In For the Kill (3 page)

“Marco was there. In his crib,” she corrected, primly.

“Whatever. You're so wound up in this scary story of almost getting your heart ripped out. It defines you. It freaks you out, to be cut loose from that. It makes you feel lost. Scared.”

“Petrie, do everyone a favor, and don't take up psychology.”

“You lost yourself,” he persisted. “I could help you find it again.”

The frown line between her brows deepened. “You're so arrogant.”

“That day when I touched you. You came so hard. I dream about it at night. Wake up shaking. Drenched in sweat. So fucking hard.”

She shook her head. “Please,” she whispered.

He rubbed his cheek against that loose, gleaming topknot. “It scared you, baby. You thought you were going to die. But you won't. I'll take care of you. You won't fall to pieces. Or if you do, it'll only be for a few seconds, and I'll hold you all together. I'll hold you so tight. I'll keep you so safe.” He tasted her, trailing his lips down to her collarbone.

“Sam,” she breathed out. “Please.”

“I'll make it so good. I'll get you off like that, over and over. I won't be rough. I won't scare you, and I won't hurt you. Just . . . trust me.”

She looked up to meet his eyes. He went very still. The raw pain blazing out of them jolted him right out of his seduction schtick.

“I don't know how to trust like that,” she said. “I just . . . can't. I'm really not playing hard to get. You tempt me, yes. But I hold back because I just don't have what you want. It's not there, Sam.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “That mechanism, it doesn't work, in me. I don't mean to be a tease, or cruel, or . . . or disdainful. I never wanted to be a frigid bitch. It's sad and it's awful, but it's the truth. It's my reality, and I'm sorry if I . . . I'm just so sorry.”

He processed that. “So we'll work on it,” he offered. “I felt a lot of potential, back there in Bruno's office. We'll fix it. No biggie.”

“No biggie, he says.” Her voice was strangled. “Don't try to rescue me from my past. You'll just hurt yourself. It's bigger than you are.”

“How would you know how big I am?”

She shot him a glance and snorted, reddening.

“I didn't say it,” he crowed, delighted. “It was you.”

“English is not my first language,” she said haughtily. “Don't try to trap me in word games. I will never get the joke.”

She wasn't pulling away. He stroked her shoulders, encountered the straps that held up the cups of gathered fabric that her perfect tits were nestled in. He flicked the ribbons down. Her eyes widened as the fabric slid down—catching on her nipples. She jerked her hands up—

Or tried to. He caught them up short, staring into her eyes as the cups slid down to dangle over the shell of the bustier.

She didn't fight, didn't flail. Just stood there, breath stuttering rapidly in and out. Her high, beautiful breasts bared to him.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “I've lain awake nights staring at the ceiling, imagining you exactly like this.”

He felt his way, slowly. Using those secret senses that jolted to life only when she was near. Eyes and ears that opened only for her. He strained for more. He wanted inside her hidden depths, to take possession. He waited, savoring the tension, until he dared to risk sliding his hands up to cup her breasts, with fingers that trembled.

A ripple went through her, then a sighing, barely audible moan. He caressed her, tender, spiraling whorls over and around her taut, deep pink nipples, the soft, plump under-curve, the tender fullness. So perfect. Springy, luscious. Suckable. But not now, because she'd rested her head on his shoulders, and the slight, warm weight of her head upon him was such a miracle in itself, he didn't dare mess with it.

He inhaled her scent. Warm and spicy and sweet. Her hair had come unpinned, and the thick horsetail draped over his arm, making him wish his arm was bare. His sleeve blocked out the live heft of that heavy silken rope. His fingers buzzed. She was actually letting him touch her. It put him in a state of trembling, worshipful awe.

She twisted around and looked up. Lips in reach.

That was it, just like the last time. Conscious control vanished.

She melted into him, arms twined around his neck. Oh, God, that sweet, tender inside flavor, the impossible softness of her lips. A swift glance yielded scant possibilities for taking this tryst horizontal. The floor was gleaming oak. Spindly legged chairs, tables with runners, antique breakables. No couches or lounges. So it was the wall again. He could deal with gravity. What was upper-body strength for, after all.

