Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Of course.” My father points in the general direction of where to go. Markov steps beside me. “I’ll accompany her. Anything I can get you on my return, sir?”
“Nothing, thank you, Markov.”
“My God,” I whisper to Markov as we walk toward the restrooms. “He’s insufferable. How can you handle it?”
He shrugs. “I pretend people like him are overgrown children in need of a nap.” When I laugh, he smiles back. “It really helps.”
I snort. “I bet.”
The darkened hallway is vacant when I return. Markov stands in the shadows. It’s risky, the two of us being alone. Close like this. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Do you still feel my stripes, Vera?”
“Mmmm,” I whisper in his. “Do you still feel my panties in your pocket?”
Markov stifles a groan and squeezes my ass.
“Don’t!” I hiss. “Please.”
“Fair enough. But when we get back to our room, you’re mine, Vera.”
“Can we go now?”
“Almost.”
My father isn’t where we left him.
“That’s strange. Where did he go?” I ask Markov. My heart begins to race. If he was outside that restroom and I didn’t see him. . . if he followed us. . . .
“There,” Markov says. “Over by the exit.”
“Markov! Vera.”
“Father, we’re going to head back now. I’m just so tired.”
“You do have to stay one more minute,” he says. “Do you remember our conversation last night?”
“Mmm. I do.”
“I’ve thought about what you said, and I—I’d like you to come to my room and have a drink.”
Markov goes stiff beside my father. I suddenly feel the need to run, and I’m not sure why.
“Maybe another time,” I tell my father, shaking my head.
“Come now. Come back to the hotel room with me. We’ll have a drink,” my father says. “Please. The suite is big enough for all of us.”
All of us? Not including his guards, there are only three of us. And those guards will be stationed outside.
“Vera said she’d rather go home,” Markov says. “But thank you for the invitation, sir.”
My father’s gaze grows stony. “I paid for that ride you took over here. Your plane flight here.” He jerks his chin at Markov. “His salary. The least you could do is say thank you and come with me. You should know better as one of my paid men, Markov.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nikko
I have no choice but to go with him. Her father has mostly played nice at this point, but he no longer will if we don’t obey him.
I’m torn between allegiance to my family, to the oath of loyalty I’ve sworn and why I’m here. . . and protecting Vera.
I can’t let her get hurt, no matter what.
“One drink, sir, please. Understand we mean no disrespect, but you’ve asked me to protect Vera, and she’s asked to go home. Surely, you understand after the hard work she’s done this week.”
Ivanov nods, his gaze hazy. He’s already stone-cold drunk.
That will make my job much easier.
I’ve been in touch with Aleks at home who’s given me the specs and location of all of his guards. If we get him alone in his room, and I can isolate Vera. . .
I can keep her safe. I know I can. But if I kill her father. . . what will it do to her?
Her father prattles on and on, name-dropping people he knows. Vera is tight-lipped and distant but plays the part with her responses. He’s given us no choice. A confrontation with him will not end well. We’ll have to comply so we don’t give him a reason to pull rank.
I can send her home. . . ahead of me. I’m not just a close-range assassin but a skilled sniper. I could kill her father, and she never has to know it’s me.
And then say goodbye to the only woman I’ve ever loved.
Khristos.
I carry the heavy bottle of vodka he gave me as a gift as we exit the elevator on the top floor, where he’s rented his suite. Vera looks at me, her eyes wide and afraid. I’m not sure why. I give her the smallest of smiles behind her father’s back.
I love you.
I’d given up hope in happy endings and “one true love.”
With Vera, though, I thought I found it. If we weren’t who we are. . . if our families weren’t sworn enemies. . .
“And a local artist here in Moscow was kind enough to give us his latest highly acclaimed painting.” When neither of us responds, her father adds, “It’s valued at over three million dollars.”
“Wow,” Vera says, her brows rising. “And he just gave it to you?”
Even now, it surprises me how innocent she is. One does not “give” a priceless piece of art to a powerful pakhan out of the goodness of one’s heart.
“Yes,” her father says, his lips curving upward in a way that makes my skin crawl. “People always give me what I want, Vera.”