Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
"Everything okay?"
I glance over as Masen signals the nearby tuxedoed server and plucks a fresh tumbler of Macallan's finest off the silver tray.
"So far, so good," I say, pointedly fiddling with one of my earrings before resuming my seemingly bored perusal of the ballroom and the various groups milling around. Lubricated by Aronov's fine wine, the quiet, well-mannered whispers and smiles are now long gone, having given way to a louder, more raucous scene. "Looks like the party's going well."
Masen slugs back fifty dollars' worth of Scotch like it's water. "That's one way to look at it."
My lips twitch, threatening to curve at the dry response, but I don't call him on it, and for a long moment, neither of us says another word.
Instead, we watch Dobroshi exit the long hall and weave through the vacated tables. Now sans tie, his suit's rumpled, his skin's flushed, and sweat darkens the dirty-blonde hair near his scalp.
Dobroshi targets Koshmarin across the room, where Mr. Hollywood's chatting up a pair of Aronov's clients. The man on the right – a bald, pock-marked late forty-something I know I've seen on Platt's boards – mouths off as he approaches. This far away, I can't pick out the individual words, but judging by the suggestive wag of his brows, it's obviously something obscene, and when Dobroshi just shrugs and shoots the other man an arrogant, taunting grin, all three laugh and slap him on the back.
Assholes.
Scanning the crowd, I look for that spot of autumn. When I don't see her, the sickening smack of flesh striking flesh rings in my ears, and my stomach lurches, but I don't dare move. After that little incident with Basayev, I'm not stupid enough to think I can get away with leaving the ballroom again, at least not on my own and definitely not with Markovsky watching me like a hawk. Another minute ticks by, and my fingers clench around my wine glass with impotent rage.
The same server makes a second pass, and after a heartbeat of deliberation, I motion her over. The instant she sees me, she damned near flies to my side, and for the hundredth time, I'm simultaneously baffled and impressed by the service Aronov's money can buy.
"Ms. Swan, what may I get for you?" the server asks, politely bobbing her head with the kind of perfect, practiced deference that makes my skin crawl. "Another glass of wine, perhaps?"
"Yes, please. That would be perfect." I hand her my nearly-empty glass as an excuse to lean in closer. "But… could I also trouble you for a favor?"
The server – a short, curvy young woman with plump cheeks and warm brown eyes – looks at me in a second of stunned surprise. "Of course."
Ignoring Masen's abrupt stillness, I give her a small, reassuring smile, even as I continue eying the crowd.
"There's a young lady." I debate just how blunt I want to be. "Tall and thin, with wavy, reddish-brown hair. She likely arrived with some of the other women." I pause and let that sink in. "Last I saw her, she was with one of the gentlemen here, but they disappeared into one of the side rooms down the hall." We make eye contact then. "I'm concerned that she may need some… assistance."
The woman's grip on her tray spasms, turning her knuckles white. That, along with the tight pursing of her lips, tells me this isn't her first rodeo. She knows exactly what I mean, and she still retains enough human decency to wear her disgust.
"Would you mind checking to see if she's okay?" I ask, as soft as spun silk as I mentally tag Aronov ambling toward a stone-faced Markovsky. Confident and exuding that signature oily slickness of his, Aronov is the consummate, congenial host. Yet even across the room, I see the predatory sharpness and menace lurking just beneath the surface, and I don't miss the way his guests instinctively shy away as he passes.
"I can do that." The server's throat bobs behind her bowtie as she hands me a fresh glass. "I'll… let me see what I can find out."
She starts to turn, and I place a hand on her forearm. Another flash of surprise steals across her pretty features, but it vanishes a beat later, replaced by that mask of perfect professionalism. When she looks up at me in question, I quietly add, "It would probably be best if we keep this between us, at least for now, okay?"
"Of course, Ms. Swan." The woman's chin ducks in an immediate affirmative, and her spine steels with purpose. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she's taken care of."
As the server walks away, in my periphery, Masen knocks back the remainder of his Scotch. It's a quick, succinct motion – one I now recognize as carefully leashed anger – and it spreads his jacket just enough to reveal a sliver of a leather shoulder rig and a pair of matte black Glocks sitting tight against his ribcage.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, whispering through gritted teeth. "I know it's risky right now, but I just can't…"
"Don't be." Masen shakes his head, and I watch his gaze skip past Aronov and Markovsky to track Koshmarin and Dobroshi as they step off to the side for a private conversation. Koshmarin's phone pings, and when he glances at the screen, unexpected fury whips across his face. "I'm just looking forward to killing him."
One corner of my mouth tugs up before I can stop it. "Which one?"
Masen peers over, matching my wry half-smile, and his irises gleam. "Lady's choice."
I laugh at that. "You certainly do know the way to a woman's heart."
"I hope so," he says, looking away. But his face softens with his voice, ever so slightly, and it's enough to make my heart hammer against my sternum, despite where we are and the tension crawling through my veins every time Whitlock whispers an update in my ear.
I clock Aronov's pet shipping magnate ten minutes later. Hands in his pockets, he lazily meanders through the tables, sporting a smooth, too-easy smile. With his neat, tidy haircut, flawlessly tanned olive skin, and the finely tailored, conservative suit, Alex Retzos might as well be Dobroshi's polar opposite, but I know better than that. He's just the other side of the same ugly coin.
"Yassou, Bella," he says, flashing me a row of straight, pearly teeth. That smile falters when he spies Masen standing a few feet away, but that doesn't stop him. Pulling me into an easy embrace, Retzos greets me with a friendly, surprisingly familiar peck on the cheek. "Such a pleasure to see you again. You look beautiful this evening."
