“Whoever these assholes were working for. At least twenty vehicles heading this way.”
Dmitri grabs my hand and pulls me toward the exit. “We’ll finish this later.”
Sirens rise as we hit the cars. He shoves me into the back of the armored sedan and slides in after me, his hand already at my cut.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Let me see.” He tilts my face toward him gently, the gesture at odds with the man who just left two bodies cooling on the warehouse floor.
The car tears through the district, leaving the warehouse behind.
Dmitri risked everything to save me.
That matters more than any of the lies.
16
Dmitri
The way Katya described her captors with such calm while I cleaned blood from her forehead convinced me she was ready for the next test.
“You’re bringing me to a business meeting?” she asks as we drive through Moscow’s financial district toward the Hotel Kempinski.
“You handled yourself well yesterday. Better than well.” I watch her from the corner of my eye as she watches the city pass by. “I think it’s time you understood more about my world.”
“Is that wise? I thought you wanted to keep me separated from the dangerous parts of your business.”
“Recent events have made it clear that separation isn’t possible. You’re a target whether or not you understand my operations.”
She turns to look at me, and I catch something new in her eyes. Something colder than anything I’ve seen from the woman who woke up in the hospital a month ago, and for a moment, I almost think I’m looking at Alexandra Volkova.
“Who are we meeting?”
“Representatives from three families who control different sectors of the city.” I straighten my tie as we pull up to the hotel’s main entrance. “Maksim Angeloff, Sergei Antonov, and Adrian Morozov.”
“And what do they want from you?”
“Territory agreements. Protection contracts. The usual negotiations that keep this city from turning into a war zone.”
The hotel’s penthouse suite has been reserved for this gathering, a neutral territory where everyone can speak freely without concern for hidden devices. My men have swept the space for recording devices and positioned themselves at strategic points throughout the building.
Katya walks beside me with her head held high, every inch the part of a powerful man’s wife. The midnight blue dress I picked out for her skims her curves perfectly, and I resist the urge to slide my hand lower on her back to claim what's mine.
“Remember what we discussed in the car,” I tell her as we approach the suite.
“Say nothing unless directly addressed, observe everything, and never turn my back on anyone. Got it.”
She takes my arm, but not in the clingy way most women would. More like she’s ready to move with me if violence erupts instead of cowering behind me.
The penthouse suite overlooks the Moscow River and boasts dark wood and crystal chandeliers that speak of old money and older power. Three men stand near the windows with drinks in their hands, and their conversation dies as we enter.
Maksim Angeloff approaches first, his bulk straining the seams of his custom suit. Former Spetsnaz, built like a tank, with the kind of handshake that crushes smaller men’s bones. When he takes Katya’s hand, I’m ready to intervene if he tries to intimidate her.
He doesn’t get the chance.
“Careful,” she says as his grip tightens. “Head injury. Pain makes me… react.”
