“What about my bodyguard?”
“You’ll tell Dimitrov something came up.” He shrugs. “It happens.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t worry.” Ilya gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll manage fine without Anton.”
Ignoring Ilya, I keep my attention focused on Yan. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Yan snaps. “You just have to do your job.”
I flinch at the outburst.
“It’s all right,” Ilya says softly. “It’s just nerves. The job, you know.” He shoots Yan a nasty look.
“Eat,” Yan says. “You have ten minutes.”
I’m not hungry, but Yan is right. We’ll need our strength.
After a light breakfast, I apply lipstick and put on the heels we’d gotten for the occasion. Yan and Ilya test wireless ear mics that are connected to their smartwatches. It allows them effortless and discreet hands-free communication. As I’ll be searched, I’m not wearing a mic. I’ll only have the phone Yan gives me, which I slip into my bag. It’s the secure number Dimitrov used to contact me, in case his guards decide to check. Yan’s hackers have uploaded Natasha Petrova’s contacts and apps to the phone, complete with mirrors of her social media accounts. One never knows how thoroughly Dimitrov will be checking me out.
We load the crated painting, the case with disguise material, and the overnight bag in the van. As I’m about to get in, Yan curls his fingers around my wrist, and for a moment, the fiercely passionate man of this morning breaks through the surface of icy detachment.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You, too.”
He kisses me on the forehead, so as not to spoil my lipstick, before helping me into the passenger side. Ilya gets into the back and Yan drives. We make a stop at the hotel a few blocks away from the Hotel Paris, where the two security guards already wait in the room we rented. I take care of their disguises, turning them into Yan and Ilya’s doppelgängers, before they walk to the Hotel Paris via the back alleys. We wipe away our traces and fingerprints, check out, store the disguise bag in the van, and it’s showtime.
As previewed, we park in a side alley next to the hotel. If Dimitrov’s men are watching, our arrival must appear inconspicuous. Petrova would respect secrecy. Flipping oversized sunglasses over my eyes, I slip into my role. My shoulders are squared and my breasts pushed out when I get out of the van. My steps are long, my legs not faltering in the high heels. I nod at the doorman waiting at a service entrance like I’m the Queen of Sheba and proceed ahead of the transporters who are carrying the crate and my bag. We enter via the kitchen and take the service elevator that only runs to the first floor, where the conference room is situated.
I step out on the first floor, the men following behind. From behind my dark glasses, I keep a watchful eye. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. There are no suspicious men lurking around, only some of Dimitrov’s regular guards hovering in front of the conference room, pretending to help themselves to coffee from a carafe that stands on a table in the hallway. I recognize them from the photos in the file I studied during our preparations.
The manager is on the floor. He makes a big show of greeting me and wishing me a good stay, then flicks his fingers at a bellboy, who comes running to take my bag from Yan. The manager offers to walk me to my suite, but I decline in my Natasha Petrova voice, stating I don’t wish to be disturbed. He hands me the keycard before bowing and kissing my hand, assuring me of his loyal service. I sway my hips as I cross the hallway while the guards drool after me, their eyes fixed on the impressive size of my fake boobs.
It’s a good show, a convincing one.
I enter the regular elevator ahead of the bellboy. Yan and Ilya follow, balancing the crate between them, their caps with the transportation company logo pulled down low over their eyes. The bellboy pushes the button for the fourth floor. We ride in silence. I exit on the landing, casting an eye around for surprise elements, but all is quiet. Opening the door to the Klimt suite, I study the space with a critical eye for the bellboy’s sake, who isn’t in on our plot.
“Everything to your satisfaction, ma’am?” he asks.
“This will do.” I take a hundred from my purse and slip it into his hand.
“Why, thank you, ma’am.”