He scooped her up. A few steps, and he pinned her to the closest bare spot of wallpaper, fiercely intent upon tasting, touching, knowing more. He leaned to kiss her breasts, and she moaned, rib cage heaving, fingers twining in his hair. He lifted armfuls of skirt, slid his hand up her thigh. Hot, smooth. Stretchy lace, soft skin, filmy silk stretched over tender girl parts, the moisture seeping through. The heat, the wet. He couldn't wait to taste it. Lick it. Get inside. Deep inside. Oh, God, now. The wanting was a huge, feral beast inside him, clawing to get out.

Her thighs trembled. He slid his finger under the elastic, into silky folds that yielded sweetly, pressing deeper into a hot, slick paradise—

Rap, rap, rap.
“Sveti? Sveti! Petrie? You in there?”

Rap, rap rap rap rap,
louder and sharper. Tam's voice. A brief pause and then again, rattling at the locked door.
Rap, rap, rap.
“Sveti? Goddamnit, answer me!” Her voice was sharp with alarm.

Fuck.
What, was he under some kind of a curse?

Sveti struggled out of his grip, batting his hands away. She smoothed her hair, shoehorned her tits back into the satin cups, wiping her mouth, all to no avail. She still looked like a woman who'd just been madly making out. Tousled, flushed, damp, dazed, blurred. Fuckable.

“Just a second!” she called, her voice shaking. “Coming!”

Oh, how he wished. It wouldn't have taken long to get her off, and explosively. She'd been almost there. It was so goddamn cruel.

Sveti jerked her chin toward the door. “Open it for them.”

He did so reluctantly, as it rattled on its hinges.

“Sveti, open this goddamn door or I will break it down!”

Oh, man. Nick Ward's voice. He was meat. He snapped the lock and leaped swiftly back as the door flew open. Nick, Tam, and Val burst through. They stared at Sveti. Color streaked her cheekbones. Her makeup was a blotchy mask. Their accusing gaze swiveled to Sam.

“What the fuck is going on?” Nick demanded.

“Where's Miles?” Tam asked.

Sam shrugged. “He had some urgent stuff to do.”

“Did he?” Tam's gaze dropped to Sam's crotch, which was still not quite presentable, despite the stressful and disappointing situation. Her mouth tightened. “I'm going to have a talk with him about that.”

“Don't bother,” Sveti said. “Sam was just keeping me company. I seem to remember you bullying and threatening him to do so.”

“I didn't tell him to get whisker burn all over your tits,” Tam said.

“Oh, shut up,” Sveti flared.

There was an awkward silence. Val spoke, his voice modulated to soothe. “Go on out, Sveti. Our uninvited guest has left the premises.”

“Um, who's that?” Sveti kept compulsively smoothing her hair.

Tam rolled her eyes. “Who, she asks? You were having a seizure about Oleg fifteen minutes ago.” She gave Sam an appraising glance. “Never thought I'd say this, cop, but it appears you're good. Who knew?”

He didn't dare reply. Acknowledging that dangerous compliment could be his definitive bolt-cutter moment.

Sveti tossed her hair back. “Good, then. I'm glad he's gone.”

“So are we all,” Tam said. “Time for you to call it a night. I've told Josh to get your coat. He'll—”

“I'll give her a ride home,” Sam said.

“No!” Everyone in the room, including Sveti, said it in unison.

Sam sighed. “Or not.” Fuck him. Whatever.

Cattrell strode in. “I couldn't find her jacket. Tell me which—”

“No, you stay here,” Sveti said. “I'll go alone.”

“Alone?” Cattrell looked confused. “They said you needed a ride!”

“I'll get home by myself,” she said. “Give the ride to the lucky girl from the catering staff. Whichever one you pick for the night.”

Cattrell looked huffy. “We've been through this. I told you that I'm not interested in—”

“She knows,” Tam cut in. “Don't flatter yourself. Puppy.”

“Stop interfering, Tam!” Sveti snapped. “It's okay, Josh. I appreciate the thought, but I can call my own car.” Her eyes flicked to Sam. “Thank you all for a truly memorable evening.” She swept out.

Shit.
The point of coming here had just walked out. The point of staying away was arrayed before him, between him and the door.

Josh Cattrell whistled softly. “Jeez. What's up with her?”