Sipping my wine, I cock an amused brow and smile over the rim of my glass. "Alex."
Retzos chuckles. "I had heard that Mikhail finally lured you in," he says. Like Aronov's, Retzos' English is superb, with a pleasant, rolling inflection that sounds almost like music. To my ears, it's just another layer of camouflage hiding the monster beneath. "In fact, I heard he even managed to convince you to stay with him in that dreary castle of his… permanently."
These fuckers are unreal.
My brow arches higher, and I keep my reply purposefully bland. "It's possible we've come to an understanding."
Retzos' shoulders shake, but then his focus slips to my right hand and the zillion-dollar boulder decorating my ring finger, and he turns speculative. "I should say so."
Rolling my eyes, I huff at both him and my supposed lover. "Misha just likes shiny things."
"If you say so." Another chuckle tumbles out, and this time, his dark eyes glitter with mischief. "Speaking of shiny things…" Retzos' neck cranes around as he makes a show of scanning the ballroom. "Where is that stunning creature, Rosalie? I have been looking for that woman all night."
Right on cue, that stunning creature sashays up behind him.
"Looking for me?" Rosalie asks, and like the fucking goddess she is, she sensually slides a manicured hand over the top of his shoulder and down his bicep as she skirts around to his other side. "Hello, handsome."
Grinning like an idiot, Retzos bends to greet her with the same casual, false familiarity he used on me, but Rosalie's not having it. She grabs him by the nape, mussing that neat, tidy hair, yanks him down, and kisses him square on the mouth.
She doesn't half-ass it, either.
No, I see tongue.
And when Rosalie runs her blood-red nails along the strong, angular line of his jaw in sultry invitation, I swear that man nearly convulses.
Jesus, she's good at this. She's so good I'm glad McCarty's too busy to listen in tonight. He'd likely stroke out.
Or light off a rocket launcher.
Either way, bad news for us.
"My God," Retzos murmurs when she finally pulls away. Licking his lips, he gives himself a visible shake. "You are a vision this evening, Aphrodite incarnate."
Playing her part, Rosalie throws him a megawatt smile that makes his mouth go slack. "Finally! Someone who appreciates all this…" She adds a playful wink and then motions at herself with an exaggerated sweep of her hand. "Work."
Tipping his face to the ceiling, Retzos belts out a loud, jovial laugh that makes Aronov's head swing toward us. When Aronov sees me socializing with his partner in crime, his cheeks crease, and his features morph into that same tender, affectionate pride he wore in the car when we arrived. Catching me staring back, he mouths a silent, "You are perfect."
"Oh, yes, I do." Oblivious to our little exchange, Retzos reaches over to touch Rosalie's cheek, slanting her face toward the light. "I appreciate your efforts very much, indeed, and my offer still stands."
Rosalie sidles up closer and lets the man drape an arm around her waist. "And just what offer might that be?"
"The second you tire of these stuffy old Russians, just say the word," Retzos says, low and purring as his fingers splay across her hip and pull her tighter into his side. "My yacht is ready and waiting."
"Is that so?" Rosalie's voice drops into a sexy, pouty whine – the one that makes men like Retzos drool and fall all over themselves to give her what she wants. She rubs her palm up and down the fine navy wool of his lapel. "When do we leave?
"Any time you want, darling." He licks his lips again. "We can go right now if you like."
"You hear that, Bella?" Rosalie says, peeking around to look at me. She lets out a peal of full, throaty laughter when I don't reply. "You stay here and play with Misha all you want. Alex and I are going to Greece."
The next few minutes fly by in idle chitchat, dominated by Rosalie's and Retzos' flirtatious exchanges, but as soon as she twists around to grab a fresh glass of wine from one of the attendants, Retzos turns to Masen.
That ever-present, too-easy smile vanishes. "I hear there is an unexpected guest in the building."
Bored as ever, Masen checks his wrist before leveling the other man a flat, impassive stare. "You hear many things, Alex."
Retzos' eyes fly to Aronov and Markovsky and then to Koshmarin before returning to Masen. "Why is Ali here?"
It's a good fucking question.
Masen's expression remains carefully neutral, blank but for the subtle bracketing around his mouth and the faint furrow bisecting his forehead. They're minute, almost invisible tells that only a handful of people in this room would have a prayer of detecting. "Undetermined."
"Well." Retzos drawls it out as he repositions his grip on Rosalie's hip when she spins back around. He's getting bolder, and when his thumb drifts a little too high, I worry the asshole might just lose a hand if he's not careful. "Where is that son of a bitch anyway?"
My radar pings right as Masen's lazy gaze slowly swings to the left, settling on the mouth of the hall in answer.
Arrogant and swaggering, Basayev appears as if called, flanked by a pair of late twenty-something, dark-suited guards with matching wiry scruff for beards. Like half the men in the room, they're carrying, not even bothering to hide the outline of their weapons beneath their jackets, and judging by the casual confidence threaded through their postures, they know what they're doing, too.
Retzos makes a chuffing sound. "This should be interesting."
Koshmarin's long stride eats up the length of the ballroom, and as his target becomes obvious, dozens of eyes surreptitiously follow his movements. The raucous roar shrinks to a buzzing hum, and by the time he reaches the man, there's not a soul who doesn't know something is going on.
