Darker Than Love

by Zaires, Anna

  She says it like she doesn’t believe me, but she does. The truth is there in her eyes, in the quick way she blinks before schooling her features. She’s good at masking her emotions, but I’m better. I’m better at reading them.

  She’s lying. She’s hiding something.

  “Yes,” I say. “I would’ve liked to meet her.”

  Her cheeks flash an angry pink. They’re like peaches on cream. Stunning. Beautiful. “You’re not going near her.”

  I bite down softly, the warning subtle. I don’t want to lose my calm again. “I thought you understood who’s giving the orders.”

  She sucks in a breath. “Please, Yan. I don’t want to frighten her. She’s fragile.”

  This, I believe. I open her pussy between my thumbs and take a good, leisurely look. It’ll never be enough. I can’t grow tired of this, of her.

  I lift my eyes to meet her gaze, dragging a thumb over her clit. “I told you it didn’t have to be like this, but you left me no choice.”

  Her voice is tremulous. “Like what?”

  I close my lips around her clit and draw circles with my tongue.

  Delicious. She’s my peaches, my cream.

  She lifts her hips and moans, but the caution in her eyes doesn’t diminish. “Like what, Yan? Are you going to hurt me?”

  “I said I wouldn’t.”

  “Then what? Keep me tied up? Locked up?”

  I need her for the Dimitrov job as per her own clever design. Locking her up is no longer an option. We’ve already set the ball rolling with our meeting in Ostrava.

  No, keeping her tied up is not how I’ll punish her.

  “You’ll spank me?” she asks bitingly.

  My smile matches her tone. “No, princess. The next time you run, I’ll slit Hanna’s throat.”

  She blanches. Her shock is fleeting, though, drowned out by anger. “You son of a bitch.”

  She tries to kick, but I easily grab her ankles. She tosses in the constraint of the towel, trying to move her hips from side to side to shake me off, but her struggles only spur me on. I push her ankles toward her body, bending her knees, and under her hateful glare, I go back to my feast. I trace her pussy lips with my tongue, wedging them apart to taste her clit. She fights, but I don’t stop. She’s not fighting the pleasure.

  She’s fighting the threat on her grandmother’s life.

  She’s fighting the surrender.

  I don’t let her win. I make her need climb slowly. Taking my time to enjoy her womanly taste and the feel of her soft flesh under my teeth, I draw an orgasm from her that makes her tremble. She shakes with aftershocks, quivers with defeat as I give her what I withheld last night.

  When her whole body sags, her teary eyes hazy and her battle lost, I untie the towel and lower her arms. I rub them to aid the blood flow and then carry her to the shower. Lowering her onto the chipped tile floor, I study her body to make sure I haven’t left new marks.

  The setting is wrong. My pretty little flower—a deadly one, no less—doesn’t belong in a cracked cubicle with a moldy shower curtain. I turn on the water and wait for it to run warm before pushing her under the spray. I wash her body and hair with the white bar of hotel soap. I’m gentle, giving her comfort after dealing a heavy blow. She’d rather die than let her grandmother suffer. I know, because we’re the same. A great deal of what we do is for the only thing we have.

  Family.

  And now for me, there’s also her. Ilya is no longer all I have.

  I turn off the water, towel her dry, and tell her to get ready.

  While she dresses, I pull on my clothes, make a flight reservation via my phone, and email Anton the details. Afterward, we have breakfast at a street café, but she hardly touches her coffee or croissant. I use the time we have to wait at the airport to send an encrypted message to our government contact, informing him that I need the surveillance camera footage of the Újbuda Clinic. I don’t state a reason. He won’t ask questions.

  All through this, Mina sits quietly. I keep an eye on her while I catch up with my messages, and the footage I’ve requested arrives in my inbox as we’re boarding the plane. I seat Mina by the window and fasten her seatbelt before seeing to mine. She turns her head away, staring out the window, and I tap on the link and start scrolling through the recording. I go fast, not expecting to see much. I’ll go through everything in Prague, or better yet, I’ll make Ilya go through it, frame by fucking frame.

