20. Danika
DANIKA
Outside, I see the first hint of light. Victor's asleep now, one arm draped possessively across my waist, heavy and warm.
I stare at the ceiling, my jaw clenched tight. I swear to God, I will never understand how men can simply fall asleep.
It's infuriating, actually.
Drop a conversational grenade about human trafficking, family vendettas, and God knows what else, then simply roll over and drift off like they just discussed their favorite foods. Meanwhile, my brain won't shut off. It spins and spins, churning through every word Victor said.
I haven't slept in almost twenty-four hours. I should be exhausted, sleeping even. Instead, I'm wide awake, staring at the ornate crown molding while my mind races at a hundred miles an hour, not letting any tiredness get to me.
And everything is starting to get to me. Even naked, this room feels too hot, and the once-soft sheets now scratch against my skin.
Was Victor serious about what he said? I mean, I know he is serious, but...
Could Ivan really be trafficking women?
The question makes my stomach twist. No. Absolutely not. Ivan wouldn't cross that line. He saved me, gave me purpose, trained me, made me into something. He respects lives much more than that. He wouldn't buy and sell them, right?
But then why did Victor sound so certain? Why did that guy in Constan?a have those photos? Why did he kill him, claiming it was "for my family"?
I replay everything over and over. Someone was taken. Someone he cares about. Not a sister. He only has brothers. A cousin? A friend? The pieces don't fit together, and it's frustrating.
And what did he mean about his father working with the Volkovs? Nicolae Ionescu is dead now, but Victor said the trafficking deal was started by his father. If that's true, then why would Ivan be confused about the Ionescus being aggressive? And why would they kill Ivan's nephew?
None of it makes sense.
Ugh, I have about a million questions now, and that's not including the slew of self-reflective questions I have about sleeping with the so-called enemy.
Victor's got to have them too, I suspect.
I shift slightly, turning my head to look at him. His dark hair falls across his forehead. His lips are parted slightly, his expression peaceful. Even in sleep, he looks beautiful.
I need to get out of here. I need to complete the mission, and once that's done, I'll feel better about things.
Because being in this bed with him is dangerous. Not because of Dimitri's men or the stolen intel, but because every second I spend pressed against Victor's body, breathing him in, feeling the warmth of his skin, is another second calling my loyalty into question.
And I cannot allow that.
Ivan saved my life. He gave me everything. I owe him more than I could ever repay.
So why am I lying here, curled in the arms of his enemy, wishing the morning would never come?
I swallow hard, my throat tight. No. I need to focus. Complete the mission first. Process all this later. That's how I've always operated, compartmentalizing to survive.
I exhale slowly, preparing myself. Getting out of this bed without waking Victor is going to require patience.
I start with my hips, inching them sideways slowly. Victor's arm tightens reflexively around my waist, and I freeze, holding my breath.
I wait ten seconds before moving again. This time, I lift his forearm gently, sliding out from beneath his arm. My muscles stay tight from the tension of moving so slowly, but I don't dare rush this. Victor is trained, and one wrong move will wake him up.
It takes me ten minutes before I finally roll off the edge of the mattress. It's neither elegant nor stealthy, but it works.
My knees hit the floor with a muffled thud, and I freeze again, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I'm certain he'll hear it.
But he only shifts slightly, turning onto his back, his eyes staying closed.
I exhale shakily and crawl toward my panties, crumpled up on the floor.
I gather them quickly, tiptoeing naked into the living area. The cool air prickles my skin, and I shiver as I step into my underwear.
I put my bra on and grab my dress.
Shit, it's cut. Dammit. I look around and see Victor's shirt. I put it on. Most of the buttons are missing, but it will have to do.
I run my fingers through my tangled hair, trying to smooth it down. My lipstick is smudged, and my mascara is probably a disaster. I'm sure I look like exactly what I am, a woman who just spent the night fucking her enemy.
My gaze drifts to the table.
Victor's encrypted laptop sits there, closed but not locked.
I glance back toward the bedroom door, where Victor is still asleep, and then back to the laptop.
