I’d spent the better part of the afternoon cross-referencing Bratva activity across several continents. Names. Bank accounts. Laundered money. False charities. Offshore shells. All the usual suspects. I’d filtered for anything that might connect them to Victor Kane. To Ariana. Even to Sarah.
Nothing.
Over the past several months, I’d learned Victor Kane was many things. Greedy. Power-hungry. A monster in a three-piece suit. But reckless wasn’t one of them. If he had ties to the Bratva, they were buried beneath layers of proxies and plausible deniability. No digital trail. No mistakes. No leverage.
Victor was clean.
Tooclean.
In my experience, everyone had a few skeletons in their closet.
Victor Kane had none. At least, none that I could find. That didn’t mean hewasn’tconnected to the Bratva. I’d find something on him eventually. I always did.
I pushed away from the desk and rubbed my eyes. The glow of the monitors bled into my vision, casting faint ghost-lights on the floor as I climbed the stairs and opened the door to the main house.
Ariana stood at the stove, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts as she stirred something in a pan. The domesticity of it all soothed the chaos of my mind.
“Smells good,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be.
The wooden spoon clattered against the edge of the sauté pan as she turned, her hand flying to her chest.
“Jesus, Henry,” she exhaled, eyes wide, pupils blown. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She pushed out a nervous breath. “I just didn’t hear you. I guess I was lost in my thoughts.”
I moved toward her. “And what were you thinking about?” I crooned, pulling her toward me.
But she didn’t melt into my arms. Not right away. Instead, she stiffened.
“You okay?” I asked, releasing her from my hold and raking my gaze over her.
“Yeah. Fine.” She forced a smile. “Just…caught up in the past, I suppose. Sometimes I get stuck in my memories.”
The tremor in her voice said otherwise. So did the way her fingers toyed with the hem of her shirt, twisting it around her hand. So did the sheen of sweat at her hairline. So did the way her eyes kept flicking to the side, like she expected something or someone to come crashing through the door.
Before I could press further, she moved toward me, hooking an arm around my neck and hoisting herself onto her toes, her lips a breath from mine.
“But I know something that might help.”
“Oh, yeah?” I playfully waggled my brows.
“Yeah.”
“What’s that?”
“You,” came her breathless reply before her lips met mine.
Her kiss was tentative at first, almost forced before becoming hungrier. Her hand curled around the back of my neck, nails grazing the skin just beneath my hairline. There was something urgent and desperate in the way she kissed me.
Every voice in my head screamed at me that something was wrong. That I should stop. That this wasn’t just sex. It was a distraction. Or maybe even a weapon.
But the feel of her body against mine, the hunger and heat, overwhelmed everything else.
She broke away panting, her eyes never leaving mine as she slowly lifted her shirt over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor. Her skin was flushed, her nipples tight and already pebbled. I skimmed my knuckles down the curve of her torso, then back up again, cupping one breast in my palm. She arched into me, mouth parting in a soft moan.
The need between us was combustible. It had only been mere hours since I last felt her skin, but it felt like days since I’d savored in her warmth.
