6

ANDREY

Natalia Boone.

The details of her life are splayed out before me, and I damn near fall asleep reading it. "Mundane" doesn't even begin to describe her.

She lives in a four-hundred-square foot studio in Queens. Works a dead-end job at an insurance company downtown. No loans, no criminal history, not even a goddamn parking ticket.

And yet, somehow, she's managed to find herself on my radar.

"Is this all you managed to dig up?"

Shura paces behind the couch in my hotel room, forever restless. "The girl's clean, ‘Drey. There was nothing to find."

Her phone is lying on the coffee table next to her purse. It only took me a few minutes to hack into it. Even that was a disappointment. Apart from a bunch of messages and calls to "Aunt Annie" and the infamous Katya Petrova, her social circle is empty.

Her Notes app is filled with a list of romance novel titles under the header Books to read on the subway and a grocery list consisting of exactly two items: boxed wine and Cherry Garcia ice cream.

The girl certainly seems clean. Pure as the driven snow, really.

In other words—too good to be true.

Maybe Nikolai picked her for this exact reason.

Shura's phone vibrates and he ambles over to the door. "They're here, boss."

I gesture for him to let them in. Leif escorts her through, bows briefly in my direction, then steps back out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

The sexy green dress she was wearing at the beginning of the night is gone. She's swapped it out for an oversized t-shirt that barely covers her ass. If my Spanish can be trusted, I'm pretty sure her shirt reads "dirty."

It's a little on the nose, considering she fucking reeks. A corrosive mixture of big city stink and the sweat of fear.

"Natalia—" She flinches when I use her name. "Long time, no see."

Her green eyes are wild as she raises her bound wrists towards me and sneers. "Untie me. Now."

The last time I was given a command was from my father. That was years ago.

It's kind of funny—almost endearing—that this little bird thinks she can get away with bossing me around, when she's the one with her hands tied together.

She seems to realize the same thing a second later, because her tone softens considerably. "Please."

I pull out my engraved switchblade knife. With one swift slice, her hands are free.

A second later, one of those hands flies out and slaps me.

She shrinks back immediately, gawking in disbelief at the offending hand as though it acted without her permission.

"That was a foolish choice, Ms. Boone," I rasp. Panic drains the color from her face. "The last person who laid a hand on me is rotting in an unmarked grave."

Her green eyes go wide. "Y-you're just trying to scare me…"

"Care to test that theory?"

"Not really, no." She shudders. "I don't want any trouble, okay? I just wanna go home."

"You should have thought about that before you decided to crash my party."

"I wasn't even aware—" She breaks off, biting her bottom lip to hold back the rest of her explanation. "Listen, tonight was just one big misunderstanding. If you let me go, I promise you won't ever have to see my face again."

Now, why would I agree to that? That pretty little face has so much to offer.

"I might let you go… if you answer a few questions for me."

She pulls down the t-shirt as if she can miraculously make it reach her knees. "You can't do this! This is kidnapping! And… and… Look, you can't keep me here against my will."

"I think you'll find the only will that matters here is mine." I walk back to the couch. "Take a seat."

"I'd rather stand."

Shrugging, I sit down right in front of her purse and phone. She clocks them right away and makes a grab for them.

I slide her belongings closer to me. "Not so fast. You want your things? You'll have to earn them back." I point at the couch with my switchblade. "Sit, Ms. Boone. I won't ask you again."

She falls heavily into the armchair across from me. The t-shirt rides all the way up, revealing a seductive stretch of inner thigh before she crosses her legs.

"What do you want to know?" She's trying to come off as confident and commanding, but she's failing miserably. I see the signs everywhere—her quivering hands, her wobbly lip, the side-to-side darting of her eyes.

"When did you first meet my brother?"

"I don't know. Just… around."

I sigh and start to stand like that ends that. "If you're uninterested in your freedom, then I'll just leave you?—"

"Neon Moon!" she blurts. "We met at Neon Moon."

Fuck me. That shithole is one of the places Nikolai used as a meat market for his "merchandise," his sick way of referring to the women and children he'd sell to his equally sick clientele before I put an end to that business.

Maybe Natalia and her friend are working for Nikolai after all.

"You go there often?"

"I don't go there at all, if I can help it," she spits. "I was forced there one night by my pushy-as-hell best friend because she wanted me to meet the guy she was dating."

She crosses her hands over her chest, causing the t-shirt to ride up even higher. Is she still wearing underwear or has that gone the same way as her dress?

"If she'd just listened to me back then when I told her what I thought of Viktor—" There's no mistaking the disgust when she says his name. "—which is that he seemed like a rich, arrogant, narcissistic asshole, I wouldn't be in this mess right now. No offense."

I can't help but laugh. "None taken. You really hit the nail on the head with my brother."

"Yeah, well, I'm a pretty good judge of character. Except, apparently, with you."

"Is that right?" I fold one ankle over the opposite knee and lean back in my seat. "Go on; don't let me stop you. Tell me what you really think of me."

"I thought you were kinda nice when I first met you. Cold and arrogant, sure, but still the kind of guy who'd walk a girl to her door in the middle of the night or… or… offer her a handkerchief when she was sweating…" Those green eyes flicker to me. "Clearly, I was wrong. You're not a nice guy. You're a bully and an asshole. Just like your brother."

I tilt my head to the side as I look at her. "If my brother really is the worthless sack of shit you clearly think he is, why turn up at this wedding at all?"

"That was all Katya!" she explodes. "I thought we were having a girls' night out. I had no idea she was planning on roping me into her insane little revenge plot." She jumps to her feet. "And before you insult me by asking—no, I am most definitely not your brother's mistress and I am definitely not carrying his baby!"

It takes all my effort to suppress a laugh. Who knew interrogations could be so amusing?

"So, you're not one of my brother's many conquests. Congratulations. But your friend…"

She freezes. "My friend has bad taste in men. That's not a crime." She looks around the hotel room. "Where is she?"

"I'd worry about yourself right now."

She sighs. "Listen, I get it: Viktor is a dangerous man. You're a dangerous man. I've got the message, loud and clear. I'm not about to go tell anyone."

I get to my feet, towering over her. "Who would you tell?"

"No one. That's my point."

I stalk around the coffee table. She shrinks more and more with every step. "Ever heard of Nikolai Rostov?"

"Who?"

"You've spent time at the Neon Moon. Surely his name came up."

"I've been at that club exactly once and I did not enjoy any part of it." She wrinkles her nose. "The men looked at me like I was meat and the waitresses had dead eyes and…" She shakes off the memory she's obviously reliving. "I don't know who this Nicholas guy is, okay?"

"Nikolai."

"See? I don't even know his name."

"Or you're just a very good actress."

"Look at me. How likely do you think that is?"

The chuckle nearly escapes before I manage to stuff it back down. "I'll admit: not very."

"Exactly." She sounds relieved. "Now, can I please go home?"

"Yes."

Her jaw drops. "Yes?"

I nod. "I'll drive you myself."

The relief in her eyes disappears at once. "That's really, really not necessary." She picks up her purse and her phone. "I can get myself home now that I have my stuff."

"I may not be a nice man, lastochka—but your initial assessment of me wasn't completely wrong, either. I am the type of man who feels the need to get a woman back home safely in the middle of the night."

"Why do I get the feeling there's an ulterior motive attached to this act of chivalry?"

I don't bother answering her question, though the obvious answer is that there's always an ulterior motive. I just smile and gesture towards the door. "After you, Ms. Boone."

She scowls, unwilling to turn her back on me completely. "Do I have a choice?"

"No," I say, finally letting loose the laugh I've been holding back. "None at all."