In For the Kill (24 page)

Sveti dropped it over her head and shook it into place. She gathered her fall of heavy, swirling chestnut hair into her hand and turned her back. “You said you'd be my lady's maid.”

Oh, yeah. He took his time doing it up, skimming his knuckles along the warm perfection of her skin. Memorizing the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. A hot haze of lust made his toes curl in his shoes and his dick pulse against his jeans.

He lingered over the top hook, reluctant to lift his hands away.

She dropped her hair and turned. “So? What do you think?”

His mouth went dry. He studied her from the front, then walked around her, looking from every angle. “Too virginal,” he said finally.

Her eyes widened. “Really? I thought you'd approve of that effect! I figured you would want a dress that said, ‘Hands off.' ”

“This dress doesn't say that,” he said. “It says, ‘I'm a defenseless, clueless innocent, so sneak me out of the debutante ball to the gazebo, and ravish me in the moonlight.' It says, ‘Fair game.' You are not walking out the door in that thing.”

She glanced down at the dress. “Good Lord. I had no idea a dress could say all that.”

“That dress is now reserved exclusively for our fantasy sex play. The game I call ‘The Deflowering.' ”

She let out a crack of laughter. “Why would you need to play that game? You lived it firsthand!”

“It doesn't count, since I didn't know til it was too late.”

“Oh, shut up.” She swatted at his chest. He seized her hand and kissed it. And kissed it again, trailing kisses up her wrist, her arm, until her hand shook and her eyes were dilated.

“Sam,” she whispered. “It's late. Let's, ah . . . try the next one.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Right.”

The next dress was a dreamy, rose-spattered chiffon thing, with a lot of asymmetrical fluttering ruffles. It hugged her torso and fell around her, graceful and romantic. She turned, making the ragged, layered skirt flutter out in a floating swirl. Pretty. But he shook his head.

“It says, ‘Please don't hate me because I am beautiful,” he said. “Fuck that shit. You don't owe anyone any apologies. Take it off.”

She turned to the mirror, bemused. “Wow. You have incredibly focused opinions about women's fashion, for a straight man.”

“If you're the girl inside the dress, then yeah, I do,” he said.

The next offering was cobalt blue chiffon, with soft, swirling knots of fabric sculpted over her torso, molded to show every contour. It hugged her hips and flared into a mermaid frill around her feet.

Sam circled her, eyes narrowed. “This one says, ‘How dare you look at me, peon. Begone, lest I strike you down with my magical triton for your insolence, and turn you to a cowering sea slug.' ”

She laughed at his nonsense. “Not the vibe I'm shooting for.”

Somehow, out of nowhere, this had become fun. What a high, what a buzz, to make Sveti smile. It made him giddy.

Even knowing that her mood could change in a fucking heartbeat.

He pushed that thought away as he fastened the hooks on the last dress, but the thought disintegrated when she turned to show him.

It was soft like velvet, but flowing. Brown-tinted, golden green. Forest moss, hit by a beam of sunlight. Fabric twisted gracefully over her perfect breasts, and fell from a high empire waist to skim her curves. It brought out her hazel eyes, the raw cedar tints of her hair.

He found himself thinking of stories his mother had read to them. Schlocky girl stuff about fairies and dryads whenever it was Connie's turn to pick. Sveti had just stepped out of one of those stories. That bold, yet cautious look in her eyes. As if he were a dangerous magical beast, but she knew she had the power to bend him to her will.

He cleared his throat. “That one,” he said. “That one's a winner.”

She twirled, smiling at the mirror in a rare show of vanity. “I agree, for once,” she said. “It's very nice. How much does it cost?”

“Don't even start,” he said. “I'm hard already, just looking at you in that thing, so don't provoke me. I might end up getting all masterful and overbearing. Just to prove a point.”

“Really?” She twirled, making the skirt flare. “What kind of point?”

He tilted her face up and kissed her hungrily, until she was dazed and breathless. “The kind of point that might mess up the dress.”

“Break his other knee,” Pavel Cherchenko said.

“No!” Misha shrieked, as Ivan lifted the baton over the wretched, bloodied Andrei, who lay broken and unrecognizable on the floor. “It's the truth! It wasn't Andrei's fault! He didn't know! I'm sorry we didn't tell you as soon as she arrived, but I didn't know that you wanted to—”

“Liar. Of course you knew. You spy on everything I do, my son. Andrei is an idiot, yes, but you are not. I had people waiting for her at both airports in Rome and Milan, and you knew it. But what bothers me most is what a bad liar you are.” He swatted the back of Misha's head, smashing his face onto the gleaming surface of Pavel's desk.

When Misha dragged himself back up, blood streamed from his broken nose, along with the snot brought on by his womanish tears.

And this piece of shit was all he had to call his heir.

“I'm sorry.” Misha's voice gurgled. “It was me, only me. Not Andrei. I told him to bring her up, and I—”

“He should have called for instructions.” Pavel punctuated this with a savage kick to the kidney. Andrei shrieked. “He shouldn't have listened to a snot-nosed, lying little boy.” A crunch of broken ribs. “He should have realized what you were doing.” A boot heel, ground onto the man's genitals. Andrei jackknifed, in spite of his shattered vertebrae.

“Please, stop, stop, stop,” the boy moaned. “Please.” He sobbed silently, eyes closed, blood streaming down his neck into his shirt.

Pavel gazed at his son with a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd entertained hopes for Misha, even after the blow that Sasha had dealt him. Bright Misha, with his talent with tech, his facility with numbers. A freak, yes, but in this day and age, one needed an edge. Misha was unscarred by Zhoglo's punishment. Marya and Sasha had been gutted, but there was still hope for Misha. Or had been. Now he was not sure.

He was still angry at Sasha, for not being strong enough. For not appreciating what his father had done for him, by murdering that scum Zhoglo. He had to remind his own self every morning that he had actually done it, as he woke from the nightmares in which Zhoglo was grinding his boot into Pavel's face. He was not that wretched slave any longer. He had freed himself. Killing Zhoglo had ignited him.

He had avenged Sasha, but had his son shown gratitude for his father's efforts? Had he valued the possibilities his father had given him? No. The worthless turd had curled up into a ball. A mute wraith of a boy who would not speak, who lost himself in drugs. First vodka, brandy. Then as soon as he was old enough to go and seek it out, heroin. His boy, floating away, on a fucking lake of opiates. He could forgive a great deal, after what Sasha had suffered, but not betrayal.

Sasha had to die. It would be a relief to everyone. Most of all to Sasha himself, he suspected. But Pavel was appalled to find that the taint had corrupted Misha, too. Something had to be done. Something severe.

His offspring hunched, shaking and leaking before him. He slapped the boy,
whack.
“Stop crying! I watched the footage. You knew about the hidden cameras. I saw you playing to them. That screaming and carrying on, so overdone. Not like you, sullen, constipated clam that you are.”
Whack.
“You turned your back to the camera in the library to write on her card. And throwing the card onto the street? How did you plan to justify that to me? Svetlana Ardova's cell phone number might have saved me time. I don't suppose you memorized her number?”

“No,” Misha whispered. “I didn't even look at it.”

Pavel took the baton from Ivan's hand.
Crack,
he brought it down on Andrei's scapula. Misha's moan was drowned out by Andrei's shriek.

Pavel panted as he stared at the man twitching on the floor, ruining the fine Persian rug. Rugs were replaceable. Sons were harder to come by. But when a thing was ruined, it was ruined.

He would give Misha one last chance, for Marya's sake. Not that he owed the bitch anything. She'd been weak. Giving in to despair. He'd worked so hard to make it up to her, but even Sasha's return from the dead did not slow her descent. From the grave, she kept her grip on him. Guilt, shame, at being powerless to protect his family.

He hated her for it. He hated them all.

“Where are the thermal generators located?” he demanded.

“I don't know! I don't know anything about—”

Whack.
The slap rocked Misha's head back. “Why are you helping Sasha?” he bellowed.

“I just . . . wanted to know he was alive.” Misha sobbed, silently.

Pavel leaned into his son's cringing face. “What did you write on the card you threw down to her?”

Misha's eyes were full of mortal dread as he raised them to his father. “I . . . I didn't write anything.”

Pavel picked up his letter opener, an antique stiletto, its hilt adorned with precious gems. “One more lie . . .” Pavel said, nudging the side of Andrei's bloody face with his shoe.

Misha hesitated. “If I tell you, you won't hurt him anymore?”

Arrogant little shit, daring to bargain with him. Pavel forced his voice to softness. “Of course. Tell me, and his suffering will end.”

“It's a phone number,” Misha admitted. “Sasha sent me a note, one day, when I was at school. It's a
gelateria.
In Castellana Padulli.”

“Tell me what is special about this
gelateria.
”

“He checks it. If I show up, he sends a message. Where to meet.”

Pavel's hand contracted around the jeweled hilt. “So you have been in contact with Sasha. And you said nothing.”

“I met him, just once,” Misha whispered. “Two days ago.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.” Misha's voice was strangled. “He wouldn't tell me. He has a remote camera set up, to watch for me. He has organized it so I cannot ever know where he is. To . . . to protect us both.”

“Protect you? Hah.”

“I'm sorry,” Misha said brokenly. “Can I go? Please?”

“To warn Sasha? No, you stay here until this is finished. You are a liar, and a traitor, and stupid. I despise stupidity.”

“Father, please—
no!
”

Misha's wail of protest choked off as Pavel drove the stiletto through Andrei's eye. He hesitated. There were precious gems in the hilt, after all. He pulled it out and wiped it on Andrei's suit coat.

“Wrap him in the rug and take him away,” he said to Ivan and Yevgeni, who stood watching. “Take Misha downstairs, to the room.”

Misha's mouth was slack with horror. “But . . . you said . . .”

“I said, his suffering will end. And it has ended.” Pavel patted Misha's clammy cheek. “But yours, my son? Yours is just beginning.”

C
HAPTER
17

S
veti stared out at cliffs of silvery stone that glowed pink with reflected tints of the sunset. A cool breeze scented with aromatic wild herbs blew in the window. She wore a gorgeous evening gown, she was in a sexy car with a hot guy in a tux who made her delirious with pleasure, about to receive a prestigious award for her achievements, to be fêted at a lavish party—and she was still capable of feeling miserable.

Leave it to Sveti to tie the pretty bow on top of her present into an unbreakable knot that could only be released with the slash of a knife.

She glanced at the car that was following them. Silvano, Hazlett's security agent, and his driver were in it. Sam had insisted on driving his own car. This was the compromise they had struck, with great difficulty and a lot of incomprehensible male snarling, all in Italian.

“This isn't sustainable,” she said.

“What's not sustainable?”

“This security situation,” she said. “How much does it cost, to pay someone to follow you around all the time?”

“Hazlett would only hire top-of-the-line people, so you can be sure that it costs a fortune. What do you care? You won't be paying.”

She shook her head. “It won't work. There's a point of diminishing returns. When people decide that I'm more trouble than I'm worth.”

She regretted saying that the second the words left her mouth. As if she wanted to hasten the day that he made that decision, too.

“You underestimate the cosmic mega-bullshit people are disposed to tolerate in order to be close to you, Sveti.”

“Oh, stop it, Sam.” She stared out the window. “Don't try to soothe me or flatter me. I'm just trying to think this through.”

He made little smooching sounds. “That's the sound of me kissing your ass. Wow, all I do is think of your ass, and boom, my pants don't fit. What's a little mortal danger or a few pesky trust and intimacy issues when I can peel down your panties and—”

“Stop.” She blocked her ears. “I need to concentrate on what I'm doing tonight. Don't melt my brain with your sex talk. Please.”

“No, actually. I disagree. I think it would do your brain some good to be melted. You've got concentration totally nailed, Sveti. What you need is to chill the fuck out. You need to laugh.”

She stared down at her lap. “I've never been great at that,” she said. “Please, don't make it a requirement. I can't do it on command.”

“Don't turn what I just said into a brand-new problem for you,” he said. “Consider this. I've been watching you take yourself way too seriously since the day I met you. You can see with your own eyes how much my enthusiasm has wilted. Go on, look. Touch, if you want.”

She snorted, her mouth twitching. “I said, stop it.”

“Hah! Success!” he crowed. “I'll do anything for a laugh from you, even humiliate myself by sporting a boner in evening wear. Slap a red clown nose on me and watch me go.”

“You are the furthest thing on earth from a clown,” she said.

He grinned. “That's not true. You're further, so the job falls to me by default. Laughter is a great tension reliever. Almost as good as sex. I guess if I can't make you laugh, I can make you come. You're so covered.”

She snorted helplessly into her hand. “Oh, God, stop it, you'll make my makeup run. It always comes back to sex, doesn't it?”

“It goes there on its own. No conscious help from me, I swear. Who can blame me, when you're wearing that dress?”

“By the way, you never told me what this dress said,” she pointed out. “You just said it was a winner. Didn't it talk to you, like the others?”

She was trying to play along, to lighten up, like he wanted, but the glance he cast at her was surprisingly somber. “Sure, it talked to me. It said, ‘There is a God.' ”

Her face went hot. “Sam,” she whispered. “You're overdoing it.”

“And you need to work on accepting compliments.”

“Maybe I do, but not right now,” she said. “I think we've arrived.”

Sam slowed at the wrought-iron gates, set in a high stonework wall. The road swirled in curving switchbacks up the hillside, through perfectly manicured grounds and terraced gardens toward the Villa Fenice, a ducal palace on the top of the hill.

The sun had set, leaving a fiery streak on the horizon that faded up to violet and then to deep cobalt blue. A single star glowed on the horizon. They drove into a rotunda that circled a fountain, a cluster of winged marble angels pouring water from urns, their dimpled limbs in a complicated tangle. A fragrant profusion of flowers bloomed everywhere. The air was heavy with their scent. The rotunda was full of high-end automobiles and uniformed staff driving them away.

Sam helped her out, gave his keys to an attendant. They strolled toward the entrance. The building was creamy white stone that had absorbed the sun's heat all day and now seemed charged with power and radiating trapped energy. Torches flickered in sconces that flanked the entrance and the mirrored double staircases. There were no artificial lights. Sam took her arm, leading her across the flagstones and up the massive marble steps.

She spotted Hazlett in the arched entrance, across the wide expanse of marble paving stones. He hurried toward them. He was even more tanned than the last time she had seen him, and seemed far younger than his forty-eight years. She felt the subtle tension from Sam ratchet up, thrumming through her arm and into her body.

“Svetlana,” he said. “I am so glad. In spite of everything, here you are. Nothing can keep you down. You are an inspiration.”

“Michael,” she murmured, wondering frantically what to do with her hand, because Hazlett was not letting go, and his grip was tight, and hot. And now he was patting her with his other hand. Trapped.

He utterly ignored Sam's presence.

Sam stood there quietly at her elbow, sizing him up.

“Sam, this is Michael Hazlett, my new employer,” she said. “Michael, this is Sam Petrie. I told you about him.”

“Ah, yes.” Forced to acknowledge him, Hazlett's glance flashed over Sam. “The one who rode to your rescue? The famous Mr. Samuel Petrie, the Illuxit Foundation's new mystery donor? You caused quite a stir with your gift.” He did not release Sveti's hand to shake Sam's.

Sam just looked at him. “You're the founder of Illuxit?”

“Yes.” Hazlett flashed his teeth. “Biopharmaceutical development and commercial outsourcing. One of the biggest worldwide.”

“So, essentially, your company organizes clinical trials for new untested drugs in third world countries? Have I got that right?”

“Among other things,” Hazlett said. “We've helped develop some of the most important, top-selling drugs on the market, but I've recently stepped down from direct leadership. It's time for Illuxit to give back, so I'm concentrating on the Illuxit Foundation. Most specifically on initiatives to combat trafficking, and funds to help the victims.”

“Yeah, I read up on that before I donated,” Sam said. “It looked well organized. Particularly now that she'll be associated with it.” He jerked his chin in Sveti's direction. “She'll set you all straight.”

“Oh, yes,” Hazlett said with a big smile. “She's unique. So utterly focused and rigorous. That's what we need. She has an almost . . . well, a cutthroat quality, I might say, for lack of a better term.”

Sveti winced. “There must be a better term.”

“Consider it a compliment.” Hazlett's teeth flashed. He turned back to Sam. “I watched that video of the slavery ring exposé, and I contacted her immediately. She's ferocious. As unique as she is lovely.”

Sam's grin looked feral. “Don't I know it.”

“I'm sure you do,” Hazlett said. “I knew she was the one when I saw her video. That's my passion, you see. Finding the pressure points. It's a discipline that applies to any field of human endeavor. Finding the place to poke to make someone jump, or the exact point where medicine must be applied in order to be effective, or the precise place where the money must be spent to make a difference. In this case, Svetlana is the perfect woman. In the right place, at the right time, she could change the world. I'll be privileged to be nearby and watch it happen.”

The men stared each other down. Svetlana wanted to melt into the ground. “So,” she said tightly. “Shall we go on in?”

“Please, get a glass of champagne,” Hazlett said. “I have a friend coming up the drive whom I must introduce you to. I'll join you soon.”

Sam and Sveti strolled into the vaulted, frescoed entry hall. It was lit with dozens of candelabra. The warm glow made the arches of cobalt blue sky from the loggia that opened toward the sea intensely vivid. On the terrace outside, waiters wandered with trays of champagne flutes. Both of them refused. Sam gave her a questioning look.

“Why not?” he asked. “It's time-honored relaxation trick number three. Although numbers one and two are still my favorites.”

She shook her head. “I have to be brilliant tonight, remember?”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget, with Hazlett fawning all over your hand. You're the perfect woman! Carefully chosen to touch that precise magic place that will cause him to erupt in paroxysms of bliss!”

She glared. “Don't you dare get into a pissing contest, Sam.”

“I won't start one, but I won't back down from one either.”

“Svetlana! Mr. Petrie!” Nadine hurried toward them, resplendent in a stunning teal taffeta gown with a vast, pouffy skirt.

“Call me Sam, please,” Sam said.

She smiled, flirtatiously. “All right, if you insist. Thanks, Sam. Svetlana, excellent choice of dresses! It was one of my favorites, too! It looks stunning on you. Armani is just classic.”

“Sam picked it,” Sveti admitted.

“I'm not surprised.” Nadine looked through her lashes at Sam. “I must run and take care of business. Enjoy yourselves!” She hurried off.

She raised an eyebrow. “You made quite the shirtless impression on Nadine, didn't you?”

He lifted her hand, kissed it, and kept kissing it. “Who?”

“There she is! Svetlana! Let me introduce you to a friend of—”

Crash.
The champagne glass of the tall, salt-and-pepper haired man next to Hazlett shattered on the floor.

The man stared at Sveti, eyes wide.
“Dio mio,”
he whispered.

Sam drew her toward himself. “What the fuck?” he muttered.

“Renato, are you all right?” Hazlett asked. “What's wrong?”

The man tried to speak, his mouth working.
“Per l'amor di Dio,”
he whispered.
“Uguale. Ugualissimo.”

“
Uguale
to whom?” Sam asked sharply. “Someone clue me in.”

“Sam?” Sveti clutched Sam's arm. “What is it?”

“You evidently resemble someone this guy knows, babe.”

Two white-clad attendants appeared, one with a broom, another with a long-handled dust pan. In tandem, they swept up the shards and as swiftly disappeared. More arrived, one with a mop, another with a dry cloth, and a third, holding out a fresh glass of bubbling wine.

The tall guy did not deign to notice. He just kept staring at Sveti. Hazlett waved the champagne bearer impatiently away.

“I'm sorry.” The man's English had a heavy Italian accent. “Forgive me. I was not expecting—but you're just so much like her. Your eyes, your lips. It's extraordinary. I . . . I was not prepared.”

“Who?” Sam and Sveti asked in unison.

“Sonia,” the man said.

Sveti gasped. Cold sucked on her from below. Her blood pressure dropped. Sam's arm slid around her waist, strong and bracing.

She rested her hand on it and squeezed, drawing strength from him. There was so much of it to draw. “You knew my mother?”

“Yes.” The older man's eyes looked shiny. His mouth was set. “We were together. For over a year, before she died.”

“Oh, God.” Sveti's heart gave a painful thud. “You're the
conte.
Renato Torregrossa. With the villa on the sea.”

“Yes. Here, look. I have her photo on my telephone, always. I transfer it over every time that I change phones.” He pulled out his smartphone, thumbed around on it, and held it up to Sveti.

Sveti leaned forward. Yes, it was her mother. Dressed in some flowing white gauze thing, laughing. She was next to Renato, their heads together. Renato had held out the phone to snap a selfie.

Her heart clenched. Grief, and a blaze of raw, childish jealousy. Who the fuck did this arrogant old Italian
conte
think he was? Having snapped pictures of her mother that Sveti had never seen, sharing days that Sveti would never remember? He had a piece of her that she would never touch. He'd been with her, spoken to her, touched her, more recently than Sveti had. By a year and a half.
Bastard.

She clamped down on her emotions. She would not make a spectacle of herself, and be that pathetic crazy girl.
Poor thing. She's been through so much, you know. Understandable, really.

No.
Her jaw ached from clenching. “She told me about you.”

“It's true.” Hazlett's fascinated gaze darted from Renato's cell phone back to Sveti's face. “The eyes, the mouth.”

Sveti felt Sam's arm tighten. “Yes, we were very similar. Everyone always said so.” Her voice seemed to come from very far away.

Sam spoke up. “This can't be a coincidence,” he said, to both Hazlett and Torregrossa. “How do you two know each other?”