Tucked up against Retzos, Rosalie studies her nails like the trinket she's pretending to be, but that's all it is: pretense. She tracks Koshmarin until he reaches Basayev, and when they greet each other like they haven't seen each other in years, she covers her laugh with an annoyed huff.
Masen doesn't react at all. Still as a statue, he watches the scene with the same cool, distant aloofness he wore that day in Vienna, right before he took out Taeb and his guards without even breaking a sweat. When I detect the slight flex of his knuckles, I'm again reminded of how fast he truly can be.
For my part, I just watch Aronov.
In the center of the room like a king holding court, Aronov leisurely pivots toward the disruption. Judging by the complete lack of surprise on his face, he knew this was coming, too, and the small smile that tugs at his lips isn't a friendly one. It's more like a hunter amused by its prey.
On his right, Markovsky says something under his breath. Aronov snorts and mutters something back, but he's not fooling me. His skin pulls taut across his cheekbones, and when he tilts his head, the light shining down from the chandelier casts shadows across his face, darkening the hollows of his eyes.
Smiling like the overconfident asshole he is, Basayev strolls toward Aronov and Markovsky with Koshmarin in tow. Dobroshi glides over to join them a moment later, and then four jackals play at polite, friendly conversation.
"What's going on?" I ask Masen. I keep my tone light, as if in simple, idle curiosity, but I want to know. Masen's Russian is better than mine, and he has the view to read Koshmarin's lips. "Who is that guy?"
"Just one of Aro's old clients," Masen says as his gaze skips over my head to Retzos. "It looks like Kaius invited him without telling Aro."
I start because that was not on our radar.
Maybe it should have been.
Flipping his wrist toward the hall, Basayev says something, and Aronov's brows climb his forehead in a beat of legitimate surprise. Aronov's eyes narrow, focusing on the other man's face, but then they widen, transitioning into cautious interest. A second passes before he signals Markovsky. It's nothing more than a subtle glance and tap of his forefinger against his opposite sleeve, but Markovsky responds at once. Nodding, the older man spins on his heel and aims directly for Masen.
"Chego on khochet?" Masen asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues to survey the ballroom and the men in its center.
"Ne znayu." Markovsky clucks his tongue, and as he goes on, his response is as dry as the desert. "Ali skazal, chto u nego 'podarok' dlya Mishi."
The light furrow between Masen's brows deepens. "Podarok?"
"Vidimo…" Pale gray eyes dart to me before returning to Masen, but Markovsky's shoulders just roll in a loose, deceptively casual shrug. "Eto syurpriz."
Fuck.
I have no idea what kind of gift they're talking about, but one thing I can say is that I fucking hate surprises. Because when it comes to assholes like Basayev, there's no such thing as a good surprise.
My heart thrums a swift, pounding rhythm as I brush my earlobe and comb stray strands of hair away from my earring. Because God doesn't hate me, Whitlock's voice comes back instantly.
"Just cleared the perimeter walls," Whitlock whispers, clipped and curt, and like before, I pick up keys clacking a break-neck speed in the background. "Team One and Team Two are inside. En route to target building, then to sublevel three. All signs go."
My stomach flips with a sudden flutter of nerves, enough that I almost miss it when Aronov's fists drop to his hips. With the distance and the hum of the guests, I see more than hear his deep baritone when he finally replies, "Ladno... dayu tebe desyat' minut."
Before I can ask Masen to translate for Rose, Aronov looks directly at me. His chin drops in another one of those minute signals of his, but then he adds a quick crook of his finger, motioning for me to join him.
I obey, but I don't rush it. Instead, I throw my shoulders back and take my time, slowly rounding the tables, and as I cross the space between us, I don't break eye contact for even a second. I don't look at the man standing next to him at all. And I definitely don't notice the frisson of fear that quickens Basayev's breathing and crawls in his eyes as he watches me.
"Lyubimaya moya," Aronov says, reaching for me the moment I'm in range. Unconcerned by the wide-eyed stares around us, he smiles down at me with that uncharacteristically soft, indulgent expression he seems to reserve solely for me. One arm snakes around my waist, pulling me into his chest. He kisses my temple and then touches his lips to mine, even as he waves an arrogant hand, dismissing the other men.
"What's going on?" I ask, eying Basayev as he jerks around and makes his way toward the hall.
"It would seem I have an unexpected guest this evening."
My nose crinkles. "Is that a problem?"
"Not necessarily," Aronov says, running his fingertips up and down my spine in a gentle, idle caress. "The gentleman in question – Ali – has requested a private discussion. He tells me he has something in his possession that I will find interesting and worth the offense of his lapse in etiquette."
I swallow and do my damnedest to keep my voice steady. "What is it?"
Aronov's shoulders rise and fall in casual disinterest. "Ali would like to negotiate some business matters, but in the recent past, I have declined his offers." He makes a tsking sound. "So, now he plays, how to say it… coy."
I lean back and give him an incredulous look. "And you're allowing that?"
His indulgent smile widens, and Aronov huffs out a laugh. "For now, yes," he says, but then turns serious. "But this presents a small predicament for me."
"Predicament." Tilting my head, I smooth away a non-existent wrinkle in his starched white button-up and then realign his tie. It's a small thing – a tiny show of domesticity and intimacy – but my lonely, psycho lover eats it up like he's starving for it. "What do you mean?"
"I have told Ali that I will grant him ten minutes, but such things never go so quickly." Aronov's mouth twists and then flattens into a hard, uncompromising line. "And Sasha and Edward should be present for this particular discussion."
"I don't understand."