  Halfway in, I freeze with my thumb on the screen. My heartbeat picks up. There, in black and white, is my little princess, and she’s hugging another man.

  Jealousy erupts, hot and fierce. In my mind’s eye, I see her red lips and the way I rubbed the lipstick over her face last night.

  Enlarging the frame, I zoom in on the man.

  He has dark-rimmed glasses and a mole on his cheek.

  21

  Mina

  I feel bruised inside.

  It’s not the cancer or the thought of never seeing Hanna again. It’s last night. The threat on Hanna’s life damaged something fragile that had started growing between Yan and me. I didn’t even realize a kernel of emotion that goes hand in hand with a deep need for his approval had germinated until I crushed it.

  I know what Yan is capable of. I expected him to whip or torture me. Instead, his punishment was crueler. He couldn’t have hurt me worse than through Hanna. He’s a man who keeps his promises. He won’t hesitate to slit the throat of an innocent old woman.

  I should hate him. Part of me does. Still, an undeniable part of me mourns what we’ve lost. I can’t put a label on that loss. The concept is vague, indefinable, but it doesn’t diminish the warped sense of devastation tormenting me. The notion is too twisted to examine fully, so I focus on trying to get some sleep on the plane and eat the airline food to build my strength. I need it. The job with Dimitrov is important. It’s vital to Hanna’s well-being. That’s what I have to focus on now.

  Anton waits at the airport when we land. Not Ilya.

  We get into the back of the car while Anton drives. Yan is tense. He doesn’t speak but keeps our fingers interlaced, placing my hand on his leg. I’m not fooled into seeing the gesture as a sign of affection. It’s just another form of restraint. It’s less brutal than a cheap hotel towel, but no less impactful.

  The message is clear.

  I belong to him.

  It doesn’t matter now, though. This won’t last long. Leukemia goes fast. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a few months.

  When we get to the apartment, I reach for the door handle, but Yan stops me. His instruction to Anton is brusque. “Take Mina for coffee.”

  I go cold. “Yan.” I grab his arm. “It wasn’t Ilya’s fault.”

  He shakes me off, gets out, and slams the door.

  “Yan!” I push on the button to open the window, but the car is already pulling away.

  Anton glares at me in the rearview mirror.

  Crossing my arms, I try to dispel the chill that has invaded my body. “What are you looking at?”

  “I hope you’re happy.”

  He means about what’s going to happen between Yan and Ilya. I’m not happy. Far from it. Guilt is eating me, but I don’t bother telling him what I feel.

  He doesn’t care, and he won’t believe me, anyway.

  We go to a café. Anton orders coffee that I don’t drink. After an hour, he gets up and flicks his fingers at me. I follow, feeling like a dog. By the time we arrive at Yan’s place, my nerves are shattered.

  Anton opens the door and all but shoves me inside. Anxiously, I scan the lounge. Yan is in the kitchen, a glass half-full with clear liquid in his hand. A bottle of vodka is standing on the counter, and his dark hair, normally so neatly styled, is disheveled. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The small part of his chest that’s exposed is chiseled, and his arms are muscular and veined. His body screams power, strength. The last thing I want is for him to unleash that pow
er, and the anger churning underneath, on his brother. But what did I expect? That Yan would let a weakness go?

  A toilet flushes, and someone coughs. The bathroom door opens, and Ilya steps out.

  Holy shit.

  He’s sporting a swollen eye and a cut on his lip, and his nose is askew.

  Taking a few uncertain steps toward him, I reach for his face. “My God. Let me see.”

  “Do not touch him.” Yan’s voice is harsh.

  I drop my hand. “This needs ice.” I change direction for the kitchen, but Yan’s hostile tone stops me again.

  “Leave it, Mina.”

  I shrink back, giving Ilya a regretful look. “I’m sorry.”

  Ignoring me, Ilya plops onto the couch and switches on the television.

  Anton grins as he walks past me.

  I stand there awkwardly, not sure what to do.

  Yan takes a big swallow of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He tilts his head toward the bedroom. “Go work on Petrova’s disguise.”

