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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"It's not your fault."

Instead of answering, I drift a few feet off the grotto wall and tip my head beneath the curtain of water pouring down from the rock ledge above. I linger there for a moment and close my eyes, focusing on the steady rush hitting my back. It's a soothing, almost hypnotic sensation, and for just a second, I forget where we are and why.

When I finally pop back out and return to the submerged bench that arcs and follows the natural curve of the wall, Rosalie cocks a sculpted brow and does what she does best.

"Seriously?" she snaps as she jabs a hard, bony elbow into my side. "You do know that, right?"

"Isn't it, though?" Shoving my hair out of my face, I scoop it into a soppy knot. When she starts to argue, I wave her off with an irritated huff. "And don't talk to me about collateral damage."

Of course, she just groans and rolls her baby blue eyes like I'm an idiot. "God, would you stop being so fucking dramatic?"

Across the glowing pale turquoise lake, I clock Aronov's trim, dark-suited Dmitri as he peels off his jacket. Even here, deep in the belly of the castle, a pair of slick Lebedev pistols sit tight against his ribs. Draping his jacket over one of the chairs, he quickly adjusts his shoulder harness and continues his seemingly leisurely prowl without a word. Quiet, unobtrusive, and tuned to spring at the slightest provocation, the guy's good at what he does, too, and if he's annoyed at being relegated to babysitting duty, I can't tell it.

"You didn't see her," I finally say, spitting it out as I replay that frozen moment when Aronov's elegant model of an assistant interrupted us that day in his office in Florence. "She looked like she'd seen a ghost. I thought she was afraid for me, that she'd known about the wife and put two and two together." My frown deepens. "But she was terrified for herself, and I completely misread it."

"And?" Rosalie makes a pissy, chuffing sound. "That woman signed her own warrant."

Dragging my gaze from Dmitri's slow patrol, I level her a flat stare.

"Don't give me that shit." Propping up on the decking behind his, Rosalie kicks her feet up into a lazy float. "She organized his whole goddamned life. You think she didn't know how he made his cash? That she didn't know who he was meeting with and why?"

"Yeah, I kno–"

"Fuck that. She knew exactly who she was playing with, what he was doing, and what he was capable of." Rosalie's lips flatten into a hard, no-nonsense line I know far too well. I usually catch it right before she kicks my ass. "Yet she still happily fucked him and took his money."

I sigh, but she's not wrong.

"Still." When I slump a little lower on the bench, a shiver steals down my spine as the cool water creeps over the tops of my shoulders and laps against the back of my neck. "I wasn't expecting him to clean house like that. She probably wasn't the only one he had taken out." Scrubbing my face, I sigh again. "I shouldn't have pushed him."

"Yeah, you should have," Rosalie replies, and there's not an ounce of hesitation in her statement. "You're not one of his usual trinkets. He needs to see some claws."

Rosalie pauses, and we both track Markovsky as he crosses the arced stone catwalk suspended high above and descends the floating stairs. He targets the man in question where he sits, lounging at one of the nearby tables, and barks out something as soon as he steps off the landing. With the distance and roar from the waterfall, it's impossible to decipher, but whatever Markovsky says makes Aronov's head jerk up from his phone. Belting out a loud, boisterous laugh, Aronov rattles off a fast-paced response that just makes the other man's shoulders shake.

Aronov stands a beat later. Even decked out in a dark-on-dark, semi-tailored tracksuit – apparently, the height of at-home casual for this man – he cuts a refined, imposing figure. Shadows cast by the dim cavern lighting dance across his face as his gaze laps the pool, but the second he spies me, those angular features of his warm and soften, and for a long moment, he just stares across the glowing water. When Markovsky claps him on the back and says something else, Aronov's eyebrows hit his hairline in a final, unspoken invitation. I shake my head at him, laughing when he scowls, but then I make a playful, dramatic show of rolling my eyes, and his cheeks split into a wide, amused grin that he wears all the way up the stairs.

"No," Rosalie murmurs as the two men pass overhead before eventually disappearing into the long hall leading to Aronov's private sauna. "That asshole's got much, much bigger plans for you, B. And he expects you to push him." When she angles toward me, she looks almost thoughtful. "More than that, he wants you to."

I snort. "You sound like Spooky."

"What? It's not exactly rocket science."

Rosalie's shoulders roll, tugging on the strings of the damned-near obscene crimson bikini she fished out of Aronov's boutique-worthy changing room. The thing puts my barely-there, plunging one-piece in the shade, but I'll give her credit. As a diversionary tool, it's effective. Feliks' jaw almost hit the ground when she strutted across that catwalk an hour earlier.

Poor McCarty would have died.

"It's like a dog pissing on a tree," Rosalie explains, and when my nose scrunches, she cracks a reluctant smile and swats a handful of water in my direction. "Aronov's been marking you for weeks now. You just marked him back. Claimed him as yours. That motherfucker was probably ecstatic."

Copying her pose, I kick my feet in a slow bicycling motion to keep afloat. "I don't know if you realize this," I drawl, grimacing. "But you're kind of bitchy today."

Since that's somehow a compliment in her book, Rosalie beams at me. "What can I say? I was up late, working." She splashes me again, hitting me square in the mouth. "Unlike some people I know."

"Fuck you, Hale." I splash her back, and she just laughs. "At least you don't have to deal with Aronov anymore."

"Thank God for small miracles." Stretching out from the wall, Rosalie tilts her head back to wet her hair. "Flirting with that dick was bad enough. If I had to wake up next to him and let him paw all over me…" She makes an exaggerated gagging noise. "Honestly? It's fucking impressive you haven't killed him yet."

