Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Have you heard anything from Masen?"

"No," I say as we slow our descent to linger on the mezzanine. "Not a word."

Staring down at the imposing entry and sitting areas below, I smile my best smile and pretend to admire the warmly lit space with all its elegantly rustic furnishings and museum-like décor. Despite the winter season, romantic sprays of fresh-cut flowers top the tables. A crackling fire roars in the head-high stone hearth occupying the eastern wall. On the opposite end, past a gleaming, ebony grand piano that I doubt anyone has played for years, a pair of heavy oak doors sit open, revealing the glittering bindings and wall-to-wall shelves of Aronov's massive personal library.

When I would have asked Rosalie the same, Aronov's smooth, sophisticated lilt carries out of the room and up the staircase, followed by a rumbling baritone I don't recognize. The words are impossible to decipher with the echo off the high ceilings and old stone walls. Nonetheless, there's an undercurrent to their conversation that's impossible to miss. It's angry and tense.

Rosalie's gaze trails after mine, no doubt picking up the same. Her lips mash in a hard line. "What do you think?"

I don't answer for a moment and instead, focus on the voices in the library. That baritone gets louder, and after another few seconds, I'm certain it's not Koshmarin we're hearing. This guy's pronunciation is sharper, his tone crisper and harsher, like someone accustomed to issuing orders and expecting them to be followed.

Hello, Sasha.

Unease uncurls as I look back over to Rosalie. "I'm thinking that whatever's keeping him can't be good."

"Well, no shit." She rolls her eyes like I'm an idiot. "What did Whitlock say?"

Glancing around, just to make sure we don't have any unwanted attention, I whisper, "Not much. Surveillance picked him up two days ago when Aronov's jet landed. A local source confirmed he transferred by helo to Retzos' yacht off Mykonos."

Rosalie's brows climb. "He's still there?"

Shaking my head, I run my palms over the intricately carved wooden railing. Like the rest of this place, it's a piece of art, and guilt twinges for even touching the thing, never mind its function. "He left after a few hours, and then we lost him for a while," I say, tracing a delicately engraved line of scrollwork and leafy vines. "Whitlock said the jet left for Prague yesterday morning, so best guess is he's there."

"What the fuck's in Prague?"

I frown because there's only one reason that Masen would be there. "Jovan Dobroshi."

"Ugh." Rosalie's face scrunches up in a split-second of disgust. "That fucking guy." Her voice drops even lower, just a hair above a whisper. "Do we get to kill him, too? Please say yes."

A soft snicker spills out before I can stop it, and this time I give her a real smile. "That's the plan."

Because it is.

At this point, I don't give two fucks what Platt originally contracted us to do. I want every one of these assholes gone like last week's leftovers.

As we resume our slow path down, Rosalie loops her arm through my mine, grins that heart-stopping grin of hers, and leans in, murmuring through her teeth. "Have you tried contacting him?"

"I texted and then called yesterday morning." My chin dips once, along with my stomach, which says all kinds of things that I don't want to admit. "Nothing."

"Shit." Exhaling a slow breath, Rosalie makes a show of straightening her dress. It's a new one, some clingy crimson number from one of those expensive-ass boutiques she said she couldn't pronounce. Either way, it's sleek and unapologetically sexy, and the thing hugs her curves like a second skin. Aronov's probably going to start drooling the second he sees her. "So, what do you want to do?"

I shrug, and the motion reminds me that I'm not wearing much more than she is right now. "Whitlock's putting some feelers out to try to locate Masen. He's also warning Platt about Cullen's condition," I say right as we hit the main floor. "In the meantime, we just have to keep playing our parts."

"Awesome." Despite the sinking sensation in my gut, I almost laugh at the sarcasm she doesn't bother hiding. "You know how much I love this shit."

We take our time crossing the wide sitting area. As we skirt the last row of matching Italian leather sofas, I make a point to avoid the plush, colorful rug in the center and allow my heels to rap against the stone tile. Within seconds, the angry rumbles trail off, and by the time we step across the threshold, they cease altogether.

Standing between a long, glass-topped display case and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, Aronov spins away from the dark-haired man beside him. His gaze lands on Rosalie first but then skips over to me, and the second we make eye contact, his features warm in instant, undisguised delight.

"Ah, there you are," Aronov murmurs. The warmth in his gaze turns darker, almost molten, as his eyes trace over my bare shoulders before sliding down to my chest and waist, where the sculpted boning of my strapless dress gives me curves I didn't know I had.