“Please put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door on your way out,” I order.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the door closes behind the bellboy, Yan and Ilya work fast. They use the hammers in their tool belts to crack open the crate while I inspect the suite. There’s no one hiding inside and no cameras I can detect. I take the handheld scanner Yan has zipped up under his jacket to check for bugs and transmitting devices. By the time I’m done, the twins have leaned the painting on the wall in the living room and discarded the crate on the balcony, making sure they’ve left the sliding door unlocked.
“It’s clean,” I say when the scanner light comes up green.
“We’re out of here,” Ilya announces, moving to the door.
Yan grips my hip, hesitating. “Take off the glasses,” he says in a strained voice. “I want to see your eyes.”
The request unbalances me. It throws me out of my role, and when I remove the sunglasses and place them on the coffee table, I’m Mina. I’m Yan’s. For a moment, we simply stare at each other, an instinctive knowledge of belonging passing between us.
Checking his watch, Ilya says, “We have to go.”
There’s nothing Yan can say without jinxing the operation, certainly nothing like, “It’ll be fine,” or, “I love you.” Love was never part of the plan. My heart aches knowing I’m inevitably going to hurt him, but it’s a new love, a young love. He’ll get over it. He’ll carry on, maybe find someone less damaged to care about. And yes, I want that for him. I want him to be happy. God knows, he had little enough of happiness growing up.
With a squeeze, Yan lets go. Ilya smiles at me before exiting into the hallway. Yan follows in his brother’s steps, but stops in the frame.
“Go.” I wave him out. There’s no time for second thoughts. Timing is everything. The hotel security will already be waiting in the elevator.
He gives me one last look laced with something like longing and uncertainty, and then he’s gone. The door closes with a click, locking me into silence.
Right away, my body tingles with energy, like it always does on a mission. It’s the adrenaline. Yet despite the physical high, I’m calm and focused. The job makes me feel like I have a purpose other than being Yan’s sexual distraction. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to get back into action until now.
It only takes me a moment to assume my role again. I straighten my dress and check my lipstick in the mirror. I’m pushing a curl behind my ear when the knock I expect sounds on the door. Donning my sultry face, I open the door to an entourage of men in dark suits. Dimitrov stands in the center, flanked by two bodyguards with earpieces and holstered guns. A short man with gold-rimmed glasses and mousy hair hovers on his left. With his willowy frame and pinstriped suit, he stands out from the rest of the muscled, black-clad clan.
He must be the art expert.
“Right on time.” I hold out a hand. “I appreciate a punctual man.”
Dimitrov’s murky-brown eyes zoom in on me like I’m the piece of art up for auction. “Miss Petrova.” He kisses my hand, sneaking some tongue into it. “I’m ecstatic that my manners please you.”
The wetness of his slimy tongue sends an internal shiver of repulsion through me, but I hide it behind a smile. “I can’t wait for us to do business.”
The hunger on his face is savage and blatant. “Then I have to offer my excuse for making a lady like yourself wait while my men sweep the room.”
I step aside. “Please tell your men to go ahead.”
As agreed, two guards enter the suite to check for bugs, wires, and weapons. A third pats me down after Dimitrov apologizes for the disrespect
ful but necessary treatment. I hold my breath as the guard sweeps his palms over the body pads on my hips and around my thighs, but they’re good quality. The porous material is designed to absorb body heat. Through clothes, they feel as warm to the touch as skin. The guards return from searching the bedroom and bathroom, giving Dimitrov a nod.
“The painting is there,” one of the men says on his way out.
My tone is seductive. “My turn.” I twirl a finger to indicate Dimitrov should turn around.
“Where is your bodyguard, Miss Petrova?” Dimitrov asks with a raised brow.
“Indisposed. And please, call me Natasha. If I may call you Casmir?”
“By all means, Natasha.” He lifts his arms with a mocking smile. “Feel free to search me thoroughly.”
I don’t hesitate to pat him down. Natasha wouldn’t be shy to touch him. On the contrary. I linger near his groin. The touch almost makes me gag, but I do a good job of hiding it. He’s muscled. In good shape. His regard is sharp, his mind fast. He’d make a dangerous opponent in any combat.
