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What didn’t make sense was the plastic tape stretched across the doors. No Entry. Closed by order of the New York State Department of Health.
I went around back, picked the lock on one of the employee entrances and crept inside. The place really was lavish. Spotless, thick red carpets that swallowed up my footsteps. Glass chandeliers the size of small cars overhead. I walked the halls for a few minutes but there was no one there: no guests, no staff, not even a cleaner or a security guard. What made it doubly eerie was that everyone seemed to have left in a hurry. The ballroom was set up for a wedding reception: one table held a pyramid of champagne flutes three feet high, another an enormous, four-tier wedding cake. It was like everyone had walked out mid-shift. What happened here? I slipped the backpack off my shoulders and stashed it under a table. I wanted to look confident and in control, not like a woman on the run.
A convoy of black Mercedes pulled up outside. I peeked out of a window and saw bodyguards in suits checking the area. Then one of them opened a door and nodded to the man inside and—
I’ve met many leaders, even heads of state. But not all of them were powerful. Some were nothing more than puppets: amicable, empty vessels that the public would vote for, manipulated by someone behind the curtain. Some only won elections because their competitor was caught in a scandal, or only ascended to the throne because their father was killed.
Konstantin? You could feel the power radiating from him as he climbed from the car. A family walking down the street towards him suddenly stopped and turned the other way, the mother clutching her children close. A cop on his beat stiffened and then deliberately looked away, not making eye contact.
People forget that the devil isn’t just evil, he’s tempting. Konstanin’s cheekbones and perfect, aristocratic nose had been shaped by fallen angels and that full lower lip was pure sin. There was something regal about him: in another age, there’d have been marble statues capturing those features, stamps that showed off that hard jaw. Instead, there were gossip sites full of photos of him in tuxedos and about a million nice respectable New York women who fantasized about what Konstantin Gulyev might do to them.
He smoothed the lapels of his suit. Through the thin fabric of his tailored shirt, I could just make out the shadows of his Bratva tattoos. He turned and offered his hand to someone still inside the car.
Christina. Konstantin’s long-time girlfriend, gorgeous and glamorous. There were all sorts of rumors about where New York’s most notorious criminal had found his lover. Some say she was a high class call girl. Others an exiled princess. Then there are the really outlandish ones, the ones about her being some geeky FBI agent who impersonated the real Christina and switched places with her. But I pay no attention to ludicrous conspiracy theories.
Konstantin took Christina’s hand and headed for the front door of the hotel. When he reached the warning tape, he just snapped it: rules were things other people followed.
I pulled back from the window and turned to check my face in a mirror. And that’s when I saw Colton standing behind me.
30
COLTON
She whirled around and the look of disbelief on her face was so satisfying, it almost made my pounding head worth it. I smiled smugly.
A noise from the hallway caught her attention. “You can’t be here!” she hissed. “The man I’m meeting—”
“...is Konstantin Gulyev. I know you think I’m a fucking hillbilly but I’m good with faces. I recognize the head of the Russian mafia.”
“He’s not expecting an American! He’ll kill you!” I could see genuine panic in her eyes. Was she…worried about me?
Footsteps, right outside the door.
Tanya gave a sigh of despair. “Play along, if you want to live!”
She flung an arm around my waist, grabbed hold of my t-shirt and kissed me.
Suddenly, I was falling, tumbling into warm, sweet femininity. My eyes fluttered closed and I think I growled as our lips pressed harder. It wasn’t like any kiss I’d ever had: not the soft, sweet kiss at the end of a first date, not the frantic, lipstick-smearing kiss of lovers up against a wall. This was a goddamn magic spell. It drew me in, made me crave more and more. My hands found her cheeks and I kissed her deeper, my lips forcing her open. Her tongue flicked over mine, darkly taunting, and I growled and drew her harder against me, seeking her out and fucking owning her. Her silky hair was brushing against the tips of my fingers and I was lost in the softly feminine scent of her. My heart was pounding: God, I was addicted. Maybe there’s a drug in her lipstick. Isn’t that a thing spies do? If it was, I didn’t care. I just wanted to keep kissing her forever.