"Mmm, Misha," Rosalie coos back, vamping it up like she does best. When she runs her palm down the smooth wool of his lapel and teasingly scrapes her nails along his jaw, he makes a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat and kisses her on each cheek. But he doesn't kiss her on the mouth, and instead of his usual groping and pawing, he releases her the moment I'm in range and aims for me, pulling me tightly against him in a distinctly possessive hold. He doesn't let me go either.

Interesting.

I arch a single brow in question, but I don't pull away. No, I just smile up at the creep, doing my damnedest not to cringe when his fingers spread and span my ribcage. His thumb inches upward, surreptitiously ghosting along the bottom swell of my breast. When an involuntary shiver skates down my spine, Aronov preens like the asshole he is and does it again, mistaking my reaction for that of arousal.

"Milaya moya." Leaning down, Aronov runs his lips along the bare skin of my throat before whispering in my ear. "You are stunning this evening. You cannot imagine the effect you have on me."

Oh, I think I can.

I duck my head in pretend embarrassment but then flash him a mischievous row of teeth. "Well, you'll have to blame Rosalie for this one," I tell him, forcing myself to lean into him like I know he wants. "She likes spending your money so much that she even shopped for me."

Aronov belts out a loud, unexpected laugh and turns to Rosalie. "Beautiful Rose," he says, running his hand down the smooth, fitted, midnight fabric to the flare of my hip. "If this is the result, by all means, please continue." He throws her an impish wink even as his fingertips clench and squeeze. "Perhaps you would prefer Milan for your next adventure?"

Of course, Rosalie just beams. "When do we leave?" When Aronov laughs again, she angles toward the silent sentinel to her right and hums, low and throaty. "And who might you be?"

The stern, stony-faced fifty-something with smudges of ash at his temples looks over to Aronov, and his bushy brows lift in question. "Kto eta amerikanka?"

A huff of aggravation punches out as Aronov waves a random hand. "My sincere apologies, ladies. I am an inconsiderate host," he says and then motions to Markovsky. "This is my brother-in-law, Aleksandr. His wife is my sister, but unfortunately, she no longer travels."

More likely, she isn't allowed to, but okay.

"Sasha… belokuruyu krasivitsu zovut Rose," he goes on, smiling and gesturing to Rose before staring down at me with what I can only describe as a pathological level of obsessiveness that's done nothing but increase since the moment we met. "I eto… eto moya Isabella."

That last bit comes out firmly, spoken as matter of fact, and I don't miss the emphasis on that possessive little moya. Neither does Markovsky.

The two men study each other in a moment of silent conversation that turns the air staticky. It's that same sense of friction and tension we overheard out in the main room, and I wonder just how much Koshmarin has told the older man. Markovsky's eyes – a light, piercing, silver-gray – narrow on me. "Ona pokhozha na Sulʹpitsiyu."

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I think we all know who I look like.

Aronov's fingers spasm around my hip as his right simultaneously slices the air. "Tikho." He glares at the other man, sharp and cutting. "And we will speak English this evening."

Rather than being intimidated or even annoyed, Markovsky just shrugs a set of broad, straight shoulders and eyes the other man in what appears to be wry, almost indulgent amusement when he finally replies with an out-of-practice, heavily accented, "Very well." Markovsky lets out a low chuckle at Aronov's responding scowl but dips his head to Rosalie and me. "Ladies, it is my pleasure. It is unfortunate I missed meeting you at the party of Mikhail in Vienna."

Rosalie tilts her head such that the soft overhead light hits the fine, perfect lines of her cheekbones. When she smiles that sly, sultry smile, I don't have to be psychic to know what's coming next.

"Aleksandr." The man's name comes out like a purr. She moves closer, and before he can react, she skims her hand along his forearm, giving the muscle there a suggestive squeeze. Full and blood-red, her lips turn down into one of those petulant little pouts that drive powerful men crazy. "May I call you Sasha, too?" she asks, drawing out the diminutive like a warm caress.

The man nods immediately while those stern features of his slacken and soften. Gifting him a megawatt smile in response, Rosalie tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, and I almost laugh when his Adam's apple dips behind the stiff collar of his oxford.

So, even stone-face isn't immune.

Jesus, she's good.

Regardless, as Rosalie takes over and launches into a playful, flirty exchange with the older man, I flash her a cautionary glance because this is the guy we need to watch out for. He's not FSB for nothing.

Beside me, Aronov's shoulders shake in silent laughter, taking me right along with them. A moment later, he bends down once more, whispering against my hair. "Does this please you?"

It takes me a second to grasp what he's asking. "What do you mean?"

I feel his cheeks crease. "I have not forgotten your displeasure with my… flirtations."