"As I told you, the wolves are out tonight," Aronov murmurs, surveying the room over the top of my head. I know the instant he pins Koshmarin. "I do not feel comfortable with you remaining out here without appropriate protection, yet this discussion may become unpleasant." Threading his fingers between mine, he pulls my hand to his mouth and presses slow, repeated kisses to my inner wrist, inhaling as he goes. "I have not forgotten your reaction to the meeting in my office in Florence. I do not wish to repeat this experience."
I don't answer for a moment, letting the silence between us swell and eddy. Right when he's on the verge of breaking, I softly ask, "You're giving me a choice?"
"Konechno." The fingers sliding up and down my spine still and splay out. "If you prefer not to accompany me, I will simply postpone this discussion."
Holy shit.
"Wouldn't that look bad for you?" I wipe away a pretend piece of lint from his jacket.
"It is my prerogative." Aronov shrugs. "No one will dare to question me."
"At least not openly."
Glancing down, he hesitates before inclining his head in reluctant agreement. "Da, not openly."
Ignoring the non-stop churn in my gut, I stare up at him. This time, I allow a hint of my own savagery to rise to the surface – that little sliver of darkness that calls to him on an unconscious level – and Aronov's pupils dilate in immediate response.
"You're right. I was caught off guard that day. The men you met with scared me," I say as he drags my wrist to his mouth yet again. "But now I have a better idea of what to expect, and our situation has changed… significantly since then, wouldn't you say?" When his Adam's apple bobs, I smile. "Let me come with you. Let me see you work."
"You are certain?"
"I am, and I trust you." I nearly gag on that last part, but it has its intended effect. There's a quiet, triumphant hitch in his breathing. It turns into something sharper and harsher when I thumb his cheek. Even though it kills me doing this shit in front of Masen, I play the part I'm supposed to play. I lift on my toes to slant my lips over his, and I kiss Aronov like I know he wants, open-mouthed and uncaring of the room and his guests. I don't pull away until a low, needy groan spills into my mouth, and then I throw him a beatific grin. "But thank you for asking and giving me the choice."
A faint shudder rolls down his frame before Aronov lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. "Moy prekrasnyy d'yavol," he says, whispering against my skin. "Ty menya v mogilu svedesh'."
Welp, he's not wrong there.
I am a devil, and I'll be taking him to the grave soon enough.
Aronov's private salon is yet another picture of both elegance and affluence. More masculine than the romantic, frescoed rooms in the rest of the palazzo, the palette here is darker, with heavier, exotic woods and textures. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line an entire wall, filled to the brim with ancient tomes with gilded bindings. Lit by soft yellow light from the nearby table lamps, leather couches and chairs mingle with the older antiques, giving this space a sophisticated yet warm and eclectic feel.
As we file in, Aronov settles into the lone, high-backed armchair facing a massive Etruscan-styled hearth. When I target the adjacent sofa, he huffs and wordlessly directs me to the flat, cushioned armrest of his chair. It's a possessive, heavy-handed move that no one misses, but I know there's more to it.
Aronov doesn't trust this guy.
Albeit with good fucking reason.
"Front row seat?" I murmur as his right sneaks beneath my hemline to find my knee.
Aronov doesn't answer. He just smiles a distinctly predatory smile and gives my knee a light, reassuring squeeze.
The rest of the group remains on their feet. Still curled under Retzos' arm with Markovsky silently positioned on her opposite side, Rosalie frowns and looks around in seeming confusion. Across the carpet – another priceless, richly colored antique – Koshmarin and Dobroshi lean against the wall of shelves. When Koshmarin looks over at me, bloody, brutal murder blazes out of every one of his handsome features.
Hands shoved in his pockets, Masen lazily wanders over to join us, stopping a few feet away to flank Aronov on his left. Far more formal, Feliks and Dmitri line up on the right.
The operative in me appreciates what's going on here.
It's an impressive, subtly choreographed display of power and intimidation.
It's effective, too, and not just on Basayev. A light sheen of cold sweat dampens my nape as I spin through the possibilities of exactly what this surprise might be.
"Nu, davay nachnom," Aronov says, and with the high, trayed ceiling above, the softly-spoken, carefully articulated words crack like thunder. "What do you want, Ali?"
If Basayev is surprised that Aronov swaps to English, he doesn't show it.
"As I mentioned before," he replies, stepping in front of the hearth. "I have acquired something that I think will interest you." Basayev runs a hand through his unkempt beard, twisting the wiry strands together. It's a nervous habit that belies the straight line of his shoulders, and I catch Markovsky's lips twitch in my periphery. "A gift, perhaps, from me to you."
Releasing my thigh, Aronov kicks a leg over the opposite knee and stares the man down over steepled fingers. "And what do you expect in exchange for this amazing gift of yours?"
"I expect nothing, of course." Basayev's cheeks stretch into an oily smile, and he waves a haphazard hand. "But if it is to your liking, maybe you would… rethink your position to supply my companies with certain items. It would be very lucrative business for you."
A throat clears in the background, and Aronov's eyes narrow. "I have heard many things about your recent activities. It would seem that your men remain as reckless and bloodthirsty as they were in Guinea," he says, and it's a cutting statement. "You created significant problems for me, ones that required substantial donations and political intervention to rectify. I do not like problems, Ali, and I do not like involving Foreign Minister in my affairs."
"It is possible my soldiers can be… overeager sometimes, and, perhaps, this created some difficulties in past times." Basayev ducks his head as though remorseful, but it's nothing more than theater. That oily smile of his never wavers. "Allow me to make some…" He pauses and hums. "Vozmeshcheniye for this."