  With a last look at Ilya, I escape into the room and sit down on the bed, my mind reeling.

  Except for Hanna and Gergo, I hardly feel anything for anyone. It’s been tough for me to get attached to people after my parents’ deaths. It took Gergo a long time to get close to me, and I don’t think it would’ve happened if he hadn’t saved me from being gang-raped by my own teammates. But I feel now, and it’s horrible.

  I feel awful for what Yan did to Ilya because of me.

  The fact that I’m experiencing such strong emotions when it comes to the twins shocks me. I’m capable of switching off the human part of me when I’m on a job. When I pull the trigger, I don’t feel remorse. I tell myself it’s because most of my targets are criminal filth, like the hijackers who murdered my parents, but deep down, I know it’s because a part of my soul died in the snow with my parents. Ever since that day, I’ve been going through life half-frozen, only partially alive.

  Until the big, kind teddy bear, Ilya.

  Until Yan.

  Pinching my eyes shut, I stop the psychoanalysis. What’s the point? What matters is the job, the last one I’ll do. I think about Hanna as I get the suitcase from the closet and stand in front of the bathroom mirror to start my transformation. My stomach grumbles with hunger by the time I’m satisfied with the results.

  The twins are sitting on the couch, Anton squeezed between them, when I come out of the bedroom. They must’ve been talking, because the television is off. Anton whistles in appreciation of the results. Ilya doesn’t look at me, and Yan’s expression is tight, bored almost.

  “It’ll be better when I have the right clothes,” I say.

  Yan gets up and goes to the laptop that’s lying on the table. “Come here.”

  I walk to his side as he wakes up the screen and activates the camera to test the background. He turns it so it faces the wall and nothing else is visible.

  He pulls out a chair for me to sit. “You know what to say.”

  “I need to listen and watch her a few times.” I’m a quick learner. I can pick up accents and intonations like a parrot.

  He opens a video file of Natasha Petrova, news and social media clips he must’ve collected, and pushes on the play button. I pay attention to her mannerisms, the way she flicks her hair and says “darling” a lot, and especially how she tries to conceal her mother tongue by rolling the r’s less when she speaks English.

  In what language would she address Casmir Dimitrov? Would she speak to him in Hungarian or English?

  No, she’d use his own language to be respectful. She’d choose Albanian.

  “Ready?” Yan asks when the clips come to an end. “We’ll do a practice run.”

  He picks up a Hermès scarf from the table and drapes it over my shoulders, gently almost. He arranges the silk just so before he activates a video call to himself.

  I fall into the role, right down to the way the arts dealer flirts by batting her eyelashes and pushing out her breasts. I become Natasha Petrova, body and soul.

  When I’m done, I look up at Yan for his reaction. His face is unreadable, but the intent way he stares at me is disturbing.

  “Fuck,” Anton says. “She nailed it. She fucking nailed it to a T.”

  Even Ilya lifts his unwilling gaze to me.

  “I think she’s ready,” Anton says.

  “I don’t think it.” Yan perches on the corner of the table. “I know it.”

  “It’s too soon,” Ilya says in a nasally voice.

  “We have three weeks,” Yan says. “Dimitrov is a busy man. Petrova wouldn’t give him less time to arrange a meeting and clear his schedule if needed.”

  “Can you do it again?” Anton asks me. “Exactly like that?”

  “Yes.” I’m certain.

  Anton rubs his palms over his thighs. “I say let’s seize the moment.”

  Yan opens a contact list and clicks on Dimitrov’s name. “You’ll go through a gatekeeper, a secretary or a guard. If you tell them what the call is about, Dimitrov will take it.”

  The call connects. I take a deep breath, and the show is on.

  As predicted, the moment I mention the Salvator Mundi, Dimitrov takes my call. He sits behind a desk—in his office, I presume. Even with the new beard, he’s as handsome as in the media photos. He’s wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, and he’s in good shape for fifty-six. A woman, maybe his secretary, puts a glass of water on the desk. He waves a hand to dismiss her. When a click sounds as the door closes, he turns his full attention to me.

