He pulled off his shirt, grabbed another from his closet and pulled it on. The tight black T-shirt would do.
He pulled on the dark wigcap, looking one way then the other to make certain it was straight. Next came the adhesive. He hated the stuff but was left with little choice unless he wanted to spend hours with the extensions. He’d rather use the water-soluble adhesive, but then he ran the risk of the wig coming off too soon.
He grabbed the wig and slid it on, straightening it as he needed to, careful not to get the longer strands of dark hair in the adhesive. That was always a bitch. Looking in the mirror, he straightened the wig and studied it.
It wasn’t a perfect match. His natural hair had fallen differently. Taking the conditioning spritz, he sprayed the wig and tried to style it. The longer strands hung down to his chin.
In the harsh lights of the bathroom, he saw his image. Another face. Another person.
Self-loathing on a whole new level. Fuck.
He fisted his hands and leaned into the countertop, arms extended, his head hanging down. The need to punch something rose up in him, but he shoved it away.
The vacation was nice, but this was life.
Ian took a deep breath and shook his head. Didn’t have time for this shit. Just get the damn job done.
He straightened and stood, being critical of the image in the mirror. Dimitri Petrolov.
Dimitri Petrolov.
He relaxed his jaw, pulled his brows a bit more.
Thinking of Elianya and Hellinski, letting his mind float to Nero’s and things he’d been ordered to do, he watched as Ian Kinncaid slid further and further away and Petrolov started to take over.
“Dobry den,” he muttered into the mirror and rolled his shoulders. Shades. He needed his shades. Black. He’d borrow John’s. They were the same brand Petrolov used.
“Dimitri Petrolov,” he said again, the accent as natural to him as it had been a month ago.
He rubbed his jaw. Too bad he didn’t have more of a shadow, but then in several hours his jawline would be even darker. He stared hard at the mirror. In the bedroom, he strapped on his firearm, pulled on a jacket and a long black coat.
Back in the bathroom, he packed up his bag, made certain there were other wigs in the bottom of his makeup case, adhesive removal. Another passport.
Extra gun, clip.
What was he forgetting?
He scanned the room. He crammed a change of clothing in his bag, and the zipper ripped across the quiet room. On the nightstand was a computer-printed photograph his mother had taken that morning. He was holding Darya after their swim and both of them were grinning from ear to ear. He should leave it, but . . . The slick paper was cool against his finger. He picked it up. To hell with it, he thought, and shoved it into his breast pocket.
He was ready.
As he picked the bag up, he glanced in the corner at the full-length mirror. There was a reason he’d always hated mirrors.
The Reaper was back.
The hallway was quiet, and as he passed Darya’s doorway, he stopped. He pushed the door open, studying the lamp-lit room. He knew from something his mother had said today that this was now officially Darya’s room. Mom had already hired someone to come in and paint it a periwinkle blue. She’d asked Rori, who had looked panicked at the talk of decorating. A smile caught him off guard.
God, he didn’t want to leave. But if he left now, if he pulled this off—maybe, just maybe they wouldn’t have to leave later. He wouldn’t be running later, always looking over his shoulder in case one of Viktor Hellinski’s men had found him. He wished he had something to leave for Darya, something that said she was his and he’d be back, but nothing came to mind.
Still holding his bag, he turned from the room and looked up.
Rori stood in the doorway, dressed in beige slacks and a dark brown curve-following sweater.
She stared at him for a long moment.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door.
He opened his mouth.
“How long have you known?” she asked him.
“Since Monday, Tuesday, sometime. The hit was supposed to go down this weekend, but with the leak, Pete moved it.”
She nodded, her jaw moving slightly out, then in. “When were you going to tell me?” Her eyes flashed at him.
“When I needed to,” he answered.
Rori looked at the man standing in front of her and wondered what the hell was going on.
Gone was the laughing man from this morning, gone was the fading vulnerable man she glimpsed last night, gone was the man who smiled at his mother so she didn’t worry.
Here stood Dimitri Petrolov. Here stood the man she was hired to kill, who had killed just as she had, who had seen things and been part of things she could all too well imagine, the man who swore vengeance for the death of a young girl, and carried another from hell.
Bloody hell if she wasn’t in love with the both of them.
They were one and the same, all rolled together.
And then she realized it was a mirror, the opposite sex of herself.
She looked down and took a breath, still angry at him, but not nearly as angry as she had been.
“When are you leaving?” she asked him, leaning back against the door.
He walked to her and dropped the bag. “ASAP.”
“Where are you going? What are you doing? Dimitri Petrolov is not a man to be seen on the streets right now.” The anger was quickly coming back. She flexed her fingers. “People are blowing up your places, men are out looking for you. Are you insane, then?” She shook her head and walked around him, pacing to the French door, the sheers obstructing her view of the dead gardens and leaf-laden outdoor pool.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he said quietly behind her.
“I’m coming with you.” She turned to him and dared him to disagree.
He did, shaking his head. “You can’t.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said, her heart thumping. “What the hell am I supposed to do, sit here and play nice with your family? What do I know about bleeding families?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He took a deep breath and raked his hand through the long strands of hair.
