“Please.” She was young, early twenties. A pretty, spoiled American kid on vacation. An easy target. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I have no idea where we are anyway.”
Luka actually looked to his cousin as if they ought to listen to her. Poor slob couldn’t be less suited to the bratva’s line of business.
Kozlov slapped her hard, but he was careful not to damage the goods. “You were told to shut up. You want less pain? More good, yes? Then do as you’re told.”
The blonde noticed him standing in the shadows when the others didn’t. Her eyes flared but she didn’t say anything. She ought to be scared out of her mind after being snatched by two goons off the street. She’d cried enough that her mascara streaked her cheeks, but something about her triggered his defenses. She didn’t belong.
How could they look at her and not realize she wasn’t a tourist? She sold the image hard, from the beachy sundress to the large leather tote probably loaded with maps and trinket souvenirs. She clutched that bag like it had her most precious possessions in it and cringed away from Kozlov every time he touched her, but it was too perfect. Too scripted. There wasn’t a fucking thing about her that was timid or scared, let alone tamed. Even her bright golden hair refused to be fully tamed into a bun.
She did manage to stumble alongside Kozlov, but her eyes were too focused for her to be impaired by drugs or alcohol. She looked at each man in the dim lighting as if taking a mental snapshot. Vincent had the feeling that she’d remember every single detail, from Kozlov’s too-tight, cheap gray suit to the name of the hotel on Nassau’s exclusive beach.
Trouble. She’s not who she’s pretending to be.
And neither am I.
It made them both vulnerable. Vincent didn’t like vulnerable. Not when he’d invested so many years in learning Vlasenko’s operation.
She dragged her gaze away but Kozlov finally noticed the watcher in the shadows. His hand twitched down toward the gun he had tucked under his suit coat. Luka crossed himself out of habit, but gave him a tentative smile. He’d probably decided that since Vincent had helped him win the pool, they were best buds.
They really hadn’t seen him, even though he stood in plain sight. Ironically, that described the bratva’s entire operation, right down to this high-dollar exclusive hotel on a popular Nassau beach—that just happened to house the Bahamas wing of the trafficking operation.
“What are you doing here?” Kozlov growled.
He almost didn’t answer. He didn’t owe these men anything, certainly not allegiance or answers. Most of the men working for Vlasenko knew only enough about him to piss themselves if he looked sideways at them. But she watched, taking note of his face like she intended to pick them all out of a lineup. With his black fatigues and tats, he would be cataloged as either an ex-con or ex-military. Both were true, though he didn’t care for her to know that much about him. Why is she here?
He shrugged and started walking toward the elevator. Generally, his presence meant someone was about to die.
“Waiting for us, right?” Luka asked.
“Idiot.” Kozlov and his partner followed, bringing the two women. “Why would the big bad G be waiting for us?”
At least they didn’t use his name in front of her, though most of Vlasenko’s men didn’t call him anything but “Ghost” or G. He should have already been dead, they joked. He’d survived long years in a Russian prison only to become one of the most powerful bratva’s lead enforcer. He ghosted Vlasenko’s enemies and no one could kill him. So maybe he was a ghost himself. He’d certainly begun to feel like a cursed specter unable to escape its mortal coil.
They headed to the elevator that only went down to the maintenance area below the hotel. The door slid open and another big guard eyed the group as they stepped out. Without public eyes or cameras, the guard carried an assault rifle in plain view. A narrow corridor between pipes and boilers directed them to the next guard waiting outside a heavy steel door.
“Did Oryol have any luck?” Kozlov asked as the guard unlocked the door.
“Nope. Boss won’t be none too happy either.”
“Guess we’ll be lying low a bit. Take some heat off.” Kozlov jerked his head toward the opened door, and his partner dragged his charge into the next room. Made of concrete blocks, this area had been added for the sole purpose of holding captives in individual cells until they could be shipped off to auction. Vincent didn’t follow them. No way in hell he’d step willingly into another prison. Not while breathing.