"Vozmeshcheniye?" Aronov's brows climb, but then he exhales a loud, impatient sigh. "Fine, show me this compensation of yours."
I peek over at Rosalie. Her jawline might as well be carved from marble. Her gaze darts from me to Koshmarin and Dobroshi. As Basayev gestures to one of his guards, Koshmarin shoves off the wall, and in place of his earlier scowl, he's sporting a sly, smug smile that makes my heart stop cold in my chest.
For a split second, the room spins. The air crackles and sparks, and my stomach takes a sharp, nauseating nosedive with the sudden fear that that motherfucker has somehow outmaneuvered us.
I glance at Masen. His expression hasn't changed , but I see the same dread reflected in the dark churn of his eyes, and I debate what we'll do if Basayev somehow trots out the very man we're supposed to be in the process of extracting.
Shoving another wayward strand of hair out of my face, I tap my ear.
"Fuck, I don't have time for this, Swan," Whitlock whispers. "Later."
Goddamnit.
This time Rosalie calls him, acting like she's adjusting her earrings. When he doesn't answer, she does it again, pouting for Retzos and anyone else who might be watching her.
"Will you two chill? I got a lot going on here," Whitlock snaps, irritated and short. He mutters a string of curses under his breath. "Fine, Team One just made it inside the building. Alarms disabled. Cameras down. Team Two entering. Still a fucking go, so let me work."
And then it's radio silence.
Literally.
Fuck.
It's impossible to explain what's going on without leaving the room, and right now, there's no fucking way that's happening.
No, all I can do is sit here, perched on this stupid chair like some useless, prettied-up accessory while these assholes play their power games.
Aronov's palm returns to my knee, and his fingertips stroke my bare skin, drawing gentle, soothing circles. Softly enough that only I can hear, he says, "It is all right, my love. There is no reason for you to be afraid of him."
Jesus Christ, he's delusional if he thinks that's why I'm fidgeting.
But, fuck, if I won't take it and be grateful.
"I know," I whisper back. I give myself a hard internal shake before I fuck everything up, and then I give him a small, self-conscious smile. Stilling his hand, I slide my fingers between his, even as I scan the room to catalogue the arsenal of weapons strapped to the guards – just in case. "I'm fine, I promise."
Basayev's guard is gone for a handful of seconds, but every tick of the antique gold clock on the mantle sounds like a hammer in my ears, and it feels like I age a decade.
The side entry door finally snicks open, followed by the scuff of shoes against the flooring, and my head automatically swivels to locate the sound.
Before I fully register what I'm seeing, the smooth, urbane man beside me smacks the other armrest hard enough that I flinch. Throwing his head back, Aronov barks a loud, exultant laugh that echoes in the silence of the room.
At once, the air frozen in my lungs rushes out, and not kidding, I nearly collapse when I spy the man in dark green jungle fatigues with his hands bound tightly behind his back.
"Jacques!" Aronov's eyes dance, bright and jubilant, and his fingers unconsciously spasm around mine. Still chuckling, his voice drops into a low, cajoling purr that sends gooseflesh rippling across my skin. "I did not think I would ever see you again."
He's not the only one.
At least now we know who that fourth man was in Whitlock's surveillance video.
Ntaganda's bloodshot eyes rise to meet Aronov's, and I almost feel sorry for the fucker. The warlord's face is a mass of bruises, swollen black and purple against the warm umber of his skin. Fresh blood seeps down his cheek, following the old, jagged, iridescent scar running from his hairline to his jaw. His fatigues are tattered and filthy, too, and every time the man moves, he winces, telling me a lot more bruises and damage hide beneath them.
"Mr. Aronov," he says, hoarse like he's been screaming for hours. "Please, I do not understand what happened. There was a betrayal. I– "
"A betrayal, you say?" Aronov stands, and that jovial demeanor disappears. In its place, I see flashes of the same violence and roiling rage from that afternoon in his study, and with each passing second, Aronov's voice rises in pitch and volume. "Betrayal is an understatement. You and that incompetent grebanyy idiot, Laurent, you took my money, my weapons, and my time!"
"Mr. Aro–"
"I built infrastructure for you. I hired your people and placated your foolish government. I broke your opposition and destroyed entire goddamned villages because you could not complete the most basic of tasks! And what did I receive from you in return? What was my payment for all of this effort?" Aronov's fist pounds against the mantle, rattling the clock in the center. "It certainly was not my fucking mines!"
Technically, it was all Whitlock's doing, but okay.
Beneath the finely tailored suit, Aronov's muscles are taut, coiling tighter and tighter, and I know that this is not going to end well for the former Congolese general.
If Ntaganda weren't a murderous, genocidal psychopath himself, this whole situation might give me a little heartburn.
As it is, I'm a-okay letting the monsters take each other out.
It certainly makes things easier for me.
This time when Ntaganda goes to speak, Aronov signals Feliks.
The big man steps forward with no more than a wag of Aronov's finger. He grins an eager, feral grin right before his pistol cracks across the warlord's skull, driving him to his knees. Before he can rise, Felik's heel slams into the man's kidney, and then he punches him in the temple over and over. They're brutal blows, delivered by a beast of a guard, and Ntaganda's head whips side to side, spraying the priceless rug crimson.
"So," Basayev says, skirting Ntaganda to step into Aronov's line of sight. "Is gift to your satisfaction?"