Shit.

I don't answer, other than to tighten my grip on his jacket, but evidently, it's enough to satisfy him, and for the next twenty minutes, the four of us chat about idle, meaningless things. All the while, Aronov's hold on me never wanes, and by the time the bell chimes to signal dinner, that wayward thumb is right back where it started, slowly and gently skirting the edge of propriety.

"Dorogaya, please, a moment," Aronov says as he waves Markovsky and Rosalie on.

As they disappear through another set of heavy double doors into the finely appointed formal dining room, I finally step out of Aronov's grip and ease my way back against the display behind me. I steal a glance down, only to find a line of illuminated ancient tomes in a half-dozen languages swaddled in dark velvet beneath the glass.

"I did not see you yesterday." Hand clasping mine, Aronov brings my wrist to his lips and presses soft, open-mouth kisses to the inside. "Are you well?"

I give him a small, polite smile, walking that razor edge between interest and indifference. "I'm fine. I was just a little tired."

Aronov releases my wrist, only to step into me, caging me against the display. One hand frames my face while the other finds its way to my waist. "I fear I must apologize."

"What?" My forehead creases as my fingers slowly walk down the crisp placket of his shirt. Sans tie and unbuttoned at the collar, he's the picture of casual wealth and refinement. "Why would you do that?"

"The conversation you witnessed regarding my mines… it was too much for you, was it not?"

Swallowing, I look over to a nearby shelf of leather-bound books. Gilded titles in both Latin and Cyrillic gaze back at me. "I'll admit, it was… a lot."

"It is obvious to me now that your prior exposure to these things and people was more distant… more oblique." Aronov's lips turn down into an apologetic frown, and when he speaks, his voice, silky smooth, carries what most would hear as genuine contrition.

I know better.

Men like Aronov are incapable of remorse.

That frown deepens. "I also did not anticipate the direction of that particular conversation. That was my mistake." He strokes my cheek in an almost-loving caress when I don't reply. "I would insulate you from this."

"No, it's okay," I say. "It just… caught me off guard." My throat bobs, and I don't miss the way he tracks the movement. "I understand that your business is a challenging one and that sometimes you have to do things that are… uncomfortable."

He chuckles, dark and low, even as he positions closer, enough that the shimmery satin of my bodice catches against the fabric of his jacket. "Do you now?"

"I do." Flattening my palms against his chest, I push back, just a little, and slant my head such that my lips are bare inches from his.

"I have something for you," he whispers.

Unprepared for the change in direction, I start.

Gently grasping me by the elbow, Aronov shifts in behind me and turns us ninety degrees until we're facing a tall, ornately framed antique mirror. The late setting sun streams in from the window nearby, casting shadows that dance and multiply. Like in his office, Aronov sweeps the hair off my shoulder and buries his nose in the crook of my neck. Wordlessly, I watch him close his eyes, inhaling like I'm the most luscious thing he's ever encountered. Against my back, so close, I feel every breath he takes.

It's a starkly intimate position, and it takes everything I have not to jerk away.

Instead, playing my part, I arch against him and feel him smile against my throat as he plucks something from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He releases me just long enough to unfurl a long chain of end-to-end, sparkling diamonds, the likes of which I've only seen in magazines.

Holy shit.

I don't want to know how many tens of thousands – no, hundreds of thousands – of dollars he's holding in front of me.

My eyes boggle, and it's not exactly a feigned response. "Mikhail… Misha, I can't…"

Pleased by my reaction, Aronov grins, and before I can protest, he loops the necklace around my neck and affixes the graceful, filigree clasp. Where the sunlight hits the stones, the light reflects and refracts, throwing a spray of glittering stars against the walls.

"This is nothing," he says, shrugging like he really means it. "It is a small thing, a token perhaps."

Token, my ass, but I suppose it is compared to the twenty-five-million-dollar painting hanging in my bedroom.

"Do you like this?" he asks when I don't speak.

Honest to God tongue-tied, I shake my head at the never-ending extravagance and lightly touch the sparkling gems. "Of course. Who wouldn't?"

"You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to see you in such things." Arms threading around my middle, Aronov pulls my back tight to his chest. Inhaling again, he drags his lips along my throat, kissing a lazy path to the shell of my ear. "Have you considered my offer?

I thread my fingers through his and hold them against my stomach, mainly to keep his hands from wandering. "And what offer might that be?" I ask, playing coy.

"To be mine." I register the bite of teeth. "Say yes. Say you are mine, and I will give you everything you could ever want. I will deny you nothing."

Until you decide to kill me, of course.

