Chapter Five

IRINA VOLKOV

But I had the check. The money was already mine. What harm could one drink do? And if I refused, if I seemed too eager to leave, it might raise suspicions.

This is risky and fucking dangerous.

Besides, there was something in his eyes. A challenge. Like he knew I wanted to refuse and was daring me to do it.

I made my decision. One drink. Thirty minutes. Then I will excuse herself, go straight to the airport, and be in Prague by morning.

Okay, sounds perfect.

"I'd love to," I said, releasing a smile. "That sounds wonderful."

"Excellent." Damien signaled for the check. "My car is outside."

The check came and went, I didn't even see how much it was, though I caught a glimpse of several zeros. Damien paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with the ease of someone who never had to think about money.

Then we were standing, his hand warm on the small of my back as he guided me through the restaurant. The two security guards fell into step behind us, silent as shadows.

Outside, the Moscow night was cold and clear. A black Mercedes waited at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights. The driver, another suited, dangerous-looking man opened the back door.

Damien helped me inside with a gentlemanly courtesy that would have been charming if my instincts weren’t screaming for me to fucking run.

The interior of the car was luxurious. Leather seats, tinted windows, a partition between the front and back. Damien slid in beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Masculine. Oddly intoxicating.

The guards got into a second car behind us

Okay, in case you don’t know yet—I’m scared.

"Where do you live?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

"Ostozhenka. Near the cathedral." He smiled. "Very quiet. Very private."

Ah. Ostozhenka. One of Moscow's most exclusive neighborhoods. Of course.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. I spent it making small talk, playing the role of Anastasia, while my mind raced through contingency plans. The car turned onto a tree-lined street and pulled up to a modern building that was all glass and steel.

A doorman appeared immediately, opening the car door. Damien helped me out, his hand once again on my back, proprietary and warm. Seems like he has a thing for backs. Or maybe he’s just being a gentleman. A dangerous gentleman.

The lobby was pristine. Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by yet another serious-looking man in a suit. He nodded at Damien with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

It’s not too late to turn back, right? I mean I can just tell him I have somewhere to go—someone to meet at the moment.

I just need to come up with a lie, right?

We rode the elevator to the top floor in silence. The guards stayed in the lobby, I noticed that and breathe out in relief. Just me and dangerous Damien, rising through the building like we were ascending to some private kingdom.

The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

I stepped out and froze.

Okay,

The penthouse was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city, Moscow spread out like a glittering jewel box. The space was enormous, open plan living area, sleek modern furniture, art that probably cost more than I’d made in my entire life of scamming.

This wasn't the home of an import-export businessman. No, no, no.

This was the home of someone with serious money. Serious power.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Damien’s voice came from behind me, close enough that I felt his breath on my neck.

"It's beautiful," I managed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Make yourself comfortable." He moved to a bar area, pulling out two crystal glasses. "Vodka? Wine? Whiskey?"

"Wine is fine," I said, perching on the edge of a leather sofa that probably cost more than a car.

This guy is rich—wealthy. Fucking wealthy.

I watched him pour, my muscles coiled tight, ready to run. The elevator required a key card to operate. I'd seen him use it. Which meant I was trapped up here unless he let me leave.

Okay, calm down, I told myself. You're being paranoid. This is just a drink. Thirty minutes and you're gone.

Damien returned with two glasses of white wine and sat down beside me. Not across from me, beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.

Breathe, girl.

"To partnership," he said, raising his glass.

"To partnership," I echoed, taking a small sip.

For a moment, we sat in silence. The view really was spectacular. Moscow glittered below them like a universe of stars. It was easy to see why someone with this much money, this much power, might feel like a god looking down on mortals.

And here I was, willingly walked into the beast’s belly.

"Can I ask you something, Anastasia?"

The way he said my name. My fake name. Made something cold slither down my spine.

"Of course," I said.

"What's your real name?"

My…. heart stopped.

"I... what?" I forced a confused laugh. "Damien, my name is Anastasia. I don't understand...."

"Your real name." His voice was still pleasant, conversational, but there was steel underneath now. "The one your mother gave you. The one on your actual passport, not the fake one you're planning to use at the airport tonight."

The world tilted. Busted.