Aronov signals Feliks again, and the blows abruptly cease. "Where did you find him?"
"As you are aware, my people have certain presence in region and neighbor countries." Basayev strokes his beard, this time thoughtfully. "I heard about your particular challenges and made some questions." He stares at the bleeding, groaning man on the floor and spits. "He was not difficult to locate after this. We find him hiding like pathetic coward dog in mountains."
Aronov hums and glances at Markovsky.
"Of course," Basayev continues, slick and wheedling. "He is yours to do with as you please, but I hope you see now what capabilities I bring to table." He grunts, faking indifference. "Perhaps you will reconsider future business arrangements. Or…" His lips curve slightly, barely visible behind the wiry beard. "Maybe, you would be open to kind of partnership even."
This guy's got some balls, I'll give him that.
Off to the side, Koshmarin's back to glaring daggers. I still don't know what those assholes were planning, but this isn't it.
That poor fucker's getting played on all sides these days.
No wonder he's so pissy.
"You did well, Ali," Aronov says as he adjusts the knot of his tie. "As you say, perhaps we can come to some arrangement, after all."
Basayev grins like the Cheshire Cat. "What do you think to do with him?"
Rather than answering, as if it dawns on him that I'm still here and watching, Aronov slowly pivots to face me. He keeps his expression bland while I keep my eyes trained on the man bleeding on the ground. When I finally look up, I swallow and clutch at the upholstery like the civilian I'm claiming to be.
Aronov's forehead wrinkles. Some of that taut anger leaches out of him as he walks toward me. Unconcerned by our audience, he touches my cheek to direct my attention to him. "What do you think?"
Wetting my lips, I stare up at him, roaming his face like he so often does to me, and ease off the armrest to my feet. "About what?"
Aronov gives me that soft, indulgent smile. "What would you do if you were in my position?" A hand sweeps behind him, motioning to the general. "How would you respond to such incompetence and traitorous behavior?"
In the background, Koshmarin growls out a curse-filled protest, but Markovsky cuts him off with a low, harsh, "Zatknis'!"
We turn back to Ntaganda in unison. His left eye is now swollen closed, damage from a major break in the orbital socket. New, fresh blood from Feliks' blows streams down his face and dots the carpet. More bubbles between his lips when he tries to exhale.
I grip Aronov's lapel like a lifeline. Aronov's dark, unforgiving eyes find mine, and I know exactly what he wants from me.
So, I give it to him.
Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I quietly yet calmly ask him, "This is the guy who cost you your mines?"
"Yes." He nods. "One of them anyway."
Ntaganda moans and sways, at this point, barely holding himself upright, and I realize that kidney kick did some real injury. Either that, or he was bleeding internally before they even arrived.
Again, considering what I know about the general and the hundreds – maybe even thousands – of innocents he's murdered, raped, and maimed, my conscience doesn't even blink when I say my next words. "You can't let mistakes like that go unpunished, can you?"
Shaking his head, Aronov's smile turns absolutely ruthless, and a blend of pride, approval, and blind adoration stares back at me.
He calls over to Markovsky, "Sasha, uvedi yeyo otsyuda."
"No," I say, slicing a hand as the older man steps toward us to escort me outside. When Aronov's brows lift in question, my teeth find my lower lip. Reaching across the span between us, I trail a lone finger down his arm to the back of his hand, and I walk the fucking tightrope between partner and pet. "Just make it quick, okay? Don't do more of…" I peek past Aronov to the broken man on the floor. "That."
"Volevaya devushka," Aronov mutters. Sighing, he looks at me for another long, deathly still moment, where the only sound in the room is that of Ntaganda's labored breathing, punctuated by the steady tick of the clock. Without breaking eye contact, Aronov's lips mash together before he finally tips his head in the barest hint of acquiescence.
"Edward," he says. "You heard her, ubey yego."
Masen reacts instantly.
Like that day in Vienna when he took out Taeb, Masen extracts one of his Glocks in a single, fluid, lightning-fast move.
A pair of silenced rounds thump the air as he nails Ntaganda square in the chest. There's a beat of mute surprise. Ntaganda's mouth opens and shuts as two dark blooms spread across his fatigues, and then the body goes limp, folding neatly to the floor. I watch in pretend shock as blood creeps out from beneath him, pooling and staining the carpet like some macabre scene out of a horror movie.
Fuck, Masen's fast.
Rosalie lets out a shrill gasp. Before she can scream louder, Retzos clamps a palm over her mouth. He drags her a few feet away, spins her around to hide her from the carnage, and I almost laugh when she buries her face into the crook of his neck and lets out a shuddering sob.
I've said it a dozen times by now, but that woman deserves an Oscar for this bullshit.
Basayev whistles his approval and claps Masen on the shoulder as he saunters over to continue his negotiations. When Aronov turns to reply, I peek over my shoulder, only to find Markovsky now hovering a few feet away.
Sneaky bastard.
Markovsky's pale gray eyes flit to Basayev before returning to me in unspoken demand.
I give him a quick, almost-frantic shake of my head, breathing in short, shallow pants. "Sasha, I do–"
The older man interrupts my objection with an aggravated harrumph and, without a word, steps in between Aronov and Basayev. He leans into his brother-in-law's space, angling away from the rest of the room, and when Aronov's forehead folds in confusion, he whispers something that I don't need to hear to know.
'Cause here we fucking go.
Right on cue, Aronov goes ramrod stiff, and then a harsh, incredulous, "Chto ty skazal?" punches out, scaring the room into shock and utter stillness.