"Believe me, it's tempting."

And fuck, if it isn't. When I came downstairs in this ridiculous excuse of a swimsuit, I thought I would have to either remove his hands from his body or shove him into the pool. Maybe both.

"I'm also impressed that someone else…" she adds, nodding over to the enormous stone support columns rising out of the center of the pool to the ceiling and the triplet of Olympic-length lap lanes tucked behind them. "Hasn't killed him either."

I glance over just in time to catch a sleek, dark shape I'd recognize anywhere appear between two of the columns. He vanishes behind another a second later as he silently crawls the length of the pool.

Jesus, he's fast.

"You and me both," I mutter, willing myself to look away and ignore him like I'm supposed to.

Rosalie's eyes glitter with silent laughter. Instead of giving me shit like I expect, however, she peeks across the pool to Dmitri and goes serious. "Intel coming in is good, though."

I shoot her a quick grin and speak through my teeth. "Yeah?"

Shoving off the wall, she floats out a few feet, like she's inspecting the waterfall, and turns her back to the guard to face me. "Whitlock's still working on extracting the files from his phone, but he said the meeting this morning was… interesting."

"How so?" I ask, tracking Dmitri, all the while looking for his buddy, Feliks. That one's now supposedly upstairs with Aronov and Markovsky. Still, I wouldn't put it past my overly protective, psycho lover to send him back down, especially with Koshmarin roaming around.

"That call with the Foreign Minister this morning was a head's up." Reaching back, Rosalie swipes a hand through the falls, smiling in delight as the water thunders down and parts over her skin. "There's some rumors he's under investigation. There's even early talk of freezing some assets."

I let out a low whistle. "Do we know who? And please don't tell me Platt's jumping the gun."

Rosalie shakes her head. "It's coming out of INTCEN." That smile turns crafty as she idly tilts her hand this way and that, directing the spray. Bottom-mounted pool lights reflect and refract off the mist, creating a fine rainbow cascade that glitters like tiny diamonds. "Seems some analysts recently received some very credible information from a trusted source."

Fuck, yes.

"Whitlock?"

Rosalie nods. "Em said he and Spooky pieced together some shit from Masen's stash with that clusterfuck at the port in Rotterdam, as well as some other weapons and drugs intel we've picked up on Retzos and Dobroshi." Fiddling with the ties on her top, she steals a quick look around before continuing. "It was enough to get the ball rolling and should lead them to those warlords and that village in the DRC… Looks like there's a few people in Brussels who've been waiting for a chance like this."

My forehead wrinkles. "What do you mean by that?"

Mimicking my earlier move, Rosalie dunks her head beneath the falls, laughing and motioning me to join her. When I meander my way over, she giggles again and bumps my shoulder hard enough that I wind up underneath, as well. "They tried to go after him a few years ago," she says, so quietly I almost miss it. "There was a situation involving his mining operations and one of his construction companies, only that time it was in Guinea."

While her expression doesn't change, I pick out subtle signs of fury bubbling beneath the surface – the ever-so-slight tightness in the corners of her eyes, the tendons stretching along her neck – and I don't have to ask if there's a long trail of bodies there, too.

After all, this isn't his first rodeo.

"You remember three or four years ago, there were some rumors of some guerrilla activity bleeding over from Liberia?" she asks, and I tip my chin in acknowledgment. Because they weren't rumors at all. No, that was a bloody mess, and Platt sent a dozen of her own operatives in to help in the aftermath, including two from my station in Munich.

"Indications are that was Aronov, or, more likely, one of MirProm's subsidiaries contracting on behalf of VolTerra and financing it. Some local landowners challenged and were protesting the leases."

Shit.

"Let me guess… an example was made." I shake my head when she nods, even as my fists ball beneath the waterline. "What happened with the investigation?"

"There wasn't a lot of hard evidence, and Aronov's attorneys buried it before it had a prayer of going public. We're assuming he had some political help from back home."

Stepping out of the spray, I scan the massive cavern, careful not to stall on the high-end cameras positioned in the corners. They're supposedly off, but there's no way I'm risking it.

On the opposite side, I mark Dmitri as he stops at the edge of the pool. Squatting, the guard waves and yells something to Masen right as Masen dives below the surface and flip-turns off the wall for another lap. He doesn't even slow down. When he resurfaces, Masen extends a hand, flips off a laughing Dmitri, and then continues sluicing through the water with his silent, crazy-fast crawl.

"Aronov was definitely moody when he got off his calls this morning, but he wasn't losing his shit like he did the other day," I say, frowning as I picture the dark, flinty expression he wore when he finally stepped out of his study and hunted me down on my treadmill in the gym. "He probably just assumes it's the same game, a minor inconvenience for his legal team to handle and nothing compared to the revenue loss of the mines themselves."

Rosalie's lips curve. "Well, he's going to be in for a rude awakening, especially when they start locking down his toys and operations."

"Let's hope." Wading back to the wall, I grab one of the oversized stemless glasses I snagged on the way down and slug back a third of its contents. Like everything else in this place, even Aronov's casual poolside wine is superb – a dark, finely aged Nebbiolo that tastes as good as sex and probably costs more than I want to know. "Did our buddy in the Kremlin have anything else to say?"

"Not much," Rosalie says, cutting me a sideways glare until I pluck the second wine glass off the deck and hand it over. "Other than he wants to take Aronov up on some invitation he'd extended a while back." This time when she laughs, genuine humor lightens her voice and crinkles her eyes. "It seems Seryozha's pretty young mistress wants a vacation and just loves Aronov's villa in Montenegro."