"Give me a little more time," I tell him, hedging, playing the hand Masen commanded me to play. "I'm not saying no, but this is a bit overwhelming."

"Very well." Arms tightening, Aronov clucks his tongue but then hums against my neck. "I can be a patient man for you, but, Bella, do not make me wait long."

There's a not-so-subtle warning in there, but instead of reacting to it, I turn in his arms, lift on my toes, and touch my lips to his in a slow, languid kiss. Like that morning in his office, my stomach threatens to revolt, but I don't stop, and my lips part in invitation. Aronov's low groan hits my ears, and his mouth opens against mine, wet and slick and moving in a tempo far, far too sensual for my liking.

Yet all I can think about is Masen.

That fist in my gut comes roaring back, and my heart hammers erratically inside my chest because more than anything, I just want to see that man's stupidly attractive face again and feel the warm, comfortable steel of his embrace. And yes, finally tell him that I've got his back.

A few moments later, before Aronov gets any ideas, I edge back and stare at my would-be homicidal lover. "I have a question for you."

Staring back with that intense fervor and hunger that makes my skin crawl, Aronov sucks in a harsh, shaky breath. "Anything."

Okay, buddy, let's see what you do with this.

"Your brother-in-law said something a few minutes ago," I say. Playing with him and teasing more of the connection he craves, I touch my fingertips to the hard line of his jaw, lightly scratching through the short, coarse, perfectly manicured beard he's sporting now that he's back home. "You replied… Tika, or something like that."

"Tikho." An almost-tender smile lingers on his lips, but his eyes give him away. They turn dark, cautious, and probing. "Are you attempting to learn my language now?"

"No… not yet, at least." I laugh at that. "I'm just curious. You sounded angry."

Aronov studies me for a long moment before finally letting out a soft sigh. "He said you looked like someone, and I told him to be silent."

"Why?"

"Because it is a topic I did not wish to discuss."

Teeth worrying my bottom lip, I look up at him through my lashes and quietly press. "Tell me. Who does he think I look like?"

War rages across Aronov's features, and a growl of frustration spills out before he scrubs his chin and sighs again. "My wife," he finally says, damned near spitting it out. "My late wife."

On cue, I go ramrod stiff, and I throw more than a little bite into my response. "I see."

Under his breath, Aronov mutters an angry curse. "It is not what you are thinking."

My brows climb as I cross my arms over my chest. "And what am I thinking?"

Without warning, an unexpected, beatific grin stretches Aronov's entire face, and he abruptly pulls my hands away from my chest, kissing my fingertips over and over. When I try to back away, he yanks me forward, and his mouth descends on mine, this time hard, deep, hungry, and triumphant. "There is no need for you to be jealous," he murmurs, breathless and wanting. "As much as it gives me joy to witness."

"I'm no–"

"Yes, you share a few… physical traits, but that is where the similarities end," he says before I can counter. "Sulpicia was beautiful, certainly, but she was young. Too young, perhaps, and she was not… right for this kind of life." He hums, and the sound isn't exactly one of contentment. It's closer to a growl. "She was a fickle, capricious creature, and unfortunately, weak." Simmering anger and menace lurk in his features when he looks down at me. Aronov's grip tightens, just on the verge of becoming painful. "And most importantly… she did not understand the value of loyalty."

The hypocrisy here is almost comical.

"You are nothing like this," he goes on, and I have to wonder just how much this crazy bastard's built me up in his head. Given that he's buying me art and diamonds… I'd say a lot.

He keeps going, muttering against my cheek, maybe more to himself than me. "Beautiful, intelligent, strong… and there is a darkness and will in you that I find utterly irresistible." He tips my head back and runs his thumb along my lips. "Never think that I see you as a replacement or stand-in. No… my darling, you would be so much more than that."

Ice races down my spine and pebbles my skin.

This is so far beyond what we planned and what Spooky anticipated. Fuck, I don't know what this is.

I just know that for the first time since we took this godforsaken assignment, tendrils of true fear slide through my veins.

.

.

.

Notes:

Russian (transliterated):

Milaya moya: Similar to dorogaya, this is a common term of endearment between lovers, spouses, etc, roughly meaning my sweetheart or my darling

Kto eta amerikanka: Who is this American (fem)?

Belokuruyu krasivitsu zovut Rose: The blonde beauty is called (named) Rose

I eto… eto moya Isabella: And this… this is my Isabella

Ona pokhozha na Sulʹpitsiyu: She looks like Sulpicia

Tikho: Quiet (imperative)

Glossary:

FSB: recall, this is the current federal security agency in Russia. It's the successor agency of the old KGB