Unfazed by the torrent he's about to unleash, Markovsky's shoulders roll. He peers at me before clucking his tongue and adding something else.
Aronov's head whips toward me. "He touched you?"
The room electrifies, lighting that internal radar of mine off like a fucking gong. Almost at once, Feliks and Dmitri raise their weapons, pinning Basayev's guards before they can do the same. Retzos drags a still-squealing Rosalie toward the far wall, muttering curses in Greek as he goes. Koshmarin and Dobroshi… those motherfuckers don't move an inch.
Basayev stumbles back, throwing his hands up, and his face blanches from suntanned olive to a sickening gray. "Poslushay," he says, stuttering. "Eto ne to, chto ty dumayesh'!"
Um, no, Misha, it's precisely what you're thinking.
"Shut your fucking mouth!" Aronov growls. His fists ball by his sides as he looks at Markovsky once more. "Da ili net, ty videl, chto on s ney sdelal?"
Markovsky's head dips once, and they look at each other for a long moment in silent conversation. "Da, I saw myself. He would have taken her against her will."
Jesus Christ, Sasha.
I have no idea what he's doing, but this is a dangerous, dangerous game he's playing.
Even Masen's stunned.
Aronov turns to me then. His cheeks puff out, red and splotchy, and sweat beads along his forehead and temples. Beneath the finely woven fabric of his jacket, his shoulders bunch and flex, seeking an outlet for the rising fury, and air saws in and out of his chest like he's been running for hours.
Yet when he speaks to me, Aronov somehow manages to check himself. "Come here, dorogaya."
Again, I obey his summons, and again, the moment I'm in arm's reach, Aronov pulls me to him. He touches my chin and jaw, slanting my face left and then right, studying the exact places where Basayev grabbed me and where I'll probably bruise by tomorrow. Despite his fury, Aronov handles me almost reverently, but I can feel the tension radiating out. It's like its own living, breathing, sentient being.
"This man assaulted you?" he asks. "Here? Tonight?"
Reluctantly – seemingly, at least – I slowly nod.
"You did not tell me this." It's somewhere between a question and an accusation.
I chew the inside of my cheek, letting that glorious silence eat into his consciousness and imagination. "You were busy, and I didn't want to create problems for you.," I finally tell him. "I was planning to after the party, I promise." Running my palms down his chest to his waist, I quietly add, "Sasha handled it. It's okay."
"I see." Aronov levels Basayev a flat, emotionless stare, even as he leans down and absently touches his lips to my hairline. "We will speak more of this when we return home. But for now, tell me, where did he put his hands on you?"
At that, Basayev starts yammering in rapid-fire Russian. It's a surprisingly cowardly move from someone with his past and training, but then again, I've known my fair share of mercs who trip over themselves running at the first sign of real danger.
Aronov signals Masen, and before Basayev can get out another word, the tip of Masen's suppressor presses into his skull, right behind the ear.
"I'd shut up if I were you," Masen says, cold and deadly.
When Aronov asks me again, I hesitate as if debating, before eventually sighing and lifting on my toes. My lips tickle the shell of his ear as I tell him exactly where Basayev grabbed me and exactly what he said… along with a little extra embellishment, just for fun.
A hard, wracking tremor skates through Aronov's limbs, and the muscles beneath my palms turn to stone. "All right," Aronov says, kissing me gently on the lips as he frames my face. "Now, I understand why you were afraid earlier, why I felt you tremble."
I squeeze his hand, holding it to me.
And now it's time to pluck at every one of those delusional, psycho emotions of his and make him dance for me.
"Misha, I'm sorry," I whisper.
"No. No, it is not your fault," he murmurs, kissing me again as his body shakes with mounting rage. "The blame is mine to own, and I will make this up to you. Do you remember what I told you?"
My eyes narrow. "About?"
"What did I tell you I would do to a man who would dare such a thing?"
"Misha…"
Aronov smiles at me and strokes my face. "Do not be concerned, my love. This… this I will take care of… myself."
Aronov runs the back of his hand along my jaw in another slow, surprisingly tender caress, but then he releases me. When he turns back to Basayev, his eyes shade black as night, and bright, incandescent rage swamps his features.
And I realize that afternoon in his study – the day where I told Markovsky that Aronov was losing his shit – that was nothing compared to this. No, right now, Aronov's a bomb ready to detonate, a volcano on the verge of a violent, uncontrollable eruption.
A vein pulses across his forehead, his fists clench and flex by his sides, and with each rasping breath he sucks in, he torques himself higher and higher.
"Aro?" Basayev says, caught between the glacier that is Masen and the inferno stalking toward him. "Eto byla oshibka... nedorazumeniye."
"A mistake? A misunderstanding?" Aronov replies. He laughs, and it's utter savagery wrapped up in a sleek, sophisticated package. "Why do you say these things to me?"
"I did not realize she was yours." Flinching when Masen's barrel shifts, Basayev clears his throat. "I simply assumed she was one of Kaius' girls. He said tha–"
"Do you think this matters to me?" Aronov yells. "That I care what you thought?"
"I–"
Aronov's voice drops to a snarl, and his accent thickens until I barely recognize it. "Do you think I would ever forgive such an egregious offense? That there would be no repercussions? That I would do business with you?"
"Aro–"
"You insult me," he says, low and gravelly, spitting out each syllable.
Hands still lifted in surrender, Basayev glances back to his guards, only to find them at the ends of Feliks' and Dmitri's weapons, on their knees with their hands locked behind their heads. "I apologize," he says, stuttering. "Prosti menya, yesli ya tebya obidel."