I snort into my glass.

"Exactly." Chuckling, she tips her glass and drains the whole thing. "We good to go tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but we'll have company," I tell her, scowling and dancing away when she reaches for my glass, too. "No way he's letting me out of here unescorted, just like there's no way you're getting my wine, heifer."

"Figured." Flashing me a row of pearly teeth, she shrugs but then stills and signs upward. "Either way, it won't be a problem."

Following her lead, I slowly wander to the rim of our cave-like grotto and surreptitiously peer up, past the rock ledge to the catwalk. Right on cue, Aronov's second bodyguard steps through the arched doorway onto the walkway and then leans over the minimalist iron railing. Like Aronov's Mitya, Feliks is sans jacket in rolled-up shirtsleeves, and there's a small arsenal strapped to his chest. But this one's lazier than the man prowling the deck down here. Feliks' broad shoulders slouch as he rests his elbows on the rail, and as he surveys the cavern, lethargy and dullness leach into his features.

"Trust me," Rosalie says. Her cheeks crease into a conspiratorial almost-smirk as she scoots onto one of the half-submerged decorative boulders. "That big one up there almost died when he had to follow me around shopping… not that I could blame him. You contacted Spooky yet?"

"Not yet and not from down here." Ducking back under the ledge, I shake my head and drop lower in the water to bob along the bottom. "I'll grab us something else to drink in a few and slip up to the changing room."

She eyes me over her empty glass. "Just what are you thinking?"

"Saturday night, everyone's going to be at Aronov's shindig in Florence, right?"

"Yes, and?" Rosalie asks, although I have no doubt that she already suspects where I'm going.

"While we were finishing lunch, his assistant – the new one, Bianca – called to confirm our little spa day tomorrow. Before they hung up, Aronov told her to have his house in the city ready for the weekend, that we'd stay there overnight instead of coming back after the party." The seemingly ever-present fist in my gut squeezes. "That means security here will slack off… So, while you and I are busy being seen at the party, I want to see if we can get a small team in here – Spooky, McCarty, and maybe, if I ask nicely, Eli will let us borrow that kidon team he's got stationed nearby."

"Shit." Rosalie's eyes widen and then narrow. "I knew you'd do this. You're thinking we try to extract Cullen Saturday night?"

Debating for what has to be the hundredth time this afternoon, I shove a lone strand of hair off my forehead, and when I inhale in a deep breath of warm, humid air, my ribcage stretches the thin, finely woven fabric of my suit. "They've been working the plan since we got here. I just want to move the timeline up if we can because I don't know when there'll be another chance like this. It could be weeks or even months. If they can get in and get to him without tripping the alarms," I slowly say, pausing to slug back the remainder of my wine. "Then, yeah, I think we should give it a shot."

When she doesn't answer, I glance over, watching the wheels turn as Rosalie stares down at the rippling water, and quietly wait.

See, while I've done my fair share of hostage recovery, she's better at this than me. She's done a lot more of it, too.

I usually just stick to killing the bad guys.

It's easier.

And it's definitely less stressful.

"At three levels below ground, entry and egress options are limited, regardless of when we do it," she says haltingly, likely still working through all the moving parts and pieces. But her tone tells me what I need to hear. It loses all trace of remaining humor, carrying a familiar note of cold, professional detachment instead. "It'll be a bitch to execute and not without considerable risk – to him and the team."

"I'm aware." I nod. "But Cullen's value as leverage is quickly diminishing. Now that Aronov's started sending Platt body parts, he won't hesitate to execute if he gets in the wrong mood. I'd like to deprive him of that opportunity if we can."

She's quiet for another moment. "Question is, can he actually be moved without a medical team?"

It's a good question, and my teeth worry the inside of my cheek. "Debatable, but Masen says he's stable and stubborn enough to survive it. Plus, McCarty's a trained medic, so he can assess in real-time."

"Goddamnit." Rosalie spits it out and then rakes her hand across the top of the water, mumbling under her breath. Her eyes fly to mine, sparking with the same caged energy sinking my gut. "I don't like it," she whispers. "But I agree. With the security and numbers in this place, it'll be easier with him out of the way. One less thing for us to worry about when shit really hits the fan... You think Aronov will suspect?"

"Maybe," I tell her as my heart hammers a fast, staccato rhythm that I can feel in my teeth. The wine sitting in my stomach feels like a brick. "But I'm pretty sure I can deflect it if needed… Aronov sees what he wants to see when it comes to me." I give myself a hard internal smack, willing my brain to steer away from what I might just have to do if things go sideways. "Anything else we need to prepare for hand-off tomorrow?"

"No," Rosalie says. She squeezes her hair out and pulls it back into a sleek, wet ponytail that would make me look like a drowned rat. Of course, she looks like a freaking supermodel. "I've already got all the maps and building layouts ready to go." Her eyes dart up to the catwalk, gleaming with mischief. "Along with the alarm and security codes I picked up from a couple of the guards when they were too busy drooling over my fabulous tits."

My shoulders shake as we slowly bob our way back toward the wall. "Someone's been busy."

"Well, someone has to do some actual work around here." Her reply is as dry as the desert. Throwing me a wink, Rosalie flicks a haphazard hand. "Oh, and by the way, you should know I'm borrowing your bed."

"You're doing what?"

"Housework fairies came to pick up and change the linens this morning." Slowing, she pivots toward the main pool. "You said that fucker has his fingers in everything around here, so… just in case, I casually threw it out there that I'd been using your bed for my late-night…" She clears her throat and then wags her brows at me. "Assignations, since, you know, you're so busy shacking up with Aronov. And come on, let's be honest, do I look like I'm going to sleep in a fucking wet spot?" She snickers at that and deposits her glass on the edge of the pool. "They thought it was hilarious. One of them even congratulated me."

"God, you have no shame," I say, laughing even harder. "Who are you supposedly fucking that'd get that kind of reaction?"

That megawatt smile morphs into a wicked grin that I know far, far too well, and I know that I'm going to hate whatever comes out of her mouth next. Her gaze cuts over to the center stone columns right as Masen races past. The dim cavern lighting strikes his back and shoulders at just the right angle, highlighting all those rigid lines and valleys.

Of course.

Dry-washing my face, I let out some cross between a huff and a sigh and vent into my palms. "Bitch."

"Whatever." One shoulder lifts and falls in casual, put-on indifference, and then her elbow flies into my ribs. "You can thank me for covering for your dumb ass any time you like."

It was a smart move – very smart and, yes, I owe her big-time – but there's no way I'm telling her that. She'd never, ever let me live it down.

I wonder if she bothered to let Masen know.

"Yeah, yeah," I say, and I'm pretty sure my eyes roll to the back of my head. "But I doubt there'll be a repeat." On cue, a dull throb pulses in my temples, timed to the steady thump of my heart. Even though it's been hours, I swear, my thighs still sense the firm, almost desperate grip of Aronov's fingertips when he dragged me into his lap, and my cheek itches from the coarseness of his beard. "Before he finally left for his meetings this morning, Aronov asked me to move into the rooms next to his, if not into his directly."

"Ugh." Rosalie's forehead puckers. "What'd you say?"

Planting my palms on the deck, I shove myself out of the water and scoop up our empty glasses. "It wasn't exactly a request."

Following, Rosalie damned near vaults out of the pool and makes a dramatic, prissy spectacle of straightening her suit. Frankly, I'm just stunned the thing stayed on, and I don't even bother hiding the glance I throw at Dmitri to see if he's watching us.

He is.

So is Masen.

Sitting on the edge with his legs lazily dangling in the pool, Masen looks across the water while talking to Aronov's bodyguard. Everything about him – the relaxed, easy line of his shoulders, the flat, emotionless expression – screams his usual feline aloofness and boredom, but I know better than that. We make eye contact for no more than a second, and like always, I might as well have lightning arcing through my veins. Despite the distance, everything else fades away for a single moment in time. My throat dips when I swallow, and my skin pebbles as phantom fingers and lips trace my spine.

"Ready?" I ask, swallowing one last time and ignoring the silent, probing speculation from the blonde at my right. "I need you to keep Mitya and Feliks down here."

"Oh, is that all?" Rosalie puts on a heart-stopping grin, and without bothering to wait, she sashays across the finely laid travertine pavers like it's a runway. Ten yards ahead of me, she calls over her shoulder, teasing. "Well, are you coming, or what? I need more booze!"

We take our time circling the pool, laughing and playing our usual parts. At the midway point, Rosalie bump-checks my hip and loops her arm through my elbow to tag Feliks descending the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, Aronov's second bodyguard hits the landing a second later and approaches the pair of men loitering at the edge.

Masen's eyes, dark and alive, track me the entire way.

As we pass a cluster of tables and loungers, Dmitri straightens, and his gaze flickers to Rosalie. When he looks back at Masen, his lips curve into a sly, borderline-mocking expression I've seen more times than I can count. It's usually on some dumb-ass drunk grunt right before he says something rude and stupid.

"Itak… proshloy nochʹyu," Dmitri says as Masen yanks a towel off the heated rack. "Ya slyshal, chto ty byl zanyat."

Great.

Just fucking great.

Jesus, word moves fast in this place. But I guess we'll see if Rosalie told him after all.

I pinch the inside of Rosalie's arm as Masen levels the other man a dry, bored stare. He doesn't say a word at first, but then he angles toward us, and his eyes slide away from the guard, skipping over me to Rosalie, where they languidly travel the length of her body, lingering on her breasts and hips. It's not a subtle move, although thankfully, nowhere close to the oiliness of Aronov's more obvious ogling.

But it certainly has its intended effect, and Dmitri lets out a low, knowing chuckle. "U tebya yestʹ yaytsa, muzhik."

"Posmotri na neye," Masen deadpans, nonchalantly shrugging and nodding toward Rosalie like they're talking about the weather instead of her figure. He pauses to dry off his face and chest and then tosses the towel back on the rack. One corner of his mouth tugs up. "Yesli by ona khotela tebya trakhnutʹ, ty by yey otkazal?"

I mean, it's a valid retort. I don't think there's a man here who'd turn her down, but she's going to murder him for implying she's the one who did the asking.

But damn, he's a good actor – so good that I make a mental note not to kick his ass later on.

"Blya, net," Dmitri says, barking out a laugh, and beside him, Feliks grins like an idiot. The dark-haired guard hesitates, peering up at the ceiling in an obvious nod to Aronov. "Dumayesh', yemu budet plevat'?"

"Net." Masen tilts his head toward me this time. His voice goes unexpectedly soft, and I know without asking that he's not just talking about Aronov anymore. "On khochet tolʹko yeye."

Okay, he gets some brownie points for that one.

"And just what are we talking about, gentlemen?" Rosalie cuts in, entirely too innocently, as she signals Feliks to hand her one of the pristine white, waffle-weave robes folded across the closest chair.

The guy moves so fast it's almost comical, and I almost lose it when he politely assists as she slips her arms through the oversized sleeves. Of course, being the sultry goddess she's pretending to be, Rosalie doesn't even bother with the ties and instead leaves it hanging wide open where all those distracting assets of hers can work their magic.

"Aren't you helpful," she purrs, squeezing Feliks' forearm before turning that blinding smile to Dmitri.

While Rosalie chats up the two guards, flirting with a blatant, sensuous sexuality that I couldn't pull off in a million years, I turn to the quiet, far more serious man beside me. Shirtless and still damp from his swim, he's a stone statue come to life, a maze of sculpted lines and rigid planes that my fingertips itch to touch and trace. That nasty contusion from Koshmarin's man in Prague is starting to shrink and yellow at its edges, but days later, it's still a dark, plum-black, fist-sized stain on his ribcage, and even with all the camouflaging ink decorating his skin, there's no way the others haven't noticed it. I wonder just what he's told them, or if they're too afraid of him to ask.

"You're fast," I say, and it takes real effort to school my expression. "You must swim a lot."

While he doesn't look at me when he replies, Masen's gemstone irises glitter. "Occasionally." He thumbs toward the grotto with its tall curtain waterfall on the opposite end of the cavern. With the lights bouncing off the falls and the natural jungle-like vegetation tucked in between the boulders, it's even more beautiful from here. "Looked like you two were having a good time."

"We were." I hold up our empty glasses and flash a grin. "Just talking about the plans for tomorrow and Misha's dinner party on Saturday night. It sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun."

Masen makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "That's one way to put it."

"Well, at least it'll be interesting," I muse. "It'll also be nice to get out of the compound for the night." When he doesn't reply, I balance on the coping and dip my toes in the water. "It's fortunate that Misha has a house in the city."

Masen goes motionless, and it's not just his voice that turns silent, but him. That internal radar of mine pulses, recognizing the stillness of a fellow hunter. "Why do you say that?" he quietly asks.

"It'll just be… easier. You know, give us plenty of time to enjoy the night out." I casually wave at the cavern and the ancient, perfectly restored structure above us. "And with all of us being gone, I'm sure the staff here will enjoy having a little time off to relax."

Masen doesn't react at all, other than the slight twitch of a muscle in his cheek that anyone else would have likely missed. "Probably," he says, as smooth and impassive as ever, and finally looks over. "Especially security. It's been a while, so they'll likely make a night of it."

"That's what we figured."

The furrow between his brows deepens, and he steals a quick peek at the pair of guards and Rosalie behind us. "What time are you leaving for Florence in the morning?"

"A little before eight," I tell him, adjusting the knot of wet hair at my nape. "Bianca set up our first appointments at ten, I think… not that it matters." When he throws me a questioning look, I huff. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure Misha had her reserve the entire facility for the day…" I scowl at that. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he can be a bit much sometimes."

"Yeah, and water is wet." Masen's chest rumbles. "Regardless, I'll likely ride into town with you."

In my periphery, I note Rosalie dragging the blood-red tips of her nails down her throat toward her chest, drawing every bit of the guards' focus and attention. "Why's that?"

Shoving a rough hand through his hair, he makes a non-committal sound and then rubs his forehead. "My contact at the Polizia called."

"About?"

"Andrey's autopsy is in." Masen's fists drop to his hips as his lips settle into a wry half-smile that I'd kiss right off of him were we alone. "You might recall I've been tasked with hunting down the guy that killed him."

"I see." Mirroring his almost-smile, I hum and hug my arms over my chest. "Scary stuff. I really hope you find him."

Masen's chin hits his sternum, masking the involuntary stretch of his cheeks, and his whole frame vibrates before he sucks in a deep breath to lock the reaction down. "Oh, I'm sure I'll track him down sooner or later."

"Hm, good luck with that," I reply, shooting him one last furtive grin before spinning toward the stairs.

As soon as my heel hits the bottom step, Dmitri's low baritone comes from behind me. "Podozhdite… No, wait. Ms. Swan, you must wait, please!" he says, and there's an intriguing urgency and tenor of respect, almost akin to fear, in his tone. "Do you need something?" he asks, carefully articulating. "I will have whatever you request delivered."

"God, no!" Laughing like I don't notice the stubborn lock of his jaw or the strain of his biceps beneath the crisp, pale blue button-up, I wave our glasses. "I'm just running upstairs to the changing rooms for a human minute or two, and while I'm up, I'm going to grab a snack and a bottle from Misha's ridiculous wine room."

He chuffs. "Mr. Aronov gave very explicit direct–"

"I'm fine," I say, cutting him off with enough haughtiness and heat that he winces. "I've already told him I don't need a babysitter, especially not in the goddamned house, and I mean it." My eyes narrow into sharp, angry slits. "If Misha gets pissy about it, he can try yelling at me, and then we'll see just how well that goes for him."

Rosalie lets out a peal of genuine laughter, even as she sneaks her way into the guard's path. "Come on, don't be so uptight," she says, pouting for all she's worth. "Stay down here with me before she gets mad and ruins our fun."

I'll give him credit. Aronov's bodyguard ignores Rosalie completely, as well as my little display of temper. Skirting her, he bounds toward the stairs to follow me like he's been told to do and offers a politely formal, "Please, I will accompany you."

A sharp tsk halts him in his tracks, however, and Masen mutters in Russian. It's commanding, lightning-fast, and low enough that I only pick out pieces. The two argue for a brief moment, but then Masen slices a hand through the air and snaps out final quiet order, reminding me exactly where he stands in Aronov's organization. Dmitri reluctantly backs off, grumbling under his breath to Feliks as he paces over to the table and swipes a bottle of water.

"It's fine," Masen says to me, still sporting that ever-present cool, unruffled demeanor as he motions me on. "They take their jobs a little seriously sometimes."

"Poshël na khuy! Then you can explain to him." Returning Masen's previous gesture, Dmitri flips him off, only without an ounce of humor. "You said yourself. Ona bolʹshe, chem prosto yego shlyukha."

My gut churns in response.

I mean, it's not like he revealed anything new or earth shattering. But having one of Aronov's men confirm what we already know is a different animal, and now I have to wonder just what my target's been feeding his people about our relationship and where exactly it's heading.

Either way, the fact that Aronov placed his personal bodyguards down here with me to start with – in his own fucking house – while he's out of pocket in that sweaty little hellhole says something pretty interesting.

Like he's a control freak.

Or the situation with Andrey worries him more than he admits.

Or maybe, more likely, he doesn't trust that blond asshole partner of his, despite the threats and assurances to the contrary.

I make it up the stairs and across the catwalk in a handful of long, quick strides. Without a backward glance, I slip through the arched doorway into the long, exquisitely laid stone and tile hallway that leads past the steam rooms and Aronov's expansive, ash-lined sauna. The private gym sits at the end, stocked with enough high-end equipment and machines to start a small commercial operation.

Aiming for the changing rooms in the center and the phone I stashed in one of the unused vents, I pause only to check the shorter hallways leading off the main. But I don't see a soul, not even one of the usual housekeeping staff scurrying around. Sandwiched between the bustling house above and the echoing noise below, it's quiet here, too.

It's too quiet. On instinct, I slow to a crawl as I approach the sauna, silencing the pad of my feet against the tile until I register the low rumble of Aronov talking to Markovsky behind the heavy, insulated doors.

Inside, wood creaks and pops when one of them shifts on the benches. Easing closer, I take a shallow breath and taste the distinct, earthy blend of heat, birch, and herbs, along with a faint, underlying dose of sweat. Closing my eyes, I still and just listen, trying to pick apart the muted conversation. They're quiet, especially Markovsky, but the best I can tell, it's nothing more than idle chatter.

Aronov mutters something about Sergey and Montenegro, and I smile at the undisguised annoyance in his sophisticated inflection. He also mentions some conference in Switzerland and a trip next month to one of his offices in Novosibirsk.

But then my name filters through the door, and every muscle in my body locks.

"Mne net dela do togo, chto dumayet Kayus." Anger whips through his voice. "On chto-to zadumal."

Markovsky starts to reply, but the sharp crack of a palm smacking wood silences him. "Klyanusʹ, yesli on yeye tronet, ya yego ubʹyu!"

It's not the first time he's threatened to kill Koshmarin because of me, but the hair on my arms stands on end at the hush that follows. Because this isn't for show. No, Aronov really and truly means it. I also realize that my earlier assumption was spot on, too, and I'll admit there is nothing more satisfying than watching your enemy crumble from within.

Well, other than taking them out altogether.

I just make out Markovsky's quiet tut. The older man says something else, and whatever it is, this time, it placates his brother-in-law enough that he stops yelling.

"Ya ne mogu uderzhatʹsya... Bella moya…ili ona budet," Aronov says, pausing, and I can almost see him scrubbing a tired hand over his face and beard. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. "Smertʹ Sulʹpitsii byla oshibkoy, kotoruyu ya ne povtoryu."

There's that guilt I knew he carried.

I'd almost feel sorry for him if he hadn't just murdered his mistress – or more likely, mistresses.

The meaningless chitchat gradually returns. Markovsky says something about Moscow and his wife and then yelps out a loud curse when his back touches the scorching wall. Of course, like that earlier explosion never even happened, Aronov laughs like it's the best thing he's seen all day.

I know I've said it before, but this guy is going to give me whiplash.

My eyes drop to my wrist, and it's my turn to mutter a curse. As much as I'd like to continue this little eavesdropping adventure, if I don't hurry my ass up, Dmitri will come find me, Masen be damned. With one last pause, I turn on my heel, and this time, I don't stop until I'm right outside the changing room door.

About the time my fingers curl around the heavy bronze door handle, the universe has other plans in mind.

A tinny ring echoes down the hall, and my head immediately jerks left toward the pair of doors cracked open at the very end. The cell goes off a second time and a third, finally answered by an impatient, pissed-off male grunt and the metallic clang of heavy weights hitting the floor.

A deep, smooth, lightly lilting voice says, "What do you want?"

The English catches me off guard.

Unable to resist, I drop the door handle, deposit the glasses inside the doorframe, and recheck my wrist.

Spooky can wait.

My feet move of their own volition, silently creeping down the hall toward the gym. Between the open door, the acoustics of the stone, and Koshmarin's arrogance, I don't have to get that close. Halfway between the gym and the changing rooms – twenty or so feet away – I duck into one of the short, perpendicular halls leading to what appears to be a linen closet and plaster myself to the wall.

"No, it's fine. I can speak now. Aro and Sasha are occupied." Koshmarin's words come out clipped and rushed, maybe a little breathless from his workout, and when he goes silent, I hear the simultaneous slap of a towel across wet skin.

I have no idea who he's talking to, but no more than a second later, he lets out another angry, gravelly grunt and spits out an order. "No, first, you will tell me what the fuck happened in Prague. He was not supposed to return. Why is that motherfucking man not dead yet?"

Oh, Masen's going to love this.

"Excuses! You give me nothing but excuses," he says, grating it out. His hand pops against one of the mirrored walls. "I told you to take care of it. If you cannot, I will find another who will, and you will not like what happens then."

There's another long pause.

"Whatever. Just make it happen." Koshmarin lets out a harsh breath. "Now tell me about Ali. What is he looking for?" I pick up the squeak of athletic shoes as he paces the room. "Blyadʹ. It will be challenging to obtain in those quantities in that timeframe, but it is doable. Tell him I will meet him myself."

Koshmarin moves deeper into the room, and then water glugs from the dispenser in the corner. "Aro is not available for this. He has been preoccupied anyway." He takes a long drink and crumples the cup. "No, not the blonde whore. It's the other one – the fucking brunette that looks just like his last bitch of a wife."

His shoes squeak against the rubber floor again. "Net. I have no fucking idea how she managed to get away from Yasha, but it will be taken care of." Koshmarin chuckles, and it's a dark, vicious sound, simmering with a level of brutality and violent rage that surprises even me. "Or maybe after I have some fun, we offer her and the blonde up as some added… incentive. A bonus, maybe. Ali has certain proclivities when it comes to his women that would fit my needs quite well."

My nails bite into the meat of my palms.

"Pfft, Kinshasa… it was a disaster," he continues. "We had everything ready—the leases, the equipment, the contracts. Security was in place. Even had the buyers lined up to get rid of the fucking korovy, not that they are worth anything… I am waiting to hear from my contact there if there is any way to salvage this nonsense."

Asshole.

I can't wait to break this guy's face.

I'm not a sadist by nature, but after everything I've seen and heard, I will enjoy hurting him and exacting a fraction of the revenge he deserves on behalf of those who can't.

In fact, the need to maim this man is so visceral that it bubbles through my veins. My heart rate instinctively shifts into a slow, steady rhythm, and my muscles uncoil as I move to the balls of my feet. Air saws in and out of my lungs, and I have to will myself not to slip into that gym and crush his head between two of those weights right now.

"Net. Something else is going on," Koshmarin says as a zipper zings along its track. "Authorities in Rotterdam took another one last week, and Alex says there are concerns they will also locate the larger shipment coming in this weekend. It's too late to reroute. Alex does not understand what is happening." The blond chuffs out a loud breath. "Such has not occurred in over three years on that route, and now, suddenly, there are two, perhaps three?"

Koshmarin growls a curse. "Do you have any idea how much this next shipment is worth? Plus, this one has those extras we discussed… But it's obvious the routes have been compromised somehow. That is the only explanation."

The man on the line – Dobroshi or one of his men, if I had to guess – replies.

"I do not want Sasha involved. I am concerned FSB watches him too closely. He is too cautious anyway." There's another question from the line, and Koshmarin bites out a response. "Aro is not needed for this either. I have all the accounts, and I have people loyal to me inside his offices anyway. We will keep all this between us... for now."

So, Aronov wasn't wrong.

Koshmarin says something I can't make out, and then my stomach takes an instant nosedive when he curtly ends the conversation, throws something over his shoulder, and starts walking toward the double doors.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I take a lightning-fast peek around the corner, mentally tagging the distance from my position to the changing rooms. I'm right in the middle, and there's no possible way I'm going to make it back there before he sticks his Hollywood head out of that gym.

Yes, I knew better than to pull this shit, one-hundred percent, but, damn it, that bit of intel is worth the little dance I'm about to attempt.

Whirling around, I whip the closet door open, letting it bang against the rubber stop while simultaneously throwing up a silent prayer of thanks to God and Maria that the thing's unlocked. Without really looking, I make a purposeful peep of excitement – like I just won some dumb office scavenger hunt – grab a pair of Aronov's thick, monogrammed Turkish towels off the head-high stack, and throw them across my shoulders.

All the while, I clock Koshmarin's near-silent steps as he approaches, counting down the distance.

Fifteen feet.

Swinging the door closed, I hum one of Spooky's little jingles and bob my head like I have no fucking clue I'm not alone.

Ten feet.

I suck in a slow, steadying breath, loosening for the impact I know is coming.

Five feet.

Three feet.

The instant I step out into the hall, still humming that stupid song, five long fingers wrap around my left arm. Another hand claps over my mouth as I let out an appropriately shrill shriek of surprise, and then we're moving back into the side hall until my spine slams against the wall.

Removing the hand from my mouth, Koshmarin shoves his forearm against my windpipe to choke me. "What the fuck are you doing?" he says, snarling like the rabid creature he is. "How long have you been there?"

I don't answer.

"Answer me, suka," he says, leaning into me until all I can smell is the stench of his workout. Beads of sweat race down his chest, dripping onto the thin fabric of my swimsuit. "What did you hear?"

This guy must think I'm an idiot.

My eyes widen in alarm, and I slap at his forearm, playing like I can't breathe, like I'm on the verge of panic and passing out. "Please," I rasp, panting and coughing for effect. I think I even manage to produce a few tears to pool along my bottom eyelids. "I can't bre–"

"If you scream, I will break your neck right here."

Going along, I nod frantically, and when he finally extracts his forearm from my throat, I pull in a scratchy breath of air. My chest heaves from exertion, and I force a terrified tremble through my limbs.

"Now, tell me," he commands again, and this time he squeezes my bicep with enough force that I'm probably going to need some concealer to hide the bruises. Fucker.

I debate for all of about two seconds before concluding I'm done. Seriously, I'm just… done.

Plus, like Aronov said, he dies if he touches me again.

Added to what I just overheard, I think I like my odds.

Like flipping a switch, I stop playing and go absolutely still like the hunter I am. And instead of answering, I just stare at him, letting the silence swell and spark while I catalogue the mosaic of ink and symbolism stamping his entire upper body.