Evidently the blonde had the same thought. She dug in her heels. When Kozlov whirled around with fist raised, she tipped her chin up and glared murder at him. Kozlov seized a handful of her hair and dragged her inside the holding area.
“We have a full shipment yet?” Kozlov asked, not even breathing hard.
“Close enough. That blonde’s a looker. She’ll bring a nice price.”
“Easy pickings, drunk and walking, I mean stumbling, along the road,” Kozlov bragged. “Found her right away, but had to wait on Luka to pick his up.”
“You two went alone?”
“Bory drove us. Anyone else would only make us conspicuous.”
As if two or three Ukrainian men in suits straining across six-foot-plus of sheer muscle would be inconspicuous walking around the tourist malls on Paradise Island.
Kozlov shoved her into the cell with Luka’s prize, stripping the tote from her as she passed. “Why don’t they teach these girls not to drink or walk alone at night? They make it so easy.” He snapped his fingers and laughed. “They’re lucky we got to them first.”
“Lucky?” The blonde retorted as she wobbled on her wedge-heeled sandals. “So we won’t be raped by you, but we’ll be raped by the men you sell us to?”
The other woman wailed, setting off a chain reaction throughout the makeshift prison block. Too many voices to separate out into a count, but likely half a dozen women. Kozlov and his men had been working hard and Vlasenko liked to have a decent selection when he invited the buyers.
Luka slammed the door shut on the cell and hurried back to the main entrance. The guard shut and locked the heavier steel door. “Thanks a lot,” he grumbled, sitting back down in his chair. “They’ll be at it for at least an hour.”
“Sorry,” Luka mumbled, taking a step closer to Kozlov. While he had the neck and shoulders of a bull, Luka wasn’t really cut out for this kind of work. He’d needed a job and the bratva provided a steady living, even if you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Vlasenko should have put him on something simpler, like acquiring foodstuff for the kitchens or even security for the hotel. But the boss hadn’t brought Vincent to the Caribbean to make employee recommendations and Vincent certainly had no desire to be Vlasenko’s lieutenant. Not like Kozlov.
No, Vincent’s wants were simple. Complete the mission. Take out as many bad guys as possible.
Himself included.
He stared at that holding cell and it was all he could do not to pull out his Glock and shoot them all. Then himself. How had he come to this? Protecting and assisting men who kidnapped women and then sold them to the highest bidder? He’d done plenty of despicable things in his lifetime, but he’d never hurt an innocent. Until he’d infiltrated the bratva. Until he’d nearly killed a young girl just because he was high on his own blood, jacked up on violence and death.
I’m done. This has to end.
He caught Kozlov’s gaze. “I need to see the boss.”
With the other guards looking on, Kozlov puffed up his chest. “He’s very busy. I don’t think he’ll have time to meet with you—”
Vincent didn’t move or reach for a weapon. He just looked at Kozlov steadily with the blood and pain of all the men he’d killed darkening his eyes.
Kozlov swallowed hard. “I’ll see what I can do.”
&
nbsp; Chapter Four
Charlie
She makes me want to die.
Ranay looks at me with such honesty and trust, and I can’t stand the thing I am. I want it dead. It’s the only way she’ll ever be safe from the darkness inside me.
That darkness calls her like a moth to a flame. Damn her courage, which has only grown by leaps and bounds since she came to my bed. She pushes me. She taunts me. She’s utterly fearless in her love, even while she plots to be swallowed whole by my darkness. At some level, she wants me to destroy her. She’s the perfect masochist to my sadist.
“Hurt me, Master,” she says, with delectable lips and those soft, wide eyes that gleam with innocence and sweetness. “Take me.”
I want to drink her. I want to feel her in my arms, her blood in my mouth, her soul fluttering like a helpless bird trapped in the palm of my hand.
I suddenly understand the appeal of my father’s method of killing, because each time I taste her blood, my senses explode. It’s like the strongest whiskey in the world mixed with the most powerful psychedelic drug. Addictive, deadly and so damned potent I can’t think of anything else.
I want her so badly. Her blood, love, trust, passion, cries, tears, screams. I want it all. I’ll feast on every single emotion she’ll give me. I’ll drain her, heart and soul, and then what will be left? A husk that, in her innocence, loved a monster who destroyed her.
I try to hold the beast at bay, but that only hurts her. She pushes harder for me to bare my heart to her. I want to, I do, but I know what it will do to her. I’m at my breaking point and she doesn’t even realize it. If I break, if I lose control, she will suffer.
The sadist in me wants her pain above anyone’s, because she’s the only person who matters to me. Why did I have to love her?
I didn’t ask for this. And now I can’t live without her, even though loving her, and hurting her, is tearing me apart.
Every time I touch her, I risk exposing everything, especially now that I’ve had her blood. Nothing excites me more. Charlie can be aroused and make love to her like a man, but when I am aroused...
I want to feed on her.
I want to mark her flesh with teeth and knives. I want her more, every single day. The thought of leaving her makes me insane, but I have to leave to kill. I can’t do it here, or I’ll risk destroying our hideaway, or worse, her safety. So I have to leave. I must. The monster won’t lie quiet for long. It’s always there, waiting, hoping for an opportunity to taste her again.
Her eyes. God. She looks at me and I want to die before it’s too late.
Before I ruin this perfect love.
Ranay
We’d developed an easy ritual for dinner. Charlie tossed something on the grill—usually meat and veggies, but sometimes flatbread pizzas or packets with more delicate fish. The stainless steel stove in the kitchen didn’t look like it’d ever been used. I put together a simple plate of soft bread, cheese, pickled vegetables—basically whatever I could find in the fridge. Or in this case, fresh fruit I’d picked up from the market. Then we’d eat in the pavilion outside, lounging on cushions with ocean waves and jungle calls to serenade us. He usually built a fire in the brick pit, and we’d stay outside for hours, drinking wine, soaking in the peace and quiet, and making love.
Tonight I had something else in mind. I tried to eat like normal, but his questions didn’t help any.
“So, what did you buy today? Anything to model for me?”
I shrugged and took another bite of chicken, making myself chew slowly and swallow before answering. “Nothing fancy. I really don’t like to shop, so I only got what I absolutely need.”
“I guess I won’t be rewarding you very much tonight.”
I smiled at him over my wineglass. One of the first things he’d done after I arrived was give me a lesson in his private finances. He didn’t ever want me to feel like I was stranded in a foreign country, entirely dependent on his goodwill. To be sure I didn’t hesitate in spending his money, he’d promised extra punishment each time I hit his bank account. An odd arrangement, but for us it worked perfectly.
Besides, it wasn’t as if I could even dream of putting a dent in his accounts. Judging by how much money he had stashed away in numerous countries all around the globe, he was an extremely successful paid assassin. “I didn’t say that.”
His eyebrows arched, his eyes tracking every small movement I made. I took another sip of Moscato before using my fingers to pick up a chunk of mango. “I did get this new sundress. A pair of sandals since my other ones broke already. A really gorgeous leather bag that’d cost a fortune in the States.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
He leaned in and rubbed his mouth against my bare shoulder. “What else?”
“I’ve been dying for some new books. I finished the one I brought for the plane, and you told me to pack light, so I didn’t bring any spares.”
He trailed his lips across my collarbone, not exactly kissing but caressing me with his mouth. “I have books. You could have asked me.”
Tipping my head to the side, I offered my neck for his attention. When he ever so lightly scraped his teeth on the tendon that connected my neck and shoulder, I couldn’t have held back the moan if he’d ordered complete silence. I’d always loved his teeth, and my neck was especially sensitive. “Romances?”
He gripped my throat a bit harder with his teeth. Not a bite, just a threat. A promise. “Some, though I do tend to read more on the erotica side. I think I have a copy of Gone With the Wind too.”
