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"I-I do."
"You are not a whore. Say it. I want to hear you say it. You are not, and never will be, a whore."
She swallowed. "I’m not, and never will be, a whore."
I gave her an approving grunt before I stated, "Victoria?"
"Yes, Maxim?"
"Never speak his name again. He is not Timofai to you. He isnothing. Do you understand?"
"I understand," she whispered. "Thank you, Maxim."
She cut the call, and I was grateful because I didn't know if I could.
She was mine. I protected what was mine. But I couldn't have her yet. Didn't want her at the age she was, but she represented so fucking much.
Stepanov clearly knew of my intentions—the question washow.
After pondering the situation, I called Misha over Nikolai. Nikolai was better with a knife, but unfortunately he was in Miami. Misha’s preference was death by asphyxiation, but he was at home.
Misha wasn't my Sovietnik or my Obschak, but I trusted him more than Kirill or Tima in this matter—maybe that said a lot, or maybe it just meant that old habits died hard.
The three of us had come up together from these godawful streets, after all.
With the dial tone in my ear, I moved straight for the bar.
This place was a white-on-white nightmare. I fucking loathed it, but it was minimalist and the best the Bratva had to offer a visiting Pakhan.
I grabbed the vodka from the fridge that sat on the bar, and I jerked at the screw cap one-handed before I gulped some down and then splashed a glug onto my busted knuckles.
"It's a travesty to waste a twenty-four-hundred-dollar bottle of vodka by using it to clean a wound."
I froze then moved my cell to the counter and laid it on the marble.
Bottle still in hand, I twisted around and stared at the woman seated on the sofa, perched there as smartly as the hookers theKrestniy Otetshad sent me that first night as a welcome gift.
I’d returned them without sampling the merchandise—fucking spies, the lot of them.
"I know you," I said warily.
She shot me a smile as she sipped at the vodka she'd poured herself. "You do."
My mind raced as I scoured my memory for her identity. When it hit me, I frowned. "Star Sullivan."
"Ten points to you," she rasped.
"What are you doing here?" Not just in Moskva, but in my goddamn apartment.
"I'm not here to kill you," she said, her tone amused as she eyed how I was holding the bottle by the neck, just ready to slam it against the bar and use it as a weapon. "I could have done that before you entered the building. I want a favor."
Her words had me grabbing my cell and disconnecting the call so that Misha wouldn’t hear the conversation. She didn't make any moves to stop me, just studied me with that same annoying smile—as if she knew she was the most dangerous creature in the room.
Maybe she fucking was.
Lock Star Sullivan in a padded cell with five armed men and she’d kill them blindfolded.
I tipped up my chin. "What do you want?"
