following me.
Relief washes through me, but it's tangled with something else. Something far more irritating.
I slow to a jog, scanning the area, and when my eyes land on my car, I run a bit faster.
I slip inside, lock the doors, and toss the hard drive onto the passenger seat. My fingers are still shaking as I pull out my phone and enter the address for the drop-off location.
The GPS loads slowly, the blue line tracing a route out of Constan?a to some town called Mangalia, forty-four minutes away.
I start the car and pull out, keeping my speed normal as I move toward my destination, but my heart won't stop racing.
I take a breath through my nose, trying to force my body back into its calm state. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror and bite my bottom lip.
I can still feel the heat of him.
His weight pressing me into the floor. His chest heaving against mine. His face inches away, close enough that I could see the specks in his dark eyes.
Close enough to kiss.
I shake my head, my eyes returning to the road, and grip the steering wheel harder.
It was tactical. A distraction. A standard maneuver to exploit a man's weakness.
I've done it before, and I'll do it again.
Men are predictable that way. Give them the slightest hint of something sexual, and their brains shut down. Their focus splits and their guard drops. They think they are in control, but they're not. I mean, how could they be when all they're thinking about is fucking you?
And Victor was no different. He did exactly as I thought he would. Expected, even.
I lick my lips and stare at the road ahead as I mull that thought over and then reluctantly admit the fact.
He was different, and that's the part that pisses me off.
Because when his face was inches from mine, when his breath brushed my mouth, when his gaze dropped to my lips and lingered there, I wanted him to close the distance.
Not as a tactical move. Not to throw him off balance or gain the upper hand.
I just wanted it, if for nothing but out of curiosity.
The thought rises uninvited, unwelcome, and I shove it down hard. My jaw tightens and my fingers flex on the wheel.
This is not who I am.
I don't get curious about men. I don't wonder what their mouths taste like or how their hands would feel tangled in my hair. I don't lose focus in the middle of a job because some pretty boy posing as a politician-turned-hitman pinned me to the floor.
But Victor isn't just a pretty boy. That's the other part that rattles me. I may have underestimated him, badly.
Even after our first encounter, I assumed he was all polish and no substance. A man who used charm and blackmail instead of his fists. A politician who hid behind bodyguards and some type of diplomatic immunity crap.
But when we fought, he moved like a trained predator, fast and controlled.
I mean, he blocked my strikes, read my movements, and countered how I would. He's all fluid with a natural flow. And when he pinned me, he didn't just overpower me, he dominated me.
I replay the fight in my head, cataloging every moment, every mistake I made.
He's more of everything than I thought. There's no doubt he'd been trained for more than what he shows the world, more than just running government offices.
And that gunshot.
Point-blank with no hesitation or even a slight tremor in his hand. He's done that before, too.
I frown, my gaze fixed on the road ahead.
And when he said, "For my family." Why?
Why would a man like Victor personally execute a low-level thug like Bogdan? Why not send someone else? Why not use his own network of hitmen and cleaners?
What did Bogdan do to the Ionescus that warranted Victor showing up and pulling the trigger himself?
I glance at my passenger seat.
Was he after the hard drive, too? He tackled me when I went for it, but he could have done that just to come after me. He didn't mention anything about it, but then why would he?
The questions gnaw at me because I suddenly have many with no clear answer.
However, my boss has a narrative that's clean and simple. Ivan says the Ionescus are power-hungry expansionists trying to swallow up Volkov territory. They're dangerous, ruthless, and will need to be contained.
But if that's true, why does Victor care about some nobody like Bogdan from Constan?a?
I shake my head, dismissing the doubt.
It doesn't matter.
My loyalty is to Ivan and the Volkov Bratva. He's the one who saved me. Who gave me a job, a life, a purpose after everything fell apart.
I owe him everything, and if he says the Ionescus are the enemy, then they are.
I glance back down at the hard drive sitting on the passenger seat. Whatever's on that drive, it's what Ivan wanted. I got it, and that's all that matters.
Looking at the GPS, it guides me down DN39. The Black Sea is to my left, but it's too dark to see it. The road is quiet at this hour, and only a few cars have passed me.
I drive, staring at the road ahead, trying my best to stop my thoughts from whirling in my head.
Eventually, I arrive in the town of Mangalia, and I follow the blue line more closely now, making every turn without missing.
It eventually leads me to a parking garage down a side street. The entrance is unmarked, but I find the ramp and turn into the darkness.
I roll the car slowly, my headlights the only source of light cutting through the black. The garage is empty except for a single dark sedan parked in the far corner.
I pull up beside it and kill the engine.
For a moment, I sit in silence, my hand resting on the handle of my gun.
Then I see movement. The door opens, but the overhead light remains off.
A man steps out. He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark coat and a stern expression. I recognize him from the last time I was in Bucharest.
He's one of Ivan's handlers. I'm used to it. He's old school like that. Always a chain of people to accomplish a task.
I roll down my window halfway while still keeping my other hand on my pistol.
He approaches slowly and stops a few feet from my car, his gaze cold and assessing.
"Loose end tied up?" His voice is deep.
"He's dead," I say.
I don't mention Victor or the fight. I also don't mention the fact that I didn't pull the trigger.
The handler nods. "And the drive?"
I reach over, grab the hard drive, and hand it through the window. His fingers close around it, and he tucks it inside his coat without a second glance.
"Ivan will be pleased." He steps back, adjusting his collar. "Keep your phone close. He'll contact you soon with your next assignment."
"Understood."
The man turns and walks back to the sedan. He climbs inside, and a moment later, the car pulls out of the garage, taillights disappearing into the darkness.
I'm alone now, and I just sit there.
The silence presses in, and the faint drip of water echoes somewhere in the depths of the garage. The air smells like wet concrete and stale salty air from the Black Sea.
I pull out my phone and open the encrypted messaging app. My fingers move quickly, typing out the confirmation message I always send directly to Ivan after a job to tell him it's done. I guess it's my own old-school way of doing things.
Готово
I hit send and watch the screen glow as the message transmits. The little checkmark appears, confirming delivery.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the lock button.
But my mind isn't on the job anymore.
It's back in that dark office.
The shattered lamp and scattered papers. Victor pinning me to the floor, his breath hot against my face, his gaze locked on mine like he could see straight through me.
I stop that thought, lock the phone, and toss it onto the passenger seat, then start the engine.
I need to leave. Need to put distance between me and this job. Between me and Victor Ionescu.
I pull out of the parking garage, and I tell myself I've escaped him. That our paths won't cross again unless his name is given to me on another assignment.
But as I merge onto an empty street, my pulse spikes.
Not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
The thrill of knowing that maybe, just maybe, the game between us is far from over.