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“You won’t get away with it for long.”
Misha chuckles. “It seems like you need a vacation, Petyr. How’s that wife of yours doing? Is she still trying to kill off your mistresses? That must be like a game of Whack-a-Mole. Very exhausting. But hats off to Olga—she doesn’t give up.”
“You little—” Petyr freezes mid-lunge as a loud click echoes through the room.
I look around and realize all thirty of Misha’s men have weapons in their hands. And they’re all pointed at Petyr Ivanov.
I just stand there, trapped in a living nightmare, wondering how on earth I got here in the first place.
“We’re here at your invitation, Petyr,” Misha remarks casually. “If you choose to violate the respect due to me as your guest, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to violate the respect due to you as my host.”
“You won’t make it out of here alive,” Petyr snarls.
“Death is always around the corner for all of us. Closer for some than others, though.”
Petyr looks disgusted. “We’re done here. Get out of my building.”
Misha nods and his men put their guns away. It’s like a perfectly orchestrated dance. Everything happens in unison.
“I look forward to our next meeting, Petyr,” Misha says with a smirk. “Take care.”
* * *
“What the fuck was that?” I demand the moment we’re back in the Rolls.
Misha doesn’t seem at all flustered. In fact, he looks downright relaxed as we drive away from the gleaming bronze spire of Ivanov Industries.
“What do you mean?”
“That wasn’t a normal business meeting, Mish—Mr. Orlov,” I correct. “That… Well, I don’t know what the hell it was. But I know what it wasn’t. Who are you? Like, really?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“I guess I don’t believe you then,” I snap. “Is the business you run legitimate?”
He glances at me in mild surprise. “Some of it is.”
I fall silent for a moment, but the cogs in my head keep spinning. I check the rearview mirror and note that all the armored trucks are still tailing us.
“Do you always travel with this kind of security?”
“Not usually. But since we were meeting on Petyr’s territory, it was necessary.”
“You talk like…”
When I trail off, his gaze fixates on my face. “Yes?”
“You talk like you’re a mob boss or something,” I admit, hoping that he’ll correct me. I want him to laugh in my face, at the very least.
Unfortunately, he does neither.
“Just take a deep breath, Ms. Masters,” he advises. “And remember that what you heard and witnessed today is strictly confidential. But considering you read that NDA back to front, I’m sure you don’t need reminding.”
“Who would I tell?” I ask bitterly.
“Rowan De Silva, for one,” he says without hesitation.
My chin jerks towards him. “What are you—Why would I tell her?”
