It was me asleep on the plane, leaning against the seat with my face turned slightly toward the window. I swallowed and stared at it longer than necessary.
After all the times I asked him to take pictures of me when I was properly posed, this man apparently decided my best moment was when I was sleeping. And annoyingly enough, the photo was perfect.
I wasn’t posing or even aware he took it. Yet somehow he captured every angle so well it looked intentional, like I pretended to be asleep for aesthetic purposes.
The lighting softened my face, the window glow catching against my skin while the dark seat framed everything neatly. Why the fuck was he good at photography too?
Dmitri already walked through life unfairly attractive, terrifying, and rich. Apparently, he could also frame a photograph better than half the influencers online.
Did he consider becoming a photographer before deciding that the organized crime business suited him better?
Chapter Forty-nine
Dmitri Konstantinov
I sat behind a dustydesk with a glass of cheap vodka in my hand. Thirty minutes of waiting in this miserable safe house had nearly convinced me that Zachary had forgotten his own hiding place. But his voice grew closer from the hallway.
I flicked my lighter on and held the flame steady when he touched the doorknob. He didn’t open it immediately. He was still talking.
“Nobody finds out I’m here. I mean nobody. You understand how this works. Someone is already out there looking, and these are politics. One wrong move and we screw up everything.” He opened the door and stepped into the dark room. “I will call you. Just—”
He stopped mid-sentence when the lights came on, and he found me seated behind his desk.
The flame snapped shut beneath my thumb as I took a slow sip of vodka.
The confidence drained from his face. It was fascinating watching it happen. The man who walked in, giving orders,disappeared. The one standing there looked as if he were trying to calculate how many mistakes had brought him to this exact moment.
His hand trembled slightly around the phone. To his credit, he dismissed the person on the other end. “Let me call you back.”
I reached for the bottle and poured myself another drink.
“Drink?” I asked, filling a second glass and sliding it across the desk toward the empty chair opposite me.
He remained exactly where he was, and I had no intention of rushing him. Zachary came here because he believed this place was secure. He believed distance and locked doors could protect him from me.
Instead, I arrived first. Now he was standing inside his own safe house like an uninvited guest.
His thumb shifted across the phone screen, subtle enough to pass unnoticed by most people.
“Careful with that.” I nodded toward his chest. “That red light isn’t decoration.”
His eyes dropped to his chest where the laser light rested.
Now he understood the situation. He might have believed I was reckless enough to walk into this room unprepared. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t feeling charitable today. His legs made the decision and carried him across the room. He lowered himself into the chair opposite me with remarkable obedience.
“How…how did you get in here?” he asked.
My gaze remained on him. The bald spot had expanded since the last time I saw him, and the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested sleep had become a rare luxury.
Fear does that to people.
I could kill him in this room, and nobody outside would hear a thing. I had at least five different ways to do it. But killing him cleanly wasn’t the point. It would be too quick, too merciful for a man who planted a bomb in my car.
First, he needed to understand.
I leaned forward and arranged five files across the desk, turning the documents toward him.
“I kept wondering where a politician finds this kind of reach.” I settled back into the chair and swirled the vodka in my glass. “Because a politician is just a man pretending to be important using other people’s money. Turns out you own quite a lot under different names. Carlos Hernandez holds the largest stake in an oil company registered across three territories.” I flipped open the next file. “Ernesto Yurgis. Sugar production. Different industries, same structure. Different names on paper, your money underneath. I could keep going all night.”
