Prologue
Katya
The painting in front of me must have cost a fortune. But I’m not here for art.
I’m here for him.
Dmitri Kozlov.
He’s across the gallery, moving around like he owns every inch of marble beneath his feet.
Six-foot-three of Bratva muscle in a charcoal suit. Dark hair already touched with silver at the temples—proof danger never goes out of style.
Those green eyes miss nothing, scanning for threats and cataloguing weaknesses. And when they land on me, I feel stripped bare.
He’s beautiful the way danger is, the kind that makes smart women do stupid things.
Women like me, if I’m not careful.
A year undercover as art curator Alexandra Volkova. Twelve months of lies, staged encounters, and playing the part of a woman who loves fine art and dangerous men.
Tonight is my last night in this role. Tomorrow, I disappear forever, and Dmitri Kozlov’s empire comes crashing down around his perfectly sculpted shoulders.
“The Degas is exquisite. Don't you think?”
His voice is low, smooth, and too damn close. The accent does something to me I don’t want to name. I turn, wine glass steady in my hand despite the way my body reacts to him being so close.
When did he even come over here?
“Breathtaking,” I agree, though I’m not looking at the painting.
“You’ve been watching me tonight, Alexandra.” My cover name sounds different when he says it; intimate somehow. “Any particular reason?”
Because I’m about to betray you.
Because you’re the most compelling man I’ve ever met.
Because in another life, I might have fallen for you for real.
“Can you blame me?” My gaze trails down his body. “You’re hard to ignore.”
Something flickers in those green eyes. Amusement, maybe, or recognition of the game we’re playing. He’s suspected me for weeks now; I know that much. My handler Viktor warned me that Kozlov’s intelligence network was getting too close.
But Dmitri hasn’t said a word, and that should bother me more than it does.
“Dance with me.” Not really a request.
The string quartet in the corner changes the song to something slow and haunting. Dmitri extends his hand, and I take it and let him lead me to the small dance floor where other couples move together.
His hand settles on my lower back, firm and in control like he owns the right to touch me. Like he’s done it before.
“Tell me something true.” His breath hits my neck, and I try not to flinch.
“What do you mean?”
“Something real. Not the lies you’ve been feeding me for months.”
He knows.