Tam pointed at Sam. “Him,” she said. “He's up with her.”

“Him?” The guy's eyes got round. “You mean, you're the cop?”

His fists clenched. “You were supposed to scare me off, right?”

“Didn't work very well,” Nick observed.

“Sure didn't,” Sam agreed. “The human shield here was too busy playing grab-ass with the catering staff to do his fucking job.”

“You sound like you are blaming him.” Val's faintly accented voice sounded amused. “It was lucky for you that he failed, no?”

“No, love.” The sweetness in Tam's voice made his neck prickle. “He's not feeling lucky. Maybe if we'd arrived five minutes later.”

He would have made it last longer than five minutes, but this hardly seemed the time or the company for that particular assertion.

“What the hell are you doing, Sam?” Nick's voice was menacing.

“Minding my business,” Sam said, from behind clenched teeth.

“Sveti is our business,” Tam told him.

“Sveti's an adult.” He barrelled through them, promptly disgusted at himself for stating it, which implied that it needed to be stated.

“I'm not comfortable with this,” Nick growled.

“Nobody asked you to be.” Sam struggled not to cringe as he brushed past Tam, who could poison him with an earring post. Tam's exclusive jewelry line was named Deadly Beauty. Costly bling loaded with blades, explosives, or poisons. Sam wished he didn't know about it. Not that he currently represented the law, but ignorance was bliss, if you could maintain it with any sort of credibility.

He slunk out of the place like a whipped hound and drove one-handed, to keep the hand that had gotten inside Sveti's sweet body right under his nose. He would have licked it clean, but then her heady scent would be gone from his finger too soon.

And that kind of waste was criminal.

C
HAPTER
2

 

S
asha peered out from behind the recycling bin at the pastry bar across the street. Tables were out beneath the striped awning, but it was too cold to sit out there. The guy was now ten minutes late.

He could still change his mind, and run like hell.

It scared him shitless, to choose the meeting place. Too much responsibility. He had no faith in his own wits. He'd failed to cover his tracks before. Sonia had trusted him, believed in him, and made him believe in himself. She'd shown him a way out of this black hole—and he had let her down. Let her die. He'd been paralyzed ever since. Afraid to move a muscle, or even think a thought for himself.

But it was Sveti in danger now. Careless, brainless idiot that he was, to have watched her online lecture with Josef in the room. He was so used to pretending he was alone while they guarded him. So used to being ignored. He tried to bore his guards into a coma, and mostly he succeeded. Being guarded upstairs was far preferable to being locked in the hole downstairs. More air. He'd been watching Sveti on the tablet on autopilot, just to look at the face of another human being who did not despise him. Just to listen to her soft, musical voice. It soothed him.

But Sveti just had to choose that particular photograph of Sonia to project in that lecture. And in all the time she'd spoken, Josef just happened to look over Sasha's shoulder at that precise, disastrous moment. Now doom was crashing down on one of the last people on earth Sasha still dared to care about. All his fault. As usual.

Ironically, it was only because Josef had gone hunting Sveti that Sasha had escaped. Josef was the smartest of his father's men, of the ones in Rome, at least. The cruelest, too. Aleksei and Andrei and the others were stupid and lazy by comparison.

He had tried to be careful and methodical in his planning. Witnesses would make it harder for his father's men to slaughter them outright, but there could not be too many, so as to minimize the carnage if things went bad. The bar was in a business district, but it was early for the breakfast rush. If the man arrived at all. Lives at stake, and the guy was twelve fucking minutes late.

Sasha's life was over at this point, that was certain. Circling down the drain. It was a familiar feeling, that vertiginous swirl, the hollow gurgle. Down he went, lower than dirt. A piece of meat to be chopped up and sold by the pound. He ached to shoot some blessed peace into his veins and let the stabbing pain smooth out. But his stash was all gone, after months of captivity in the Rome house. He was clean. Horribly lucid. His nerves were raw, his belly a black hole, a cigarette burn.

And he had a job to do. He wouldn't have to wait long for it to end. They would find him soon enough, and put a vicious end to him. Unless he beat them to it, of course. He'd dragged his heels on that, for Misha's sake, but his continued existence did Misha no favors. It forced his brother to choose sides. Choosing against their father was bad for Misha's health. It would be best for everyone if Sasha erased himself.

But not today. All his limited courage was focused on blowing this secret open. If the world knew, there would be no point in hurting Sveti. His father and his crew would have far more urgent things to do.

There.
Mauro Mongelli, strolling up the street. Sasha recognized him from the photo on his column. Terror turned his legs floppy and boneless. The journalist seated himself at one of the outside tables and called for a barista. He looked ill at ease, eyes darting around. Sasha had been clear about the dangers, but no true journalist could resist a career-changing scoop like this one, no matter the risk.

Sasha clutched the envelope holding the documentation he'd gathered: Sonia's photos and videos, the computer files, the e-mails and screenshots. Proving what he'd found the courage to do, six years ago. He had almost won his freedom. Almost.

He fought to control his bowels as he shuffled forward. A heavy wind of fear blew him back. The Taurus revolver he had stolen from Aleksei was tucked into the small of his back. His body heat, such as it was, could not warm it. The metal against his clammy skin made him shudder. He'd been forced to tighten his belt to hold the hateful thing in place, he was so skeletally thin. Food sickened him.

The man caught sight of him and half rose from the table.
“Lei è Alexsandr Cherchenko?”

Sasha coughed but could not get the words out. He nodded.

Mongelli was a sharp Italian guy, well groomed. His deep, even tan was set off by discreet glints of man jewelry. He looked politely repelled, as well he might. Sasha knew he looked like a walking corpse.

The barista came out, bearing a tray. A cappuccino, a cornetto. He glanced at Sasha.
“Qualcosa per lei?”
he asked, almost fearfully.

“Niente.”
Nothing. Sasha mouthed the word but couldn't voice it.

The barista fled. Mongelli sank back down to his chair, indicating the chair opposite, but Sasha hesitated, not sure if he could tolerate such close proximity to Mongelli's rich, buttery cornetto without disgracing himself. Nausea churned inside him.

“Sta bene?”
Mongelli asked. Are you well?

Sasha suppressed a cackle of hysterical laughter and nodded.

The man's eyes dropped to the envelope he clutched to his chest. “That's the photographic evidence?”

“Sí,”
Sasha forced out. He tried to say more, coughed, sighed out the tension, concentrated. Nothing coming out.
Fuck.
He pulled out the pen and pad he kept in his pocket and scribbled the words down.

He ripped the note off. Handed it to the journalist.

Mongelli studied it. “Why not just go to the police directly yourself?” His eyes were beady and suspicious.

Sasha closed his eyes, his jaw twitching, and put the pen to the pad again.

Mongelli read the note and nodded, but Sasha could tell by his glittering eyes that he was thinking about career advancement, not danger. “You have photos of these thermonuclear generators?”

Sasha shook his head and scribbled.

The man's eyes slitted as he read. “And this deadly radioactive material has been hidden out behind Torre Sant' Orsola for six years? And no one ever found it? It seems improbable.”

Sasha nodded, wearily, and wrote.

Then it happened, and so fast, but time warped in his head so that it seemed hideously slow. His body felt locked in tar as the silver Mercedes gunned its engine and jumped the curb, but he must have leaped backward. He glimpsed Aleksei at the wheel as the car barreled up onto the sidewalk.

Mongelli could barely turn and gasp before it mowed him down, smashing into the glass-topped tables.

From where Sasha lay on the street, he saw table and chair legs stuck out at crazy angles. Mongelli lay beneath them on his belly, the Mercedes' front wheel crushing his back. Blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes were wide, accusing.

There was the pop of a car door, but the pole holding up the awning had been knocked down, and a curtain of heavy canvas fabric had fallen over the vehicle, blocking the door.

Someone screamed from inside the bar. Shrill, continuous. Aleksei cursed, kicking at the car door against the weight of the thick canvas awning, like a chick trying to hatch from a big striped egg.

The grace of that fallen awning, those extra seconds, was what saved him. Sasha ran, passing people before they knew what they had seen. Just a ghoul flashing by, feet pounding, trying to escape from hell.

But hell was too big. Its boundaries kept expanding, infinitely.

He finally collapsed on a park bench and realized that he had dropped the envelope.

