The bed is huge, dressed in crisp white linens that smell faintly of cedar. I don’t bother changing out of my damp clothes. I just crawl under the covers and stare at the ceiling, watching the city lights paint faint patterns across the plaster.
Fadir’s charming smile flashes in my mind, then twists into the raised hand in the warehouse. The betrayal burns fresh. But underneath it, something new flickers.
Is it resolved? Cold and sharp as the blade Alexey carries but never raises.
I’ll pretend to be the dangerous man’s lover. I’ll help tear Fadir’s world apart piece by piece. When it’s done, I’ll walk away richer and freer than I’ve ever been.
My ire is the only thing keeping me warm tonight. It’s enough.
For now.
Chapter 4 - Alexey
Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, turning the marble kitchen island into a slab of cool white veined with gray.
The city below is already awake, traffic humming faintly twenty-eight floors down, but up here the only sounds are the soft gurgle of the coffee maker and the occasional clink of a mug.
I stand at the counter, sleeves rolled to my elbows, watching the black liquid fill two heavy ceramic cups. Black for me. One sugar and a splash of oat milk for her. I noticed the half-empty carton in Fadir’s fridge during the background sweep.
Anja sits across from me on one of the tall stools, elbows on the marble, with her shoulders slightly hunched. Exhaustion clings to her like a damp cloth. Obscure circles bruise the skin beneath those sparkling green eyes, and her long hair is twisted up in a messy knot that looks like it was done with impatient fingers.
She wears the gray sweatpants and light blue t-shirt I left in the guest suite. It’s too big on her frame, with the sleeves swallowing her arms down to her elbows.
Yet even rumpled and hollowed out from last night’s chaos, she holds her spine straight. Determined. Like someone who has decided the only way forward is through the fire.
I slide the mug across the island. Steam curls between us.
“Rules,” I say without preamble, keeping my voice level and low. There’s no need for theatrics. “Public appearances will be convincing, but they stay professional. Hand at your back for cameras, shared glances, the occasional quiet word in your ear. Enough to sell the image that you’ve moved on. Nothingmore. You share any intel you have on Fadir. I want his habits, daily routines, accounts, passwords, and anything you picked up while you were with him. In return, I provide safety, resources, a roof over your head, and money when it’s over. No expectation of anything physical.Ever. That line stays in place.”
She wraps both hands around the warm mug, staring down into the coffee like it might hold answers.
For a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the city. Then she lifts her gaze to mine. Her green eyes are still wary, still carrying last night’s fury, but something in them eases just a fraction.
The rigid set of her shoulders softens by a degree. Not trust. Not yet. Relief, maybe, that I’m not another man turning the situation into something uglier.
“Professional,” she repeats, almost tasting the word. “Good. Because if you try anything else, I’ll find a way to make you regret it.”
The corner of my mouth twitches into almost a smile, but I kill it before it forms. “Noted.”
“Fine. Rules accepted. Now what?” She takes a slow sip from her mug, winces at the heat, then sets it down.
I lean against the opposite side of the island, arms braced on the cool marble. “Start talking. Anything you remember about his operation. Even small things.”
She hesitates only a second before the words begin to spill. At first, they come careful and measured, like she’s testing whether I’ll use them against her. Then the dam cracks. She tells me about the late-night phone calls he took in the study with the door locked.
The way he’d disappear for “supplier meetings” that never seemed to happen during normal business hours. A hidden folder on his laptop labeled “Charity Projections” that actually contained spreadsheets of shell companies and wire transfers/ She mentions accounts routed through offshore entities with names that sounded too clean.
She recites partial passwords she’d glimpsed over his shoulder when he thought she was asleep on the couch. Routing numbers scribbled on the back of a takeout menu she found in his jacket pocket once.
I listen without interrupting, committing every detail to memory. My mind sorts them automatically, cross-referencing with the intelligence Andrei and I have already gathered.
Some of it overlaps. Some of it is new.
But all valuable.
The kind of granular, intimate knowledge that comes only from living in the enemy’s space.
She leans forward as she speaks, both elbows on the marble, the messy knot of hair slipping slightly so a few auburn-streaked strands fall against her cheek. Her voice gains strength with every sentence, her exhaustion giving way to something sharper.
