And Danika has no idea.
Did my father?
Maybe that's why he worked with him, because he was just as corrupt. When Father paid the fifty million to have Elena taken, he thought he was buying an alliance with the Volkovs. He wasn't. He was funding Dimitri's shadow coup, and Maxim was reaping the rewards.
My jaw clenches with rising frustration.
Danika's been loyal to Ivan her entire life, from what she told me. She trusts him completely. Which means she and Ivan himself have no reason to suspect Dimitri is the real threat, not until either of them opens that data and sees the proof.
I lean back against the cracked leather seat, forcing myself to think strategically.
Part of me knows why she left: to protect herself, to keep her loyalty to Ivan intact. She probably rationalized it as completing the mission, clearing the Volkov name, and repaying some imaginary debt.
I close my eyes and see her again, her blonde hair falling loose across the pillow, her blue eyes finally softening as she curled into me. For a few hours, she wasn't a Bratva cleaner. She wasn't my enemy.
She was just Danika.
And I let her walk away.
The taxi lurches to a sudden stop, throwing me forward. My hand shoots out, bracing against the seat in front of me.
"What the hell?" I ask.
The driver gestures helplessly at the windshield. "Traffic, signore. The tourists, they are everywhere this time of morning."
I look out the window. We're stuck in a bottleneck of cars near the marina and the luxury hotels lining the coast. Well-dressed couples stroll along the sidewalk, talking and laughing.
I grit my teeth and check my watch.
"How long?"
The driver shrugs. "Two minutes only. The Continental Hotel entrance is just around the corner. This is the back side of it."
I exhale sharply through my nose, and my gaze drifts out the side window, scanning the street out of habit.
And then I see it.
Down a narrow side alley near the service entrance is a black SUV parked at an odd angle, its doors flung open. Three men in dark suits walk toward the vehicle, one of them holding a struggling figure over his shoulder.
My pulse spikes.
The person fights hard, twisting and jerking against the guard's grip, but he overpowers her easily.
I can't see her face, but I don't need to.
I know the shape of her body. The way she moves. The defiant arch of her back, even as they shove her into the back seat.
It's Danika.
Ice floods my veins.
I lean forward, my breath fogging the window as I press closer to the glass. The men slam the SUV door, trapping her inside. One of them climbs into the driver's seat. Another stands guard, scanning the street.
And then, casually, Dimitri Volkov walks out past them, adjusts his suit jacket with a calm expression, and climbs into a black Bentley.
Shit. They found her, and they know.
Dimitri knows she took the intel. He knows she broke into his penthouse, copied his tablet, and compromised his entire operation.