  He’s charming, complimenting me—or rather, Natasha—on my appearance and elegance. He says he likes a well-dressed woman who takes care of herself. We talk about the weather and the current shortage of Russian caviar. I say I know he’s a busy man so I’ll get to the point. When I mention the painting, the change in the atmosphere is palpable.

  “Are you sure your line is secure?” he asks, leaning closer to the screen.

  “Of course.” I’m full of sugar, full of tease. “You can test it.”

  “How much?”

  Yan shows me a number with his fingers. “Two hundred million.”

  “Dollars, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly, darling.”

  “Miss Petrova, your talents dazzle me. Not only are you beautiful and clever, but also resourceful.”

  “Thank you,” I reply coyly.

  “Maybe we should put some of those talents to the test when we meet in person.”

  I give a coquettish laugh. “I’m sorry, darling, but it’ll take more than that.”

  “Flowers, champagne, an expensive dinner, and extortionately priced jewelry?”

  “Throw in a diamond ring, and I may consider.”

  Yan gives me a hard look.

  “You make me regret that I’m married,” Dimitrov says with a wink. “I like a woman who knows what she’s worth. I could make a different kind of proposition.”

  “It seems we’ll have a lot to talk about when we meet.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  I tell him I’ll be in Prague in three weeks’ time and suggest the Klimt suite at the Hotel Paris, claiming the manager is a personal friend who’ll respect our need for privacy. We agree on a meeting just before lunch. I hint at extending our business affair into dinner. He likes it when I say we may need the suite afterward.

  “How do I contact you if needed?” he asks.

  Yan gestures with a pinky on his lips and a thumb at his ear.

  “I’ll text you a secure number.”

  We talk about our mutual requirements. No weapons, and only him, his art expert, and me in the room. He states his demands, namely to have the room and me searched before he enters. He recommends a few restaurants to visit while I’m in Prague, and invites me to one of his casinos. Everything on the house. I wish him good luck with his business, and we say goodbye like old friends.

  My sultry smile only drops when he cuts the call, no doubt to launch straight in
to an investigation to find out everything he can about Petrova and the missing painting.

  “Good job,” Anton says. “He bought it.”

  Yan straightens. His gaze is dark and his mouth set in a hard line. Unbuttoning his shirt, he says on his way to the bedroom, “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Anton pats Ilya’s knee. “I think I’ll go for a run. I’ve been sitting in a car for the past two days.”

  He gets up and disappears into their bedroom. Ilya grabs the remote and switches on the television. I give it a moment before I slip into Yan’s room to take off the wig and scarf. The false eyelashes will have to stay until Yan has finished his shower and I can use the oil-based dissolvent I stored in the cabinet. I also applied silicon gel under a thick layer of foundation to make my cheekbones appear higher, and a cream that contains a small dose of bee venom to puff out my lips. They sting a little, feeling unnaturally tight, but the effect will soon vanish.

  Going through the fridge, I take out ingredients for chicken paprikash and start dinner. For once, I’m hungry.

  The silence is uncomfortable. When Anton leaves, I dare to approach Ilya, stopping short of the couch.

  “Ilya, I owe you an apology.”

  He ignores me.

  “I didn’t want to deceive you, but there was no other way. I had to see my grandmother.”

  He keeps his eyes trained on the television, pretending to be watching the news. “Spare me the excuses. I don’t care.”

  I step between him and the TV. “I didn’t lie about coming back. I swear. I was waiting for the train when Yan found me.”

  He cranes his neck to look around me. “If you say so.”

  “Let me have a look at your nose. Did you try to set it straight?”

  Silence.

  “Ilya, please.”

  He clicks off the television, stands, and goes to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  I can only hope he’ll come around in time. With a sigh, I go back to preparing dinner. It’s weird, this see-saw of energy and appetite. It was the same before, the first time I was diagnosed. The chemo lasted for twelve months. I lost all the hair on my body, including my eyebrows and eyelashes. My hair had barely grown back by the night I overheard Yan and Ilya in the bar. When they intercepted me in the alley, I had still been so weak. The nausea, the vomiting, it had utterly depleted me. There were days I didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed.