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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

By two, I'm two glasses in and sick of people messing with my face and hair.

Over the last several hours, my nails have been shaped and lacquered. The running callouses on my heels are gone. My toenails gleam blood red. My hair falls a few inches shorter, and it's been warmed and softened by fancy, graduated highlights and sophisticated layers that accentuate the shape of my face.

I've been shaved, waxed, plucked, and polished until I damned near sparkle. And now, as I stare at myself in the mirror, I note with grim satisfaction that I look even more like Aronov's dead wife. If it weren't a purposeful deception, the resemblance would be fucking disturbing.

Either way, I'm exhausted.

How women do this shit all the time is beyond me.

I'll give this place credit where it's due, however. Without exception, Bianca's choice of salon and spa services is superb. Between the modern, understated luxury of the ivory furnishings, the marble and crystalline décor, and the perfect professionalism of the attractive, quietly efficient uniformed staff, it's obvious they're used to dealing with the exacting standards and expectations of a very refined subset of clientele.

Then again, we're also the only ones here.

See, I wasn't wrong when I guessed Aronov would have his assistant reserve the entire place, and I scowl at the pair of black, armored SUVs parked right outside the door and then again at the two dark-suited men currently posted out front.

Speaking of, while I'm waiting, I pull out my phone to tap him a quick message, if nothing else, just to keep up the charade.

How are your meetings going?

Aronov's reply dings before I can even put down my phone. Even with the inherent flatness of text, it's obvious he's pleased, likely surprised that I would be the one to initiate.

Misha: Far less interesting than you

Misha: Are the accommodations to your liking?

For a second, I hesitate, debating whether I should play with him now or wait until I can do it in person. Another glance at the mirror decides it. I smile at the woman looking back at me, snap a quick photo, and hit send.

I don't know. What do you think?

And I just thought he replied fast before. My phone dings almost instantly.

Misha: Beautiful

Misha: You are a dream from which I never wish to wake

That'd be a line from most men, but Aronov means it. There's no doubt in my mind, and when he's like this, as much as it makes my skin crawl, there's a tiny piece of me that pities the yearning, lonely man I know him to be.

First flirting, now flattery… you must want something

Misha: I want many, many things from you, but in this, it is not flattery if it is truth

Misha: Perhaps you require further demonstration of your effect on me?

I roll my eyes at his persistence. I can just hear that cajoling purr, and I have to wonder if he's typing all this out while talking to his attorneys or if he's making them wait like this morning.

I think you should get back to work… you know, so you can buy more cars that you never drive ;)

But, yes, I think I would like a demonstration. Multiple, in fact. Repeatedly

Misha: Devil woman

This time, I wait a minute before replying

I'm happy you like it

Misha: You have no idea

Misha: I look forward to seeing you this evening. My house feels empty

He means that, too, and again, I feel a stab of pity for the man he could have been.

Shooting him a final message, I swap over to the hidden, encrypted app and tap out another text.

Status?

TheTravelingCowboy: Hello to you, too

I roll my eyes.

Fine, hello. Everything on track?

TheTravelingCowboy: It's insulting you would even ask that

TheTravelingCowboy: But yes, good to go

Stealing a quick peek around the room, I tag the front entrance, where my two bodyguards still stand watch, and then the long hall that leads back to the private spa rooms and the back service entry.

Your package is ready for pick-up. You have the address?

TheTravelingCowboy: Courier already en route, along with trade

Who?

TheTravelingCowboy: Who do you think?

My cheeks puff out, suppressing my laugh.

You're pissy today

TheTravelingCowboy: Whatever. I'm always pissy, and just so you know, I'm taking a month after all this

TheTravelingCowboy: Get ready for a show. She had way too much fun getting ready for this shit

MaryAlice999: I heard that ;)

Wonderful. I can't wait

Fifteen minutes later, Rosalie plops down on the raised, butter-soft leather chair beside mine. "I don't know about you, but this is fucking awful."

I snort at her attitude as much as the mass of foils in her hair. "You're still doing the extensions?"

"Apparently." Her mouth flattens. "Some kind of bullshit facial, too… supposedly, so I'll glow."

I snort again when she rolls her eyes and then pass over the elegantly crafted charcuterie board one of the staff just delivered. "Here, eat. You'll be less bitchy."

"Thank God," Rosalie mutters as she plucks a piece of some rich, dark red, cured meat off the tray and pops it into her mouth. The second it hits her tongue, her jaws go slack, and she picks off another two bites, a handful of olives, and a wedge of veiny cheese. "I'm starving."

"Well, if you'd have gotten your ass up and ready, you could have eaten."

"Fuck you, Swan. You know why I was up last night." With a quick, surreptitious look around, she flips me off and levels me a flat, pissed-off glare that'd make a normal person run screaming. "Now, give me that wine before I kick your ass."

Laughing, I grab a second glass of chilled, fruity Prosecco off the nearby table and hand it over. "You're so hateful."

"Your point?"

My reply dies on my tongue as the front door abruptly flies open and bangs against the stop. The bells clang, echoing loudly enough that at least half the people in the room visibly flinch. A beat later, heels rap against tile, followed by the rattle of the door slamming shut. That little sixth sense of mine buzzes, and like the civilian I'm pretending to be, I slowly twist away from Rosalie to our newest arrival.

And here we go.

Not kidding, I almost choke on my wine.

A dark-haired emo sprite of a woman stands in the center of the reception area. Perched on top of a pair of ridiculous, five-inch, red-soled stilettos, littered with sadistic-looking silver spikes, and wearing some kind of goth-inspired haute couture madness, she looks like she just stepped off some bizarre, avant-garde runway. As she waltzes up to the desk, Alice stares the room down like she owns it.

"Oh, my God, I am so sorry I'm late!" Alice calls out and then jabs a finger toward the front window, where I spot a familiar beast of a man in a black suit standing at loose attention outside a sleek, black luxury sedan. He's already laughing and chatting with Aronov's guards. "That big fucker can't drive for shit."

A strangled noise comes from my right, and as I glance back to Rosalie, her palm claps over her mouth. She's about two milliseconds from losing it, and her eyes glitter as everything unfreezes.

Three members of the staff dart toward the front in a flurry of confusion and panic. With the distortion from the high, vaulted ceilings and marble tile, I can't make out what they say, but whatever it is, it makes Alice go ramrod stiff, and I hold my breath in anticipation for the show that's coming.

"What? What do you mean canceled?" Alice yells. She whips some oversized designer bag over her shoulder, projecting the sharp, haughty indignation of the nouveau riche. "No! I did not get a cancellation notice! I've had this appointment for months, and I'm leaving this weekend! I can't go back to Paris looking like this!"

"Holy shit," Rosalie mutters, staring wide-eyed as she tosses an olive into her mouth like popcorn. "She's… she's goddamned terrifying."

My whole body shakes with silent laughter. "Tell me about it."

"Do you see this?" Alice says, fisting a section of neon violet-streaked hair. "My dumbass husband just told me he likes this."

The poor women at the front look absolutely baffled, and I can't say I blame them.

I have no fucking clue where she's going with this.

"You know what that means, right?" Alice huffs out an aggravated breath and, no joke, actually stomps her foot. "It means I have to change it right now! I need… red – yes!" Her eyes gleam in triumph. "Jace fucking hates red. I must have red!"

When Rosalie starts to speak again, I just shrug. "Don't ask me."

Still in the middle of her nonsensical tirade, Alice peeks past the receptionist, and when we make eye contact, she tips her head slightly to the left, signaling one of the staff approaching. I shoot her a subtle nod and then angle away, right as a thin, immaculately dressed thirty-something, who I now recognize as the head colorist, stops to check Rosalie's foils.

"Sophia?" Motioning her over, I gesture to the scene at the front. "What's going on?"

"Ms. Swan, my sincere apologies for the disturbance." Grimacing, Sophia dips her head in gracious deference, and like her attire and bearing, her English is light, lilting, and impeccable. "There was a… small booking error. I assure you, it's being taken care of."

I'm assuming she means they had a random appointment magically show up on their cleared schedule and have no idea how or when it got there.

And by magically, I mean Whitlock.

"No, no, it's fine," I say, holding up an exquisitely manicured hand. "It's crazy that we're the only ones here, don't you think? It's such a waste of your staff's time."

The woman's pale pink lips purse, giving her away, but she answers with perfect, practiced poise and politeness. "It's no problem at all. We're more than happy to accommodate Signor Aronov's special request."

Right on cue, Alice tunes it up, and Sophia winces before straightening and smoothing away non-existent wrinkles in her tunic. "Please, if you'll excuse me, I'll see if they need assistance."

"Wait," I say before she turns away. "Seriously, there's no reason at all for her to leave. It sounds like she had an appointment. Canceling on her now and with her already here isn't fair at all, and, come on, it was stupid for my… whatever we're calling him to ask you to block off your whole business just for us." Waving at the empty room, I give her a reassuring smile. "Let her stay. Rose and I truly don't mind."

"Absolutely." Laughing, Rosalie tips her glass at the dark-haired demon at the front. "She looks like a riot." Popping another olive, she tilts her head back and drains a third of her wine. "Plus, I have to know why she wants her husband to hate her hair."

"See? It's perfectly fine." My smile widens into a full-on grin as Alice points at her hair again – like they didn't hear her the first time. "At a minimum, she'll be good entertainment."

Eying the front, Sophia hesitates, but after a final snickering urge from Rosalie, her chin dips in slow, cautious agreement.

Less than five minutes later, Alice slumps into the chair opposite Rosalie, kicks her ridiculous heels onto the floor, and throws us an impish grin. "Sorry about that. I have had a fucking day."

Rosalie's eyes dance. "Sounds like it."

"God." Chuffing out a loud, annoyed breath, Alice thumbs toward the front. "You see that beefy linebacker out there? I swear, he is the absolute worst."

Rosalie slugs back another third of her glass. "Oh, yeah?"

"Seriously, that asshole won't even let me out of his sight for like… five fucking minutes, and then he insists on checking everything out like seven times, making me late for everything. Why?" Her eyes narrow as she stares toward the bank of windows. "Because my goddamned husband told him he better, 'Take good care of my babydoll.'" Bobbing her head, she says that last bit in this nasally sing-song voice that makes Rosalie double over in her chair. "Ugh. Just the fucking worst."

"I get it," I say, lips twitching as I flick a hand toward Aronov's dark-suited bodyguards, both still sporting those subcompact machine guns slung across their chests in a loose, low ready. The fact that no one's said a word about them open carrying in the middle of town, not to mention the illegal parking job wreaking havoc on the street out front, speaks volumes about where exactly Aronov stands in this city. "Same problem, times two."

"Pfft, at least that blond's kind of hot. I'd totally fuck him." Flashing me another row of teeth, Alice wags her brows as she digs into her bag. A beat later, she fishes out an amber bottle, pops two little white pills, and then chucks me the bottle. "Xanax?"

Turning the bottle over in my hand, I note the tiny yellow pills, only there's several slightly larger, oblong, blue ones mixed in, too. Reaching into my own bag, I grab my bottle – now almost empty – and with a cautious glance around to make sure no one's paying attention, I swap them.

"Nah, got my own," I say, shaking them both with a grin before tossing my old bottle back over and pocketing the new one. "But thanks."

Spooky grins back. "I'm Ally, by the way."

We make a show of friendly, light-hearted introductions, laughing when Alice begs the staff for not just a glass of wine but the whole bottle. Of course, they comply, apparently used to dealing with the casual alcoholism and pill popping of the very wealthy.

"Okay, you have to tell me," Rosalie says, biting into another wedge of veiny cheese as Sophia stops to recheck her foils. "What's the deal with the hair color and your husband?"

"Ugh." Alice rolls her eyes like the hopped-up drama queen she's pretending to be and tops her glass off. "Jace is trying to convince me to breed."

Rosalie freezes mid-bite. "He's doing what?"

I probably should have warned Rosalie about this.

Then again, this should be fun.

"Right?" Alice says, incredulous, as she flings a random hand. Her wine sloshes in her glass, spilling over the rim onto the cuff of her absurd ensemble. She doesn't even slow down. "Do I look like parent material to you?"

"No?"

"Exactly! He thinks he needs an heir or some stupid bullshit like that… that it's time, whatever that means." When I offer our tray of snacks, Alice happily swipes one of the little ceramic cups of nuts and dried fruit. "That was never part of our agreement, like ever." Pouring a handful into her mouth, she goes on, not bothering to stop and chew. "So, now he's kissing my ass and being all lovey-dovey. And it's fucking gross." Her shoulders roll beneath layers of artfully ripped black tulle. "So, I need to send him a message to let him know I'm not having any of it."

"Bu–"

"Ugh. Can you imagine?" An exaggerated shiver slides through Alice's frame, and then she shakes her head like a dog. "I told him to knock up one of his girlfriends if it was that big of a deal to him."

Rosalie makes another strangled sound, and when I look over, she lets out a wheezy cough. "That's… that's very progressive."

"Huh?" Squinting at the other woman, Alice looks genuinely confused, and I almost lose it.

Waving at the room, Rosalie clears her throat before knocking back the remainder of her wine. "Just seems like you two have a… different kind of relationship."

Alice's nose wrinkles. "What does that mean?"

A chuckle spills out of my mouth before I can stop it, and with a quick motion toward McCarty out front and then a sweep at her general person, I ask, "Just what does he do anyway?"

"Jace? Oh, he's a total tech bro." Alice stops just long enough to dig into her bag again, cursing until she finds a tiny silver tin with decorative etching. Without even bothering to look around, she flips the hinged lid open, scoops out a pile of fine white powder, and bumps it right then and there. When she catches me watching, she grins like a Cheshire Cat. "Want some blow? Got it in Amsterdam last week, and let me tell you, this shit is smooth."

Rosalie and I shake our heads in unison. I'm pretty sure my eyes boggle out of my head, too.

Because honestly? I have no clue if it's real or not.

I truly wouldn't put it past her. I've seen this woman do far, far worse.

"Whatever. Your loss!" Scrubbing her nose, Alice shrugs and tosses her bag onto the chair beside her. "But anyway, a few years ago, he started this crypto bullshit whatever tech company, and boom! It just took off. Now the company's worth more than Jesus, and he's like, I don't know, a god to all those fucking nerds." A peal of laughter spills out. "Even my pretty little boy toy is in love with him, which, by the way, is not at all awkward."

"Wha– why are you even married?" Rosalie asks.

Alice looks at Rosalie like she's insane. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Rosalie's responding slack-jawed expression is positively priceless, and I have to bite my lip not to laugh.

See, despite all the bravado and acting and fucking around, Rosalie Hale is not into non-monogamy, and I pity McCarty if he ever thinks otherwise. Never mind, she's not bothered to let him know they're an actual item. Of course, Alice knows all this, too. But as funny as it is to watch her fuck with Rosalie like this, even though it's all for show, I don't trust Rosalie not to forget about that and lose her shit anyway.

After all, Spooky's a pro at mind fuckery. Not only that, she likes it.

Plus, I know exactly the game's she's playing.

If you can't be sneaky, be bold and memorable instead. And this is about as memorable as you can get.

There's not a soul in here not listening.

Before Rosalie can open her mouth, I shove another glass of Prosecco in her direction and ask, "So, you're not here long?"

Amused by my obvious ploy, Alice's cheeks crease into a wide, beaming smile, but this time when she looks over, there's a break in the façade where she stares at me like the shrewd, watchful predator she is. "Nope. Jace has some dumb meetings today," she says as she inspects the slick, black polish coating her nails. "But tomorrow night, we're meeting up with a few old friends for a little… shindig just outside town. Very exclusive, invitation-only kind of thing. Maybe even a little dangerous." Her eyes glitter. "I can't fucking wait."

I nod. "Sounds like a lot more fun than our dinner party here in Florence."

"Definitely." Signaling one of the staff, Alice's expression clears as she throws me a playful wink. "Absolute killer group of people, if you know what I mean."

Thirty minutes later, my phone vibrates instead of pings, and my heart jumps against my ribcage in response.

It's about fucking time.

Unknown: Can you talk?

Smiling like I'm still paying attention, I tap out a quick reply.

I'm done. Waiting on Rose

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rosalie's brows climb in question as she listens to Spooky's latest absurdity. That woman's getting louder by the minute, simultaneously ratcheting up her supposed inebriation with each glass of wine and not-so-sneaky grab from her giant bag.

But I'll hand it to her. It's an Oscar-worthy performance.

No one – no one – would ever suspect our new friend of being anything more than the wealthy, eccentric libertine she's pretending to be.

Unknown: See if you can find somewhere private. I'll call you

Give me five

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I peer around the room until I spot one of the sharply uniformed staff. Taking a cue from Aronov, I send her a subtle gesture – nothing more than a split-second of eye contact and a tap on my armrest – and she's by my chair before I can blink.

"Ms. Swan, how may I help you? Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks, and this one's accent is thicker and rolling, almost like music. Like the rest of the staff, she's lovely, a petite twenty-something with dark, wavy hair, dark eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass.

Giving her a small, embarrassed smile, I duck my head and whisper, "I'm sorry to be a pain, but is there anywhere quiet I could go for a few minutes?"

She – Chiara, if I remember correctly – tilts her pretty head. "Is it too loud for you? Of course, let me see what I can do."

While I've seen it in action countless times over these past few weeks, I don't think I'll ever get used to the immediate, unquestioned acquiescence Aronov's wallet commands. It is convenient, however.

"No, it's not that," I tell her, rubbing my forehead and temples to make my point. "I just have a headache. Maybe it's hormones or something, but honestly, I probably just had a little too much to drink." My cheeks warm, and I smile again. "Rose still has some time left, though, so if it's not too much trouble, I'd love to lie down and take a short nap before we head back."

Chiara doesn't even bat an eye. "Certainly, Ms. Swan. We have just the place. Please follow me."

Jesus, that was easy.

As I climb out of my chair, I throw Rosalie and Alice a pointed look while making my excuses, and we waste no time crossing the pristine marble floor to target the long, darker hallway leading to the back section of the building. Before we disappear, I peer over my shoulder, right as Rosalie sneaks her small black device – loaded with the rest of the maps and layouts, as well as her newly acquired security codes – from her bag into Alice's. Without slowing, I pull out my phone and send a final message to Whitlock.

Done. You're good to go. Let me know if anything changes

TheTravelingCowboy: Giddyap

Halfway down the hall, Chiara stops and gestures to one of the private rooms on the right. Like the rest of the facilities, it's a warm, luxuriously appointed space with soft, dim lighting designed to ease both mind and body. An oversized, heavily cushioned massage table draped in crisp white linens sits in the center, along with a plush matching chaise in the corner. Relaxing, muted strains of some instrumental number drift down from discrete in-wall speakers, and when I breathe in, I taste the clean, soothing scents of lavender and chamomile, along with a hint of cooling mint. It smells like heaven, and as my chest expands with another deep breath, my muscles uncoil on instinct.

"Will this be suitable?" she asks. "I'll send someone with warmed blankets and a cool compress for your head, along with some fresh mineral water." She taps a small LED panel, and with a few quick touches, the lights dim even lower, the music softens, and the heat indicator on the table glows pale red. "If you'd like, I could send one of our massage therapists to do a scalp massage. Perhaps that would help?"

Dropping my bag on the chaise, I spin around and give her another smile. "No, no need at all. This is just perfect. I appreciate it."

Chiara's finely sculpted brows furrow, but she inclines her head in polite deference. "Of course, Ms. Swan. Please let us know if you require anything – anything at all. It's why we're here."

Holding my breath, I stretch out my senses and listen to the pad of her shoes, counting down her steps as she makes her way back to the salon. The second she's truly gone, I whip out my phone and lean against the soft, cushiony table in the center of the room.

In the back in a massage room. Clear to talk

Masen doesn't answer. Giving him a couple of minutes, I skim tomorrow's weather, noting the predictions for yet another front with high wind and sub-freezing temperatures, along with a steady chance for flurries. It'll be cold and miserable. There's no way McCarty's going to let me forget it, but it'll be perfect for what they're trying to do, and the wind will keep those Malinois' noses off their trail.

Grimacing at my wrist, I text Masen again, just in case my first message somehow vanished into the ether. He doesn't respond to that one either, and even though I know he can take care of himself just fine, that perpetual fist in my gut squeezes.

Another few minutes pass, and by now, a thin layer of clammy sweat coats my palms. My fingers start punching in his number to call, despite the risk, but then a whisper of a knock freezes my thumb before it can hit send.

Chucking my phone onto the table, I slip over to the door. Years of training kick in, and before flipping the lock, I still.

No shadows creeping in under the door.

No fidgeting.

No rustling fabric or creaking leather.

Not even an intake of air.

It's that deathly silence that gives him away, and as I grip the doorknob, the hammer of my heart slows, and my lips curve.

The instant the door swings open, eyes the color of a forest at twilight capture mine. Dark and alive, Masen stares at me with a violent, churning intensity that belies the loose casualness of his stance. We stay like that for a second, frozen in time, and when his jaw ticks, my heart starts up again, only this time it pounds for an altogether different reason.

Alice's soprano laughter filters down the hall, echoing off the marble, and shatters the spell.

I grab him by the front of his suit jacket, and then we're all limbs and motion. I yank him inside the room. Spinning, his back thumps against the wall, and as I fumble with the lock, a strong, solid arm clamps around my waist and hauls me against him.

No more than an inch apart, we stare at each other for another frozen moment in time. Neither of us says a word, and I don't know who starts it, but I blink, and Masen's mouth is suddenly on mine.

This isn't some gentle meeting either.

No, this kiss is hard.

This kiss is desperation, hunger, and demand. The muscles beneath my fingertips torque and flex with the same helpless anger and buzzing energy I felt from him out on the terrace when he watched me with Aronov.

Long, sure fingers delve into my hair, cupping the back of my head to hold me in place, and Masen's tongue strokes against mine in a wet, aggressive, sensual slide that consumes my air and sanity. Looping his tie around my fist, I pull him closer as my other hand snakes inside his jacket and slips beneath his shoulder rig to flatten over his ribcage. Flush against him like this, I feel him harden against my abdomen, and when I hear the low, frustrated groan in the back of his throat, every cell in my body sparks to life in response.

Never leaving my mouth, Masen picks me up like I weigh nothing and turns until my back is the one flat to the wall. My ankles lock around his waist, and I squeeze the tops of his shoulders. His hips rock into me, over and over, mimicking the deep, almost languid thrusts of his tongue, and now it's my turn to moan.

The friction makes me drunk, and pure, unbridled arousal floods my veins, tingling and pooling at the juncture of my thighs until I can hardly breathe. And there is absolutely nothing I want more than to shove him onto that table, climb on top, and ride him until we both collapse.

But… we've got more important things to do right now.

"Edward, stop... We've got to stop," I say, wrenching away and panting as his palm simultaneously slides around to my stomach and sneaks underneath the flimsy fabric of my top to find bare skin. His lips burn a hot trail along my jaw to my throat, leaving shivery gooseflesh in their wake. "I can't go back to him smelling like you. Plus, we have to talk."

"Fuck." Masen's grip clenches before finally loosening, and as his face tilts toward the ceiling, his eyes screw shut. He inhales a slow, steady breath that expands his ribcage, and then with a rough shake of his head, he cranks one eye open to look at me. "You're killing me, you know that, right?"

Unlocking my ankles, I slide down until my feet hit the floor. My forehead tips against his sternum as my fists fall to his shirt, balling around the starched white cotton because I don't trust myself to touch him anywhere else. I laugh softly and puff out a loud, ragged breath. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm about to combust."

Masen's whole body vibrates, which isn't exactly helpful, and when I tell him so, he just laughs harder. Coupled with the sleek, finely tailored suit and the just-been-fucked bedhead, it's another stupidly attractive look on him, too, and I grin like the idiot I've become as I reluctantly draw away to pace the room.

I give myself a hard internal shake before flicking a random hand. "How'd you get in here anyway?"

"Seriously?" Masen levels me a flat stare and then traverses the room to lean against the cushioned table, angling toward the door. It's not lost on me that we both have similar behaviors, borne of long years of cautious necessity. "Did you just ask me that?"

"Fine," I say, trying not to laugh. "What'd you find out?"

Masen crosses his arms over his chest and shoots me another annoyed glare. "After the obligatory visit with my contact at the Polizia, which, by the way, thank you. That little stunt of yours with Andrey has created a fucking mess for me." His lips mash into an irritated line when my grin widens. "After I left, I tracked Kaius to the other side of town."

"How'd you manage that?"

One brow arches. "It's a million-dollar limited edition Aventador, and it's red. Trust me, it's not that hard to find." Masen's delivery is as dry as the desert, but his lips tug up at the corners when he spots my scowl. "A few months ago, I installed GPS trackers on Aro's flashier toys. Kaius' taste is, if nothing else, predictable."

That's for damned sure. "He's meeting with Dobroshi?"

"Yeah, Jovan flew in early this morning." Shoving a rough hand through his hair, Masen grimaces. "There's another vehicle there, and I'm pretty sure it belongs to Tarkhan-Ali Basayev… commonly known as Ali."

My pacing slows, and I let out a low whistle. "That's the Ali Koshmarin was talking about? That sadistic fucker who runs that PMC out of Grozny?"

"Borz Group." Masen nods. "There's some history there, too. Some of Ali's units were involved in that bloodbath in Guinea a few years ago."

Pausing, he scrubs his face. And in that brief second, I glimpse the exhaustion lurking behind the mask – the flatness, the deepening creases, the sag in the otherwise board-straight shoulders – and I can't help but wonder just how much longer he'd have been able to keep this pretense going if we hadn't shown up.

More importantly, what would it have cost him to do it.

Masen catches me watching him, and I know he knows what I'm thinking. But he doesn't play stupid macho games or try to deny it. No, he just gives me a hint of a tired smile.

"Aro ultimately got what he wanted out of that cluster – the land and the mineral rights," he says, and just like that, the mask is right back up, although the smile remains. "But there was some pretty uncomfortable political fallout he doesn't care to repeat."

"That's why he was using those local warlords in the DRC this time around."

"Exactly." That hint of a smile morphs into a wry almost-smirk, and his irises brighten and dance. "Although, for some reason, that seems to have gone even worse."

Laughter bubbles in my chest, but all I do is shrug. "Yeah, really sucks, huh?"

Masen shakes his head at my sarcasm, but when he looks up, the harsh planes of his face abruptly soften, and despite my years of training it away, warmth climbs my cheeks. Even with the low light, he'd have to be blind not to see it, but I don't bother hiding anymore, at least not from him.

If he's willing to let me see him, I can do the same. But it's more than that. I want him to see me. I want him to know the real me, just like I want to know all the dark and hidden parts of him.

"Anyway," he says, still roaming my face as I slowly pad back and forth across the tile. "Ali approached Aro a little more than a year ago about supplying some heavier arms – state-of-the-art rocket systems, UCAVs, that kind of shit – but Sasha intervened and shut it down."

"What?" My forehead crinkles. "Why?"

"Sasha knew him from his days commanding Spetnaz units in the Caucasus." Masen's shoulders rise and fall beneath the fine, jet-black wool of his jacket. "They crossed paths a couple of times back in the 90s, and while Ali's clan swapped sides during the second war, their interactions weren't friendly. He didn't say it explicitly, but I think Sasha has concerns with some of what Ali's mercs have been doing in Syria and western Africa."

Something between a huff and a laugh spills out before I can stop it. "Yeah, that's not hypocritical at all."

"To be fair, he wasn't a big fan of Aro's moves in the DRC either, but he got overruled there."

Interesting.

But then again, now that I think about it, Markovsky told me as much himself that afternoon outside Aro's study. A waste of time was what he called it.

"Okay, now this guy's back, trying to go sideways through Koshmarin." Frowning, I make my way over to the table and then hoist myself up to sit on the edge beside him. "Why bother? Why not go to another supplier?" I ask. "All the reports say Borz runs off the books ops for the President himself."

Masen bumps my shoulder. "You said it yourself, off the books, and from what I understand, very off the books and very likely to land anyone directly associated in a war crimes tribunal at some point."

"So, the state won't supply them openly."

Masen's chin ducks in a curt affirmative. "For Ali to be coming back to Aro's organization, even indirectly through Koshmarin and Dobroshi, means he's wanting something hard to source – either in nature or quantity – that the smaller players can't deliver."

"Shit," I mutter, dry washing my face. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

We're quiet for a minute, simply content to sit together, shoulder to shoulder, in companionable silence. Between the soft, dim lighting, the quiet, soothing music playing in the background, and the dream-like scents of the oils and natural fragrances, it's almost possible to forget why we're here. It's almost possible to imagine we're just a normal couple doing what normal couples do.

Almost.

Jesus, that's a dangerous thought.

"You said Markovsky shut it down before," I say, watching our shadows sway and dance against the opposite wall. "What exactly is his role in the FSB anyway?"

Hands loosely clasped in front of him, Masen stares down at the floor, following the irregular darker striations in the marble, and chuckles. "Aro."

I angle toward him. "What?"

"Aro's a handful… and often a tyrant with very little in the way of a conscience." Sighing, Masen glances up, and his gaze turns inward and distant. Again, I can't help but think of everything he's seen and done to cement his place in Aronov's organization. Eliminating Taeb back in Vienna was likely the least of those offenses. "But like I told you and Rosalie, he's highly valuable and has sky-high connections… It makes him almost untouchable."

"What," I say, tucking an ankle under the opposite knee. "So, Markovsky's some kind of babysitter?"

"I wouldn't go that far." Masen flashes me a row of teeth. "He's supposed to keep an eye on him and report back from time to time to avoid surprises. And he's the one who liaises with Rostec and the Kremlin when it comes to major contracts."

"Aronov knows all this?" I ask, incredulous. "The reporting back, I mean."

Masen cocks another brow at me, and it's tempting to kiss that arrogance right out of him. "Of course, he does.

"And he doesn't care?"

"Care?" Masen scoffs and flicks a wrist at the room. "It's a running joke between them. Aro knows where Sasha's loyalty lies. For better or worse, they're family." Shoving off the table, he spins around to face me. "Don't ever forget that."

"All right," I say, even though I'm not quite so sure that's the case. "So, Kaius…"

A foot away, Masen's features sharpen, and he lasers in on the thin, silky fabric covering my bicep.

I'll hand it to him, though. Masen doesn't say a word about the pale gray, five-fingered print staining my skin, nor the makeshift sling Koshmarin sported when he barreled down the stairs early this morning.

No, it's like last night when I snuck into his room and told him about my little run-in outside the gym. Granted, he wasn't exactly happy, nor is he now judging by the dark flicker in his eyes. But like the trained professional he is, it took Masen all of about two seconds to process the gift Koshmarin just gave us and come to the same conclusions. After that initial split-second of icy fury, he just smiled a hunter's smile instead of getting pissy about it and started plotting.

And now, as he steps in closer and looks down at me, he gives me that same hawk-like smile yet again. "I confirmed the account numbers Whitlock already has and gave the last two – one belonging to one of Kaius' offshore accounts and the other to one of Aro's more obscure holding companies – to Rosalie this morning. I'm assuming she's already transferred those to… Alice?" His inflection changes there at the end, matched by the almost bemused expression lighting his face. "That's her out there right now, isn't it?"

When I nod and grin, Masen's fingers bracket the tops of my knees. "And you're sure Platt's going to okay that kind of exchange? For it to be believable, it'll have to be a substantial transfer."

"She wants Carlisle out like yesterday," I tell him, nodding again, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach when his thumbs slide to the insides of my thighs and creep upward. "She's willing to do whatever at this point and trusts me to make the call. This'll give us extra cover when things go south. Plus, that motherfucker's dug his grave already… We're just helping things along."

Releasing me, Masen steps back to peel off his suit jacket and then chucks it across the arm of the chaise. As he walks back over, his gait takes on the fluid, predator-like quality of the panther I once named him to be. He tugs the knot of his tie to loosen it, and then those long fingers unbutton his cuffs before rolling his sleeves neatly to the elbow.

"What are you doing?" I ask as he reaches for my sneakers. He doesn't reply, other than to toss them over by his jacket, and then he aims for the button of my jeans.

His mouth hovers over mine, touching yet not, and as he begins dragging the denim down my thighs, there's not enough air in this entire building to fill my lungs. "It's not obvious?"

I swallow, just resisting the urge to grab him. "No, not really."

"Fine," Masen says. And there's an edge to his voice, honed and sharp and angry, and the sound of it floods my body with molten desire. "You said you can't go back to him smelling like me, so I'm just going to fuck you with my tongue… and then I want you to tell me everything Markovsky said to you out on that terrace."

.

.

.

Notes:

Tarkhan Ali-Basayev, aka Ali, is not a real person. The name is a compilation of multiple real individuals associated with the long-running conflicts and wars between the Russian state and the region of Chechnya. Shamil Basayev, aka Emir Abu Idris, amongst other things, masterminded the 2002 Moscow Theater crisis and ordered the Beslan School Massacre in 2004, in which 333 people died, 186 of which were children.

In my head, this guy's a bit of a cross between Ramzan Kadyrov, the recent leader of Chechnya, who has been implicated in numerous murders and human rights abuses and labeled by many as a war criminal, and Dmitriy Utkin, ex-GRU and founder of the Wagner Group, a Russian PMC currently operating in Syria, multiple countries in Africa, and Ukraine, and that most consider Putin's de facto private army.

Chechen:

Borz: gray wolf, which is the national animal and an important symbol in Chechen culture

Glossary:

Aventador: is a current Lamborghini mid-engine sportscar. The base Aventador starts at a little over $500k and goes up significantly, depending on the specific model and customizations. The base engine, unmodified, produces around 700 hp… [That's fast, but I think my little Smart Car could totally take it, lol]

Caucasus: the region between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, comprising the countries of Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and parts of southern Russia (Chechen Republic, Dagestan, Ingushetia, and others)

Grozny: capital of the Chechen Republic of Russia, or Chechnya

PMC: private military company, aka mercenaries

UCAV: unmanned combat aerial vehicles, aka drones, which can be used for surveillance and/or offensive weapons strikes