I gave his shoulder a sharp shove but he didn’t move away. “That is not romance.”
“It has arguably one of the most famous love stories in fiction.”
“But he leaves her. I don’t care how much he loves her...” My thoughts scattered in one numbing thud of my heart. No. My Master had damned well better not be planning a give-a-damn moment of his own.
He nipped harder, making my breath catch. “I have a hard time reading happy endings.”
He said it playfully, his manner still light, but it made my heart constrict. He didn’t believe in happy endings. He certainly didn’t think he deserved one. “You don’t love me enough to say I’m your one and only?”
“You know that’s not true.”
Usually I’d be the last one to complain if he buried his face against my breasts, but this time, he didn’t press his face to my chest to comfort or arouse me. He did it to hide. My strong, unwavering Master never hid. My throat burned as if the wine was going to bubble right back up. “I got something for you too.”
He murmured something against my chest but I couldn’t make out the words. His breath was hot on my skin, seeping through the thin cotton of my bodice. Nuzzling the cotton aside until he found my nipple, he sucked on my breast, hard, just the way I liked it. Hard enough that I sucked in a breath and dug my fingers into his shoulders, my back arching uncontrollably.
Oh, my Master played dirty. Very dirty. But I’d learned a trick or two about his buttons too.
I let out a shaky moan and whispered, “Don’t you want to see it?”
He didn’t lift his head, but he did pause the delicious torment enough for my brain to focus better. I’d need all my mental faculties to pull this off.
“It almost made me too scared...”
That got his head up, his eyes searching mine. As much as he wanted to deny it, he loved it when I was scared. “Let me see it, then.”
My trembling hands and breathy voice weren’t fake as I reached under the side table and pulled out a small wooden box. I held it on my lap and traced the carved wood on its lid. The box was almost as finely worked as the real item inside. “I saw this and something woke up in me. It said I had to get this, even if it made you angry.”
“Why wou
ld you think any gift you bought yourself would make me angry?”
I bit my lip and slid the lid back to reveal the dagger inside. “Because I’m going to use this against you.”
Chapter Five
Cable Beach, Nassau, Bahamas
Vincent
Andriy Mykailovych Vlasenko had the kind of quiet, unassuming manner that people underestimated until it was too late. His silver hair and heavily lined face might convince some young upstart to try to steal the throne from its aged king, which would be a mistake. Vlasenko had not only survived the worst Mother Russia had thrown at him, but also flourished into building an extensive network of businesses. Some were even legal. He had almost as many exes to his career list as Vincent: ex-soldier, ex-prison guard, and ex—Foreign Intelligence Service.
In many ways, they were evenly matched. Even in kill count. Which made Vlasenko a very dangerous man.
Puffing on his pipe, he gestured to the empty chair across from him. “You asked to speak to me?”
Vincent didn’t take the indicated seat and shook his head when Vlasenko offered him a drink. “Why am I here?”
“You would rather be where I found you?”
Vincent had first met him at prison camp 173 along the Trans-Siberian Railroad. He’d studied Russian prisons thoroughly and had been prepared for the worst, but a nearly three-year stint had never been part of the plan. “You should have just killed me.”
Vlasenko sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him with his ankles crossed. “You don’t think I tried? But you were our first American to play with in years. What started as an amusing pastime, pitting prisoners against each other gladiator-style, became something very serious when we got to you. It didn’t matter how many men we threw at you, or how many handicaps we gave you, you always came out alive. Everyone wanted a chance to be the one to take out the infamous Ghost.”
Those dark days had taken Vincent’s innate killing ability to a whole new level of monster. He’d always been able to kill with his bare hands, but facing two, three, or even as many as six opponents at the same time had elevated his ability to kill quickly with innocuous items. Like a short piece of wire he’d found in a pile of filth on the latrine floor. When he’d crawled out of that fight, bleeding but the only one alive, Vlasenko had greased the appropriate palms to get him out.
Two Cuts Darker Page 3