“That’s almost frightening,” she heard herself say.
“What?” he asked, confusion in his face.
“Is that a wig?” Then she shook her head. “Like that would bloody matter. I honestly don’t know how you do it. You don’t just look different, you somehow become different.” She studied him, watched the way his eyes darkened, hardened to dark stones.
“I’m just me,” he said, his voice low and edged. Yet she could almost hear a plea in it.
She cupped his face. “Yes, you are, thank Gawd, just you.” And I think I might be falling for you.
He turned his head, held her wrist and kissed her palm.
“You’ll watch her until I get back.”
She huffed out a breath. “I’m coming with you.” The idea of him waltzing down the streets worried her.
He shook his head and let her hand drop. “No, Rori, you’re not.” He picked his bag up.
That order. That right there. Her anger returned in a rush. “Just who the bloody hell do you think you are? I’m not yours to order about.” She stalked up to him just as he opened the door. “And you’re not going alone.”
His hand on the open door, he looked back at her over his shoulder, and again a shiver danced down her spine at his change. “You will stay here. And I’m not going alone.”
She growled. She couldn’t help it. Man made her barking mad. “Of course, how could I forget the esteemed Brasher.” She looked at the end of the hallway, where said man had just topped the stairs. Upon seeing them, he simply turned around and headed back downstairs. Smart man.
“You don’t order me about. They may think I’m your wife, but I’m not a damn lap dog that stays simply because you ordered it.” She l
ooked at him, noted the muscle ticked in his jaw.
He stepped back and slammed the door. He took two steps to her and grabbed both her arms. His face in hers, his teeth clenched, his voice low and cold as an ice storm, he said, “You are most definitely mine, Lenora Maitland Kinncaid. You might not think this marriage is real, but it is legal in every damn way that counts.”
She blinked and tried to pull back, but his hands didn’t let go. She crossed her wrists then shot her arms out, hitting his.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Let me go.”
He jerked her closer. “Not until we get a few things straight. You’re independent, I admire that. I don’t want a fucking lap dog, doormat, little miss, or whatever the hell other label you want to stick on it.” Closer, his eyes blazed. “You might see this as just a cover, but legally it’s not. Your country, my country, whatever fucking country we’re in, you, Lenora Maitland, who signed said name to the marriage document with one Ian Rohnan Kinncaid. Both are legal names, the contract is legal and binding and that very much makes you mine.”
She blinked and realized what he said was the truth. She’d never thought about it. What they’d done, they’d done quickly for Darya’s sake. It was always for Darya’s sake.
He nodded. “Yeah. And if anything happened to me, I wanted to know she’d be cared for. Not just by my family, but by you as well.”
“Stop reading me. And you didn’t know me.”
His eyes still blazing, he said, “I knew enough.” His hands manacled her upper arms.
“Let me go, Ian.”
Still his eyes shot fire at her, his breath hot, his features hard. Having enough, she brought her foot down on his instep. He winced and let her go. She backed up and braced. For what, she didn’t know. “I said to bloody take your hands off of me.”
He stared for one long moment at her, shook his head, and turned, yanking the door open. Without a word, he picked his pack up in the hall and walked away.
She stood there for a split second, then ran after him.
“Ian, wait. Wait, bloody everlasting hell.” She caught up with him at the top of the stairs, but he kept going. “You asked for it.” She grabbed the banister and kicked out.
He ducked and whirled, reaching up and grabbing her ankle, yanking her to him.
She heard someone below yell. Heard John’s “Christ.”
Even as Ian turned and slammed her against the wall, bracing upward to keep their balance, and still he’d kept his arms around her so he didn’t hurt her back.
His eyes didn’t just blaze now, they engulfed. “If you ever try a stupid-ass stunt like that again, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he gritted out.
She couldn’t move. She tried to wiggle her arms free, but he had them pinned between him. The muscle ticked in his jaw. Taking him down on the stairs wasn’t the brightest of her plans. “You were rude. I detest when someone is rude to me.”
“Johnno’s rude to you all the fucking time and I don’t see you trying to kick his skull in.” Still he didn’t move.
“I didn’t try to kick your skull in, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she muttered. “I needed to get your attention.” Jutting her chin out to his, she said, “Be glad I didn’t reach for my gun.”
His eyes narrowed, and if possible the cold voice froze even lower. “You and I wouldn’t be having this conversation if you had.”
“Why, you think you’re that good?” He’d have shot her? Not that she really would have shot him. Gotten his bleeding attention, yes, which was all she wanted.
“I don’t have to be. My boss would have shot you.”
She took a deep breath. “You didn’t listen to me,” she tried.
“I heard all I needed to.”
“I don’t like being left out. Is that so bloody hard to understand?” she asked him, straining against the hold he had on her. She couldn’t bleeding budge.
“And I need you here.”
“Why are you going as Petrolov?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and sighed, whispering, “Rori, why do you think?” Opening his eyes, he looked at her, the anger not by any means gone, but banked. “What would make us safer?”
Us. Not me. Not Darya and me. Us.
She searched his eyes and saw he meant it. “Us?” she ventured.
“I knew exactly what I was doing for more reasons than one,” he said ambiguously.
She sighed. “Why are you taking John?”
He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, his breath hot against her mouth. She didn’t know who all watched below, and frankly, she didn’t care.
“I know you can handle yourself, but I couldn’t handle anything happening to you. Rori, I need you here. I need to know you’re safe. That our daughter is safe, and if, God forbid, I don’t come back, someone here will know how to hide her.” His lashes swept up as he looked straight into her eyes. “I need you.” He kissed her, just a press of lips. “Please.”
Something in her heart opened at those words. And he’d asked, not demanded, not ordered. Asked. Trusted. Wanted. Needed.
“No one’s ever needed me before,” she said, wiggling her arms.
He didn’t ease his hold. “I do.”
He kissed her hard, his body holding hers to the wall on the stairs, his gun pressing against her ribs, his mouth hot and demanding, yet giving and asking all at the same time.
He jerked away, then kissed her quickly again. Leaning back, he let her slide down until her feet were touching the stairs. He leaned down, picked up the bag and hurried down the rest of the stairs.
Mr. Jones stood below, glaring up at her, but with a smile on his face. He acknowledged her with a tilt of his salt-and-pepper hair. Ian’s parents stood in the entryway gaping, John tapping his thigh, impatient as usual, and Darya stood pale, her eyes as wide as if she’d seen a ghost.
Rori shook off her wondering thoughts and hurried down the stairs. At the bottom, Ian garbed as Petrolov knelt in front of Darya. When he reached for her, she jerked back whimpering.
Ian’s shoulders lifted on a deep breath and he asked the girl something. She shook her head, then shook it again. When he reached for her a second time, she glanced around and ran to Mr. and Mrs. Kinncaid, hiding behind Jock’s legs.
Oh bloody hell.
Her little face peaked out from behind Jock’s legs, tears sparkling in those blue eyes before tracking down her face.
Rori put her hand on Ian’s shoulder as he stood, shaking his head. “She won’t let me touch her.” His eyes, hard before, looked at her, and for a moment the pain in them rocked her, but he quickly masked it.
Jock leaned down and picked up Darya, holding her against him. Ian raked a hand through the hair, then shoved it behind his ears, took off the coat and handed it, along with the bag, to Rori. He walked to his parents and took a photograph from his pocket. She heard him speaking Russian to Darya, who was frowning at him. A moment passed, then another, then her small arms reached out to Ian.
He took her, his shoulders relaxing. The little girl wrapped herself around him and wouldn’t let go.
Rori could hear her talking softly; even as she couldn’t understand the language itself, she could hear the questions in the tone. Ian’s voice was soft and deep as he answered her. All Rori could do was watch. He showed her the photograph, waiting for her to take it. When she did, he kissed her on her forehead and tried to hand her off to Jock. But Darya clung to him, starting to whimper. His voice kept its low cadence, and finally he pulled her off him, handing her to his father. When he turned, the pain on his face was there for all to see.
Rori cupped his face. “She’ll be all right.”
He stared at her hard. “If . . .” Darya’s crying got louder and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“We’ve got to go,” Mr. Jones said. “I’m sorry.”
Ian’s eyes opened. “If I don’t make it back—”
“You will,” she interrupted him.
; “If I don’t, our old passports are upstairs in the dresser. Get to our house. Keep her safe for me.” He opened his mouth to say something else. Grabbing the back of her neck, he kissed her again. “Be careful. I can’t lose you.”
With that, he turned, joined Johnno at the front door and walked out into the winter night.
His parents looked after them, and Darya’s screaming grew frantic.
Rori grabbed Pete Jones’s arm. “He’s really that good, isn’t he?”
Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
She stared at him. “You make certain he comes home to us alive and well or you’ll be answering to me and cleaning up a mess of those responsible.”
He looked from her eyes to her hand on his arm, then met her gaze. “Is that a threat, Ms. Maitland?”
“It’s Mrs. Kinncaid and that’s a bloody promise.” She let go of his arm. “You don’t pull through and you’ll find out just why the Raven was the one chosen to take out the Reaper.”
She took Darya from the Kinncaids and walked to the front door, with the girl in her arms mumbling nonsensical words to her.
At the front door, they waved at the departing car.
Darya held the photograph he’d given her to her chest, her hiccups and shuddering breaths breaking the heart inside Rori that her husband had opened.
Chapter 26
Amsterdam
November 18, 11:54 p.m.
Dimitri Petrolov climbed out of the cab, the Rosse Buurt, or red-light, district in full swing. The canal was crowded with some night revelers. He scanned the street. Oudezijds Achterburgwal was living up to its reputation. Women posed in the glass-front windows. Lingerie—almost there, almost nonexistent—adorned, or not, those that sat, lounged, or leaned in the windows offering wares.
To him red-light districts had always been just that, a blur of red lights, so even memories of the places kept that crimson glow.
He hated these places. He knew, without a doubt, that many of those women staring out would fuck more men in one night than many did their entire lives. While many didn’t mind their profession, there were clubs where the women simply didn’t have a choice.
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