My hand moves to the ring on my finger, and it's as if I can feel the weight of all of Dimitri's secrets.
Fuck.
I have never been this confused. It should be simple. Acknowledge I had a good time, leave, and finish the job. Walk out the front door. Report to Ivan. Move on.
So why am I not walking out the front door?
I rub the pad of my thumb back and forth across the ring's band, my chest tight from the tension.
Victor is absolutely certain the Volkovs hurt his family. Whether he's right or not, I don't know, but I know he truly believes it.
Shit. What do I do?
I know Ivan isn't trafficking women. I'm confident of that. Victor is mistaken. He has to be. The Volkovs have lines they don't cross. Ivan told me that himself.
But what if the data proves it?
A dangerous thought creeps into my mind, and I can't believe I'm even contemplating it.
Maybe if I give him a copy of this, he'll see the truth.
I mean, any Bratva trade routes exposed in the data can be changed by Ivan in a matter of days. He's done it before. But most importantly, if Victor sees the truth, if he reads the files and realizes the Volkovs aren't trafficking women, he'll stop hunting them, and everyone can move on.
This could end up saving Victor's life, or maybe his brothers', and it would stop Ivan from focusing on the Ionescus if they backed off.
My stomach is in knots. Is that what I'm doing? Trying to save Victor?
I stand there for a good thirty seconds, thinking. Then it comes to me. How I will rationalize it.
This isn't about him. No. It's about the truth, and it's about paying my debt.
Victor saved me in that hotel. He got me out alive when I was certain we'd both die. Leaving him the data is my way of repaying that debt.
Once I walk out this door, we go back to our respective sides, and who the hell knows how it will be the next time we meet? But my debt will be paid, and the Volkov name will be cleared.
I refuse to let myself think about it any longer.
I wake up the laptop, and the screen flickers to life. I pop the diamond memory stick off my ring and, with trembling fingers, jam it into the USB port.
A progress bar appears immediately, and the files start copying.
I glance at the bedroom door again. My heart beats fast, and my palms sweat.
Don't regret this. Don't regret this.
The progress bar moves faster than it did in Dimitri's penthouse. Forty percent. Sixty percent. Eighty percent.
I bite my lip, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. This hotel room is too quiet. I can hear the soft rush of the ocean outside, the distant call of birds.
Ninety-five percent.
My hand hovers over the USB drive, ready to yank it out the second it finishes.
Come on, come on.
One hundred percent.
Finally.
I pull the drive free and snap it back into the ring band with a click.
My hands shake as I step back from the table.
It's done.
I walk toward the front door, each step heavier than the last. My fingers wrap around the door handle.
I should feel relief. I should feel satisfaction. I completed the mission. I'm about to deliver the intel to Ivan, and Victor will wake up to find proof that the Volkovs are innocent.
But all I feel is hollow.
I turn the handle and pull the door open. The hallway is empty, and I'm thankful for it.
I hold the door, shutting it slowly.
I walk down the hallway, trying not to make any noise. I rub my face with both hands, trying to shake off the exhaustion, the confusion, the ache in my chest.
Victor's scent lingers on my skin. It clings to me like a second skin, and for a split second, my body screams at me to stop.
Turn around. Go back. Get back into that bed beside him.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
There is no happy ending for someone like me.
And especially not with someone like Victor.
I reach the elevator and press the button. The doors slide open immediately, and I step inside, leaning against the wall as it descends.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished surface. Torn dress shirt, smudged makeup, and tangled hair.
The elevator dings. The doors open.
I step out into the lobby, keeping my head down as I cross the marble floor. The concierge doesn't look up. A few early risers sit in the lounge, sipping coffee and reading newspapers. No one pays attention to the disheveled woman making her exit.
I push through the revolving door and step out into the Sanremo morning. The air is cool and salty, the sun just beginning to climb over the horizon. The sea glitters in the distance, calm and endless.
I start walking, thinking about calling Ivan and telling him it's done.
But first, I need to get as far away from that hotel as possible.
Because if I don't, I might do something unforgivably stupid.
Like turn around and go back to him.