Intricately detailed and likely very expensive, a large cathedral with onion-domed cupolas takes up half the canvas. Religious phrases in Cyrillic script frame his collarbones and stomach, with fringed epaulets topping his shoulders. Blades, chains, and skulls with blacked-out eye sockets occupy the few spaces that are left.

Never mind the pretty Ken doll face, this motherfucker is a walking, talking bratva stereotype, and it takes real effort not to laugh.

Cocking an irritated brow, I gaze down at his grip on my upper arm and let my voice drop into something a little more threatening. "No touching… Ever."

Of course, his grip just clenches harder, and he yanks me forward. "You think you are special because he is filling your cunt?"

My lips mash into a hard, disapproving line. "Now you're just being impolite."

Koshmarin laughs, and it's like claws raking across my senses. Not letting go, he grabs my face with his left, pinching my chin.

"What? Are you going to run and cry to Misha?" he says, mocking, laughing again as he jerks my face back and forth. "You think that frightens me?"

There's a brief second of total silence, where time slows, and I listen to the blood rushing in my ears. Down the hall, I pick out the buzz of the furnace kicking on. In my periphery, I log Koshmarin's shoulder-width stance and the piss-poor hold on my arm.

Markovsky called it, "On durak."

Without warning, I move. Before he can blink, I spin out of his shitty grip on my bicep like we're dancing instead of fighting. My right comes up a split-second later to capture his wrist. In a single, choreographed maneuver I've done a million times, I jab my fingertips into the pressure points as I pivot, and then I wrench his left arm around in a hard clockwise rotation. I thrust in toward his chest and then upward until I feel bone grinding, just on the verge of taking out his shoulder.

When he stumbles, I kick his legs apart at the knees, and my other hand clamps around his balls tight enough that if he moves, he's going to tear something.

Utter, complete shock fills Koshmarin's face, and when I ram his shoulder up another inch, he lets out a low groan of pain.

"If your boss doesn't scare you," I say, as quiet and calm as a high mountain lake. "You should definitely be afraid of me."

I smile, allowing a little more of the real me to rise to the surface. When he struggles, I give his balls a friendly squeeze, immediately halting him with a gasped cough, and then I slowly, gradually shove more weight against his shoulder until I hear the crunch of the joint popping out of the socket.

Koshmarin's lips part into a surprised O, and those pretty ice blue eyes of his boggle as he sucks in a harsh breath.

"And I dare you to tell him about this little interaction... I think we both know who'll win that contest." And because at this point, fuck it, I lift on my toes, lean into him, and run my lips along the shell of his ear to whisper, "Dumayu, chto plakat' budesh' ty."

.

.

.

Notes:

Seryozha is the diminutive for Sergey, who you might recall from the last chapter is the Russian Foreign Minister Aronov was planning to meet with over the phone.

Yasha is the short name for Yakov, who you might recall was the charming gentleman who tried to kill Bella while she was out running in Vienna. You also might remember he's now bobbing somewhere on the bottom of the Danube.

Russian (transliterated):

Itak… proshloy nochʹyu… Ya slyshal, chto ty byl zanyat: So… last night… I heard you were busy.

U tebya yestʹ yaytsa, muzhik: You've got some balls, man

Posmotri na neye… Yesli by ona khotela tebya trakhnutʹ, ty by yey otkazal: Look at her… If she wanted to fuck you, would you turn her down?

Blya net… Dumayesh', yemu budet plevat': Fuck no… You think he'll care?

Net… On khochet tolʹko yeye: No, he only wants her

Podozhdite: Wait (imp)

Poshël na khuy: fuck you

Ona bolʹshe, chem prosto yego shlyukha: She's more than just his whore

Mne net dela do togo, chto dumayet Kayus. On chto-to zadumal: I don't care what Kaius thinks. He's up to something

Klyanusʹ, yesli on yeye tronet, ya yego ubʹyu: I swear, if he touches her, I will kill him

Ya ne mogu uderzhatʹsya… Bella moya… ili ona budet: I can't help myself… Bella is mine… or she will be.

Smertʹ Sulʹpitsii byla oshibkoy, kotoruyu ya ne povtoryu: Sulpicia's death was a mistake that I won't repeat

Blyad': roughly, fuck

Net: no

Korovy: cows [you might recall Edward telling Bella that this was Koshmarin's term for the women and children he trafficked]

Bratva: brotherhood, aka Russian mafia

Suka: bitch

On durak: he's a fool

Dumayu, chto plakat' budesh' ty: I think you'll be the one crying [thanks, anyagal! :)]

Glossary:

Guinea: a coastal country in West Africa, where mining is a major industry. Guinea is the second-largest producer (behind Australia) and has the world's largest bauxite reserves, the primary source of aluminum and gallium. Several major global mining companies operate in the country. A military coup occurred in 2021, resulting in the ousting of then-president, Alpha Conde and significant impacts on global metals markets.

INTCEN: or Intelligence and Situation Centre, is the civilian intelligence function of the EU. Located in Brussels, Belgium, it's a directorate of the diplomatic service and combined foreign and defense ministry (EEAS), and it coordinates with EU member states' intelligence services. The EU doesn't really have a one-to-one equivalent to the US CIA, but INTCEN and EUMS (military intelligence) serve some of the same functions.

Nebbiolo wine: full-bodied Italian red wines made from Nebbiolo grapes. Barolo and Barbaresco are probably the most famous Nebbiolos. My preference is the lighter Valtellina, very specifically Sassella, from Lombardy.