All his precious proof. Collected at such great danger and cost. The photographic prints Sonia had entrusted to him. All that remained of her great sacrifice, her courage. He did not have the JPEGs, nor had he ever dared to scan or copy the prints. He had been watched so closely, for so long. There had been no chance to do it. Ever.

The only proof that the lab had ever existed, the only clues at all to this horrible cruelty—and he had fucking
dropped
them.

He hunched down, shivering. Too exhausted even to sob. There was no way to save Sveti now. This had been his one big chance, and he had blown it. He'd killed poor Mongelli for nothing. No, less than nothing. He was infinitely worse off now. And so was Sveti. He had to warn her. Find a place with an Internet connection, get access to some device or other, with what cash he had left. If only he could just call, but he couldn't shove words out over a phone. Not even to Misha.

He could not crawl out of this hole. No matter how he tried.

No matter how they died.

 

 

Sveti stared out of the taxi window. Her eyes were dry, hot. Knots in her throat and belly burned like points of fire. The tangle of freeway bridges swooped and swerved around her. She'd lost all sense of orientation, except for in relation to Sam, of course.

A needle inside her body pointed straight at Sam, night or day.

She shouldn't have gone to the wedding. She'd known perfectly well that he would show up, after all those e-mails that she could not seem to delete, all those texts on her phone. Those sweet, hot, sexy things he said. Things that made her want to fall to her knees and beg.

The phone beeped in her evening bag. She jerked it out and scrolled down the arriving e-mail on the screen of her smartphone.

Sveti stared down at the message and the attachment below it. Where was the euphoria, the triumph? She'd been called to Italy as an expert consultant to speak at the Tran-Global Business Organization against Human Trafficking. She was being awarded the Solkin Prize for her contribution to the fight against modern slavery. After that, it was off to London. Illuxit Transnational, a multi-billion-dollar contract research organization, had recruited her to consult for their new corporate anti-trafficking initiative and their Victims Fund. It was a coup for someone as young as she. Excellent money, too, most of which she would save to fund her own budding nonprofit, Soul Rescue. She regretted putting Soul Rescue on hold for the length of the two-year contract, but this was worth it. She'd nailed it, crushed it. She should be proud, full of hope for the future, riding waves of giddy energy.

And all she wanted was for that message to have been from Sam.

She clicked on the e-ticket attachment. First class, when she had specifically told them she preferred economy. It was annoying. Wasteful.

She hugged her bare, goose-bumped shoulders. She'd flounced out of the reception without her jacket. Showing great maturity and sense.

This night was so fucked up. Why couldn't she just be normal? Just be attracted to a great guy and go with it. Have him become her boyfriend. Have fun with him, then have it lead someplace wonderful and permanent. Ahhh. The normal girl's dream. Classic. Romantic.

But she was not normal. Reliving that kiss in Bruno's office always ended with her huddled in bed, hot face shoved into her pillow, following one of her many erotic Sam fantasies that always led to orgasms like thunderclaps. Knowing perfectly well what came next. Feeling so stupid for inflicting it upon herself, again and again.

Her punishment was always swift and brutal. If she saw Sam, or fantasized about him, it unleashed her worst nightmares, and often stress flashbacks during the day as well. It was like a cruel spell, to crave him so much when giving in to the craving was so self-destructive. Their hot tryst in Bruno's office had touched off a period of waking flashbacks so violent and awful, she'd considered checking herself into a mental facility. Same thing, after Sam had gotten shot last year, and she'd spent all those nights in Intensive Care. She'd paid for that. During the day, she saw Yuri, her captor from the days of her imprisonment, leering at her everywhere. He was at the DMV, behind the counter at Starbucks, foaming her latte, pumping her gas at the 7-Eleven. At night, it was nightmares from the bad old days. She was naked, chained to a table. They were coming at her, raising the sacrificial knife, and she woke screaming as it was about to plunge into her chest. Or the other classic, where she was making love to Sam, and it was marvelous, and suddenly, he morphed into Yuri. That one was particularly hideous.

It wasn't fair. Sam deserved someone less fucked up than she was, even if she weren't leaving the country. Even if he didn't have checkmarks next to every characteristic she could not possibly accept in a lover. He was a homicide detective, like her father. He was addicted to danger, he liked bourbon, he had multiple bullet scars.