The handler nods. "And the drive?"
I reach over, grab the hard drive, and hand it through the window. His fingers close around it, and he tucks it inside his coat without a second glance.
"Ivan will be pleased." He steps back, adjusting his collar. "Keep your phone close. He'll contact you soon with your next assignment."
"Understood."
The man turns and walks back to the sedan. He climbs inside, and a moment later, the car pulls out of the garage, taillights disappearing into the darkness.
I'm alone now, and I just sit there.
The silence presses in, and the faint drip of water echoes somewhere in the depths of the garage. The air smells like wet concrete and stale salty air from the Black Sea.
I pull out my phone and open the encrypted messaging app. My fingers move quickly, typing out the confirmation message I always send directly to Ivan after a job to tell him it's done. I guess it's my own old-school way of doing things.
??????
I hit send and watch the screen glow as the message transmits. The little checkmark appears, confirming delivery.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the lock button.
But my mind isn't on the job anymore.
It's back in that dark office.
The shattered lamp and scattered papers. Victor pinning me to the floor, his breath hot against my face, his gaze locked on mine like he could see straight through me.
I stop that thought, lock the phone, and toss it onto the passenger seat, then start the engine.
I need to leave. Need to put distance between me and this job. Between me and Victor Ionescu.
I pull out of the parking garage, and I tell myself I've escaped him. That our paths won't cross again unless his name is given to me on another assignment.
But as I merge onto an empty street, my pulse spikes.
Not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
The thrill of knowing that maybe, just maybe, the game between us is far from over.
7
VICTOR
The crystal whiskey decanter catches the afternoon light streaming through Lucian's office window, splitting it into fragments across the mahogany desk. I shift in the leather chair, adjust my suit jacket, and suppress the wince threatening to crack my carefully maintained relaxed expression.
It's been four days since the hit at Bogdan's house, but more importantly, it's four days since she vanished through that window with my prize.
Lucian doesn't look up as he pours our drinks. The new don's hands are steady, and he's settling nicely into things.
The decanter clicks softly on the bar cart as he sets it down. He turns and stares at me, holding two glasses.
"Victor," he says, handing me my drink, his eyes scanning my face for something I won't let him find. "You look tired."
I accept the whiskey and watch him settle into the chair behind the desk, our father's chair, though Lucian wears the authoritydifferently. No paranoia clouding his judgment. No communist-era suspicion poisoning every decision.
Just cold, calculated power.
"Long week," I say, bringing the glass to my lips. The whiskey burns, but it's never in a bad way.