“My expert,” Dimitrov says when the ordeal is finally over, extending an arm toward the mousy man in the blue suit. “For obvious reasons, he prefers to remain anonymous.”
I repeat the search with the expert, minus the groin lingering.
When both Dimitrov and I are satisfied that neither party carries a weapon, I invite him and his expert in, closing the door behind them and turning the lock.
“This way,” I say, leading them to the lounge.
Dimitrov gasps and theatrically places a hand on his heart when he sees the painting. Flicking his fingers at the mousy man, he says, “Please.”
The expert steps closer, squinting as he removes his glasses to clean them on a handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket.
Making my way to the bedroom, I throw back over my shoulder, “Champagne?”
“Most fitting,” Dimitrov mumbles with a deviant glint in his eyes.
Everything about the man makes my skin crawl, but I blow him a kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
I move unhurriedly, sashaying my hips. I only walk faster when I’m out of view, and faster still when I pass the table on which a bottle of Dom Pérignon is cooling in an ice bucket. My heels are quiet on the thick carpet.
Five more steps to the bathroom.
I count the seconds. In three, Dimitrov is dead.
One.
Two.
Just as I grip the doorknob, a strong arm locks around my waist.
“Going somewhere, Natasha?” Dimitrov’s tone is low and menacing as he shoves his tongue into my ear.
33
Yan
Everything is going according to plan, but I can’t shake the discord in my gut. This morning nearly killed me. Making love to Mina while knowing I’m going to lose her today shredded me up inside. The space I tried to put between us after our intense lovemaking was the hardest thing I’ve done after leaving her alone in that suite to meet with a scumbag like Dimitrov.
Ilya and I get into the elevator. The two hotel security men are already stripped to their shirts and underwear. Their jackets and pants are bundled into a bag that stands on the floor. They use a keycard to block the elevator, ensuring it doesn’t stop on any floor.
When the doors close, Ilya and I quickly pull off our heavy-duty boots before peeling off the overalls. We’re wearing T-shirts and cargo pants underneath. We keep on the cotton gloves we used for transporting and handling the painting. The real purpose of them isn’t protecting a precious piece of art, but not leaving fingerprints. The government isn’t going to let their police force pursue us for a hit they ordered, not unless we get caught red-handed, but you never know. I don’t like leaving unnecessary traces. Our connection will sweep the room clean of Mina’s prints before letting the feds in on the scene.
As I shove my feet back into my boots, my mind goes to Mina. Will she be all right?
Goddamn. My focus isn’t where it should be. Probably sensing my volatile feelings, Ilya gives me a sidelong glance as he hands his overall to one of the men.
The men pull on the overalls and our caps, and I hand over the keys for the van. No one speaks. We ride down to the lobby in strained silence. Once they’ve exited and we’re on our way up again, Ilya pins me with a stare.
“What?” I snap, feeling like hitting something.
“You’ve got to get your shit together, man.”
“Who says I don’t?”
“You’re not here.” He points at the floor. “You’re fucking miles away.”
He’s right. I’m not the only one with plenty to lose. My brother’s life is on the line, too.
“It’s Mina,” I admit with a defeated sigh. “I’m concerned.” No, that’s putting it way too mildly. “I’m fucking going out of my mind with worry.”
“Hey.” He grips my shoulder and dips his head to catch my eyes. “She’s done plenty of jobs without you. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Still.” She’s a woman, and a tiny, delicate one at that. And she’ll be locked in a hotel room with a dangerous criminal in—I check my watch—seven minutes. Fuck. I grip my head between my hands. Just thinking about it makes me sweat. Every part of me wants to go back and pull her out of there.
“Focus,” Ilya says, giving me a shake. “In a few minutes, it’ll be over.”
It’ll be over. Mina and I will be over. Everything will be over. My life will lose all meaning when she walks out on me.
“Don’t think about it,” Ilya says, correctly guessing what’s going through my mind. “You can get drunk later and break all the tables and chairs in the bar.”
“It’s just…” The fourth floor lights up. The Klimt suite floor. The floor where Mina is, waiting for Dimitrov. “I wish I could lock her up and keep her safe from harm.”
“She’s not the kind of woman you can wrap in cotton wool. Locking her up will slowly kill her. You saw how bad she got those first few days after you took her. Mina needs this. I bet she’s fucking good at it, too.”
Pride swells in my chest. Yeah, she’ll be good. The best. But still, this is hard. My protective instinct demands I keep her far away from dangerous situations. Then again, until yesterday, my possessiveness demanded I keep her all to myself. Forever. And if I could change my very nature for her, enough to set her free, I can bend my protectiveness to give her my trust.
“You good?” Ilya asks, searching my eyes.
“Yeah.” I fucking appreciate the butthead right now.
The elevator pings as it reaches the sixth floor.
Grabbing the bag with the security men’s clothes, Ilya says, “Time to play.”
We get out on the top floor. I check the image from the city camera in the street below that feeds to my smartwatch, courtesy of our hackers. Two SUVs with darkened windows park in the street just as the hotel security men pull off in our van. Dimitrov and his men get out of the vehicles. There are five guards and a thin man without an earpiece, who I assume to be the arty dude. Dimitrov walks to a city car parked on the curb. The window on the driver’s side rolls down. He leans inside and exchanges a few words with the driver. Just as I expected, Dimitrov had us watched. It’s a good thing our arrival was well staged. Dimitrov nods. He straightens and pats the roof of the car, then crosses the street with his men. They enter the hotel just as we take the fire escape, making our way to the rooftop.
An ornate wall running around the perimeter protects us from view. We crouch behind it next to the bag with the rifles. Dimitrov should be at the suite now. His men will be searching the room, and Mina will be searching him even as Ilya and I exchange the cotton gloves for thin leather ones.
As I’m zipping the bag with our weapons open, the ringtone of my phone sounds in my ear. I check the caller ID on my watch.
It’s Anton.
A sliver of premonition runs down my spine. He wouldn’t be calling now if it weren’t urgent. He knows we have exactly three minutes before abseil
ing over the edge of the building to the balcony of the Klimt suite.
Ilya, who’s connected to my smartwatch via our shared communication system, gives me a worried look. I tap the mic once to take the call, checking that my weapon is correctly loaded even as I answer, “Anton?”
“Get Mina out of there!”
My body turns to ice, my veins freezing over.
He continues in a rushed tone. “It’s a trap.”
34
Mina
The arm around my waist squeezes so hard I can’t breathe. Effortlessly, Dimitrov lifts me off my feet.
Fuck. I break out in a sweat. He wasn’t supposed to follow me to the room. How far am I willing to take the seduction game? How long before his expert realizes I tricked them? Surely, if he’s truly an expert, by now he should know the painting is a replica.
I should let Dimitrov feel me up. I’ll catch him by surprise before the mousy man can alert him. We can still pull this off. I can take out both men or at least hold them off until Yan and Ilya arrive.
Trapped between Dimitrov’s body and the bathroom door, I keep still, allowing him to lick the inside of my ear as shivers of revulsion run over me.
“Answer me, Natasha,” he says, hurting me with his tight hold. “Or shall I call you Mink?”
Fuck!
Shock slams into me. It’s a setup.
I don’t think why. I don’t think how. I only think survival.
My seduction plan is useless now. It’s going to be a fight.
Constraining me like this, Dimitrov has the upper hand. I have to break free and fast. I’m in a vulnerable position. He can crush my ribs or snap my neck.
My training takes over. I go into an automatic fighting mode. Slamming back my head, I target the most sensitive part of his body within my reach. A crunch sounds as I hit his nose. The impact has the desired effect.
Letting go, he stumbles back a step. “Fucking bitch!”
Darker Than Love Page 29