"Oh, Ali." Aronov scoffs. "You have offended… spectacularly."
It's the exact phrase he used on Taeb back in Vienna, but the fury riding his tone is something else altogether. It sends shivers down my spine.
I pick up a sudden pulse of static in my ear.
"Well, well," Whitlock whispers, soft as a feather. "Seems you two have been busy…" That man has the nerve to snicker at his own piss-poor joke. "Be aware, Team One is in possession of the Target. I repeat, we have Cullen." My breathing ceases, swelling my chest against the delicate fabric of my dress. "He's unconscious but movable. Working out how to exit the building as we speak. ETA to pick up point Six and Zero."
I find Rosalie across the room. Her blue eyes gleam back at me, and a small, barely-there smile threatens her horror-stricken face. I look away before one of us ruins it and then find Masen. I flash him an inconspicuous signal, relaying the message.
Absolutely nothing changes in that feline posture of his, nor in the flat, emotionless expression he wears like a second skin. But I swear I can feel the relief crashing through him mirrored in me, but it's so much more for him.
It's enough that I'm almost giddy from it.
Oblivious to our silent conversation, Aronov abruptly nods to Masen.
Masen nods back, keeping up the charade, at least until Cullen is outside those fucking walls and we have everything we need to shut down Aronov's empire for good.
His wrist flicks to the left in a quick, economical motion. Like before, the air thumps from the pair of suppressed rounds. Two more follow immediately after, and Basayev's guards collapse in unison, dead before they even hit the ground.
Basayev whines and starts to back away, only to be corralled by Aronov's bodyguards. Feliks grabs the man by the arm, wrenching it backward until bone snaps, as Dmitri locks on to the other to hold him in place.
Smiling a hair-raising smile, Aronov paces over to Masen and extends a hand in expectation. "Day mne."
Masen's brows hit his hairline, but he complies, reaching under his jacket for his second weapon. Flipping it around, he passes it off to Aronov.
Holy shit.
Eying the weapon, Aronov pauses just long enough to unscrew the suppressor and drop it on the ground. Sweat drips down his temples to his neck, darkening the fine wool of his jacket, and that vein on his forehead throbs in time to his speeding heart. Full of purpose, fury, and menace, Aronov strides to Basayev, growling out a litany of curses.
He smiles one last time, and without another word, he shoves Masen's barrel into Basayev's mouth and fires, blowing the back of his head out.
The sound from the unsuppressed round claps like thunder, reverberating in the room and the hallway beyond. In the distance, I hear a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream and the clatter of porcelain and silver.
Aronov shrugs it off like it's nothing and instead spins around to aim Masen's Glock directly at Koshmarin.
The blond gapes at him.
And I mean, it's not like I can blame him.
His boss isn't exactly known for doing his own wet work.
"You..." He glares pure, unadulterated violence at the other man. "You and I, we will discuss your behavior when we return to the compound. You have many, many things to explain to me, and my patience with you is at its end."
Turning back to Masen, Aronov cranks his neck to the left, cracking the vertebrae. Chest heaving, he roughly thumbs droplets of blood spray off his lips and chin.
"Now…" Aronov says, spitting on Basayev's body. "I want you to drag this motherfucker's corpse through that ballroom, and I want you to make sure that every single person in this fucking building understands exactly what I will do to anyone who touches what is mine."
.
.
.
Notes:
Apparently, fanfiction reviews aren't working for some (saying you've already reviewed). This happened to me earlier today on a fic I'm following. Fortunately, I was able to log out and review as a Guest, so that might work for you until fanfiction gets their crap together.
As always, I love hearing from you ladies (and gents) and appreciate everyone reading. :)
Also, recently, OPERATION: Break the Dawn and The Cleaner were recognized in this year's Golden Onion Awards. Thank you so much to whoever(s) nominated and voted. These fics are very special to me, and it gives me joy knowing they're special to you, too.
Greek (transliterated):
Yassou: common greeting, informal
Russian (transliterated):
Chego on khochet: What does he want?
Ne znayu… Ali skazal, chto u nego 'podarok' dlya Mishi: I don't know… Ali said that he had a 'gift' for Misha
Podarok: Gift?
Vidimo… Eto syurpriz: Apparently… it's a surprise
Ladno… dayu tebe desyat' minut: All right… I'll give you ten minutes
Lyubimaya moya: term of endearment, meaning my love/my beloved
Konechno: Of course
Da: Yes
Moy prekrasnyy d'yavol… Ty menya v mogilu svedesh': My beautiful devil… You'll take me to my grave
Nu, davay nachnom: Well, let's get started
Vozmeshcheniye: reparation, reimbursement, compensation, etc
Grebanyy idiot: fucking idiot
Zatknis': Shut up / Shut it
Sasha, uvedi yeyo otsyuda: Sasha, take her out of here
Volevaya devushka: Willful (young) woman
Ubey yego: Kill him
Chto ty skazal: What did you say?
Poslushay… Eto ne to, chto ty dumayesh': Look, it's not what you're thinking
Da ili net, ty videl, chto on s ney sdelal: Yes or no, did you see what he did to her?
Dorogaya: term of endearment, roughly my darling / my dear / etc
Eto byla oshibka… nedorazumeniye: It was a mistake… a misunderstanding
Prosti menya, yesli ya tebya obidel: Forgive me if I offended you
Day [eto] mne: Give [it] to me
Glossary:
