eight | warsaw

while being a fact hotly-contested by Russians, it is believed that the first vodka originated in Poland, with earliest records dating to 1405

RAYNA

May 6th, 20:42 (GMT +2)
9 days until it happens

THIS IS WHY I don't bother making elaborate, foolproof plans – no matter how careful you are, they always go to shit.

I'm trying to recalculate on the fly, like a fricking Garmin after a wrong turn. The two international bajillionaires sitting with Jake will probably take their leave in an hour or so; and then, instead of having my way with Sidorov like I envisioned, I'll have to fucking deal with James Bond over there. And he is not gonna be in a merciful mood after I trashed his hotel room and swiped all his valuable shit.

The men make small talk and laugh obnoxiously and sip burning mouthfuls of coffee and vodka. Sidorov instructed me to remain close, so I can't even go raid his study while I wait for his guests to leave.

So, I eavesdrop. Our German friend trafficks millions of weapons across the EU every year. The Frenchie is into cocaine. And my dear buddy Mr. O'Boyle is apparently in the bomb-making business. An explosive industry, I'm told.

I float around the room topping up beverages and clearing plates. Jake is only pretending to eat and drink, I notice. He takes convincing but entirely fake sips; he artfully stashes pieces of crumbled biscuit into his napkin instead of putting them in his mouth.

The motherfucker thinks I poisoned his food.

Damn, I totally should've.

There's not a single mention of Cassidy for over thirty minutes. That is, until Jake casually comments, "Pavel, my friend. The blokes back in Dublin are giving out about this Dalton shite. Nasty business. Is it going to be a problem for us?" Nicely played, Morgan.

"Ouais," Monsieur Cocaine agrees, "C'est un problème. It is... comment-dit-on...? Messy. Distasteful."

Huh, criminals with principles. My job never ceases to surprise me.

Sidorov lifts a dismissing palm. "Niet. It is not a problem. The ransom will be paid. We have bigger concerns."

Cryptic and not at all reassuring. Ugh.

The German guy chimes in next, "Nicht. Be honest with us, Pavel. Is the girl alive? If she is not returned in one piece, Elias Dalton will wage war on your organization. It is concerning. Bad for business."

A triumphant feeling rises. Here we go, this is what we need... I hang onto Sidorov's words carefully. He stretches his arms out wide in an amicable gesture. "My friends. I did not invite you to my home to discuss such a topic. The girl will turn up soon, you need not worry. In the meantime, you will be happy to know that we are working to secure the future of our organization. The details will become clear shortly. Elias Dalton will not be a problem." Then he blatantly changes the subject, "Now... regarding distribution..."

My mind is racing a million miles a minute trying to process it all. A dozen new theories pop up. What if and what about and but maybe.

There are too many different things jumbled in my head right now. Sounds like Cassidy's alive but it also seems like she isn't a priority, which is bizarre. Why is Sidorov being so evasive? Why is he so certain that Dalton won't give him hell? Crap, that coffee sounds really great right about now... When are these asshats gonna wrap it up so I can get on with things? What am I gonna do about Jake? And why the fuck does he have to look so goddamn good in that suit? Speaking of coffee and Jake's suit, maybe I should spill some on him for the fun of it. Bad idea, Rayna, don't draw unnecessary attention to yourself. And so on, so forth.

Bottom line, none of it makes sense. As if thinking the same thing, Jake's gaze finds mine for a split second. There's a mutual pang of perplexed chagrin before our passionate loathing for one another resurfaces.

Jake rises to his feet, rebuttoning his jacket. Confusion ripples through me until he asks Sidorov, "Would you direct me to the toilet, mate?"

Sidorov snaps his fingers at me. "Pokazi yemu." Show him.

A charged frisson shoots through my tummy. There's no avoiding it any longer. Wordlessly, I exit the room with Jake's quiet tread landing solidly behind me. The imprint of my concealed weapon weighs steady against my thigh.

I lead him down the hall, away from the group. My blood simmers. We've just made it out of earshot when all of a sudden, before I can react, before I can even think, I'm being shoved, hard, my spine smacking cool paint. He's a full foot taller than me. A large hand wraps firm around my throat. His exhales are hot on my forehead, our chests are forced inches apart, I'm trapped between his body and the wall.

He smells the same, smoky, spicy, masculine. Apparently he's already managed to restock his cologne.

My breaths have quickened. The pressure of his fingers against my neck burns. When I meet his eyes, they glint at me, blackened, the icy-grey ignited to cinders. Warmth stirs in my belly, but then I remember that I'm supposed to fight back, so I twist my nails into his forearm, pinching in an attempt to loosen his grasp.

"Easy now, love," he grumbles, soft and low. He's dropped the stupid accent in exchange for his usual stupider one. With brisk force, he captures both my wrists in his strong, deft hands, flipping me gruffly around so my chin hits the wall, my arms bent across my back, immobilized. He presses into me from behind and his voice rasps over my shoulder, "What am I going to do with you, huh?"

Come on, Rayna. Get it together. My gun is holstered in my garter; I need to distract him just enough to grab it. I arc my spine so my ass curves against the tops of his thighs. My words feel thick like whipped cotton. "I can think of a few things."

A small, rough sound hums from the wet of this throat. He chuckles and the texture of it thrums through me. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Pinning my wrists together with one hand, he uses the other to sweep over me slowly. A broad palm reaches around, pressing flat against my stomach before dipping lower. His fingertips nudge the hem of my skirt. He drags a crooked knuckle smoothly down the front of my thigh and my leg trembles involuntarily, my feet flexing against the floor. And then he's snatching up my pistol, his teasing fingers vanishing. Frustration spikes hot inside me.

He folds my gun away inside his jacket but doesn't let me go. Our breathing blends together, heavy in the snap of silence that ensues. Coarse lips graze the shell of my ear. "Mm. You've been very naughty today, haven't you, darling?"

An obtrusive craving for the sear of his stubble against my flushed skin surfaces and I banish it hastily away. "Fuck you, Jake."

"Anytime you want, sweetheart."

My pulse hops and skips. Alright, this is ridiculous. Swift, no time to think it through, I smash my foot onto his toes, using the shock of the moment to rip myself from his grip and elbow him stiff in the ribs.

If I didn't need to try and stay quiet, I would beat his perfectly-toned ass to pulp. The heel of my  palm butts into his brachial plexus; then I jab my knee against his thigh to shock his sciatic nerve, but he deflects, trying to loop me into a choke-hold. Self-righteous, stupidly-attractive, assfucker...

The sharp, cold metal click of a cocked hammer clangs through the air. Jake and I freeze.

The cook points a Nagant M1895 revolver at us. I catch a glimpse of a tattooed emblem peeking from the edge of her drawn sleeve.

Ya rabi... She's Russian Security Service. We're both dead.

***

Author's Note [Oct. 28th, 2022]:

Bam. They die. The end.

Hi!!!! I gave up on the idea of advanced-pay chapters for now... so it's all free! Eeek! Are y'all excited to binge the rest of this book?

Please, please consider commenting to let me know how you're enjoying it! I love chatting with y'all!

xoxo Ami