I eye my empty glass. I refused a driver tonight, wanting us to be truly alone, and am now regretting it. To numb the pain at the very least.
A uniformed waiter stops by, asking if we need anything else. I wave him off, and he scurries away.
I’ve been here before, but not often. It’s harder to hit a moving target, and it’s more challenging to track down someone who doesn’t follow a routine.
The man outside Aleksandr’s favorite club and stalking his home knew exactly where to look to find him, and I had to prove we had the same ability earlier. Nice of Maksim to warn me about an alliance with another gangafterI got stabbed in the shoulder.
“You okay?” Carina tilts her head, studying me closely.
I shift in the chair, suppressing the grimace that wants to appear when the movement tugs at fresh stitches. I force a smile. “Fine. How was your day?”
“Thrilling. I worked out, then got ready for dinner.”
This smile comes easier. “You ran?”
“And boxed. Misha held the bag for me.”
My smile dims at the mention of his name. Misha didn’t tell Igor about the contents of the drive, so I know he wouldn’t share the details with Carina. It’s an unwelcome reminder anyway.
I check my watch.
“Am I eating too slowly?”
“We have another stop after this.”
“I didn’t bring my gun.”
“You won’t need it,” I say, wishing that hadn’t been her first thought.
Carina wanted a life free from danger and violence, and I only increased their presence. I could justify it when there were no other options, but now …
I’ll enjoy this night with her. Tomorrow, my problems will still exist.
“Ready?” I stand without waiting for her response, fighting a grimace as a muscle in my shoulder twitches.
Carina pushes her chair back, appearing oblivious to the stares following us as we depart the restaurant. I take the keysfrom the valet rather than allowing him to pull up the car, wanting a moment to compose myself. I leave Carina waiting by the stand, trying to shed my fears like a heavy coat as I stride across the lot.
What’s the worst part of getting exactly what you want?
Losing it.
I spent twelve years ensuring Carina was kept entirely separate from the rest of my life. Now, she’s embedded in its very center, and I have something to lose. It’s terrifying. I can’t protect myself from her leaving, not if she wants to go.
I climb behind the wheel and reverse out of the spot too fast. I feel more frantic than calm, being apart from her. She’s a disease and a cure. An addiction and an antidepressant.
There are three men at the stand when I pull up beside it. One is the uniformed valet, who casts a nervous glance at me as I emerge from the vehicle. The other two don’t acknowledge me, too focused on Carina. One’s repeatedly asking her name, the other staring at her breasts.
She doesn’t react or reply, focused on me.
“Her name is Carina Sokolov,” I state in Russian.
The man who was staring immediately backs up, recognizing the last name. The other hesitates before stepping away as well, slurring an apology.
I spot the gun first.
The weapon overshadows anything about the stranger holding it, although I do register those details, including the tattoo on the side of his neck. I spent all morning looking at it.
Instinct and training prevail over a spurt of panic. The three men are irrelevant, but Carina is feet away. If I focus on that, I won’t be able to function. I fire before the man realizes I’ve spotted him lurking, my earlier words to Carina—“You won’t need it”—taunting me. My would-be attacker slumps against the side of the building, then falls to the ground.
