CHAPTER FOUR:

IRINA VOLKOV

The wine was excellent. Probably worth more than everything I owned. I took a small sip of my wine and set the glass down, hyperaware of every movement, every gesture. One fucking wrong move, one slip in my performance, and this could all fall apart.

"You look nervous," Damien observed. Not accusatory. Just... observant.

"A little," I admitted, because Anastasia would be nervous. "I'm not usually good at first meetings. I'm much better behind a screen."

Nice one Irina.

“I understand.” He leaned back, and something about the movement was graceful, almost predatory. “Same here. But I actually wanted to meet you. I’ve thought about you all the time since we started talking. Do you know what that is like? To have someone occupy your thoughts one hundred percent?”

Yes. I mean I do. Because despite everything, despite all the lies, despite the scam, despite knowing this was supposed to be purely transactional. I had thought about him. More than I should have.

“I think about you,” I said softly, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Something flickered in his eye. Satisfaction? Pride? But it was gone too quickly for me to identify.

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. I barely registered what I asked for, some kind of fish, I thought. My mind was too busy analyzing Damien, searching for weaknesses, for cracks in his polished exterior.

But he gave me nothing. Every movement was controlled. Every word carefully chosen. He asked about my work, my dreams, my favorite books, all the conversations we’d had before, but now in person, with his intense gaze fixed on my face.

I answered as Anastasia would. Charming, slightly vulnerable, grateful for his attention. It was a role I'd played a hundred times before.

So why did it feel different this time?

Halfway through dinner, he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

"The investment," he said, sliding it across the table. "Three hundred thousand euros, as promised. I've already had my lawyers draw up the partnership papers. All you need to do is sign."

Really?

My hand trembled slightly as I took the envelope. Inside were official-looking documents and a certified bank check made out to Anastasia Sokolova.

Three hundred thousand euros.

Damn. F for Freedom.

I looked up at him, and for just a second, I saw something in his expression that made my blood run cold. Not kindness. Not attraction.

Recognition.

My brain screamed danger. I needed to make a move quickly. Disappear into thin air with my money.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice perfectly pleasant.

"No," I said quickly. "No, this is... this is incredibly generous, Damien. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "After all, what's mine is yours now. Isn't that how partnerships work?"

Something about the way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Irina Volkov, time up. Time to go.

But the check was real. The money was real.

I tucked the envelope into her clutch and forced myself to relax. I was being paranoid. This was just a normal dinner with a lonely businessman who'd been foolish enough to fall for my scam.

In an hour, I'd walk out of here, cash the check, and disappear forever.

But with the way he was staring at me right now, it was like Damien Romanov had no intention of letting me walk out at all.

Dessert arrived. Some elaborate confection involving gold leaf and raspberry coulis. But I barely tasted it. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to leave. To take the money and run.

But silly me stood still.

Damien was watching me with those ice-blue eyes, and something about his gaze made it impossible to move. Like a rabbit frozen in the sight of a wolf.

“You’re quiet,” he observed, setting down his fork. “You have second thoughts about the partnership?”

Huh?

“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all. I’m just…overwhelmed. This is very generous of you.”

“You deserve it.” H e leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “You’ve been with me for these past few months. Been there. Listening. Understanding a lonely businessman like me. Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who truly sees you?”

Guilt building. I pushed it down ruthlessly. This is not the time to feel guilty. Not now. Not when my freedom was literally sitting pretty in my clutch bag.

“I feel the same way,” The foolish, stupid part of me meant it.

Damien's smile was slow, satisfied. "Good. Because I have a plan for you."

My pulse quickened. "A plan?"

"Come back to my apartment. Just for a drink. I'd like to show you the view from my place, it's quite spectacular. And we can discuss the investment in more detail." He paused. "Unless you have other plans?"

Every alarm bell in my head went off at once.

Rule number Five: Never go to a target's home. Always keep meetings public.

Always maintain an exit strategy.

CHAPTER FIVE:

IRINA VOLKOV

But I had the check. The money was already mine. What harm could one drink do? And if I refused, if I seemed too eager to leave, it might raise suspicions.

This is risky and fucking dangerous.

Besides, there was something in his eyes. A challenge. Like he knew I wanted to refuse and was daring me to do it.

I made my decision. One drink. Thirty minutes. Then I will excuse herself, go straight to the airport, and be in Prague by morning.

Okay, sounds perfect.

"I'd love to," I said, releasing a smile. "That sounds wonderful."

"Excellent." Damien signaled for the check. "My car is outside."

The check came and went, I didn't even see how much it was, though I caught a glimpse of several zeros. Damien paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with the ease of someone who never had to think about money.

Then we were standing, his hand warm on the small of my back as he guided me through the restaurant. The two security guards fell into step behind us, silent as shadows.

Outside, the Moscow night was cold and clear. A black Mercedes waited at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights. The driver, another suited, dangerous-looking man opened the back door.

Damien helped me inside with a gentlemanly courtesy that would have been charming if my instincts weren't screaming for me to fucking run.

The interior of the car was luxurious. Leather seats, tinted windows, a partition between the front and back. Damien slid in beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Masculine. Oddly intoxicating.

The guards got into a second car behind us

Okay, in case you don't know yet-I'm scared.

"Where do you live?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

"Ostozhenka. Near the cathedral." He smiled. "Very quiet. Very private."

Ah. Ostozhenka. One of Moscow's most exclusive neighborhoods. Of course.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. I spent it making small talk, playing the role of Anastasia, while my mind raced through contingency plans. The car turned onto a tree-lined street and pulled up to a modern building that was all glass and steel.

A doorman appeared immediately, opening the car door. Damien helped me out, his hand once again on my back, proprietary and warm. Seems like he has a thing for backs. Or maybe he's just being a gentleman. A dangerous gentleman.

The lobby was pristine. Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by yet another serious-looking man in a suit. He nodded at Damien with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

It's not too late to turn back, right? I mean I can just tell him I have somewhere to go-someone to meet at the moment.

I just need to come up with a lie, right?

We rode the elevator to the top floor in silence. The guards stayed in the lobby, I noticed that and breathe out in relief. Just me and dangerous Damien, rising through the building like we were ascending to some private kingdom.

The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

I stepped out and froze.

Okay,

The penthouse was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city, Moscow spread out like a glittering jewel box. The space was enormous, open plan living area, sleek modern furniture, art that probably cost more than I'd made in my entire life of scamming.

This wasn't the home of an import-export businessman. No, no, no.

This was the home of someone with serious money. Serious power.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Damien's voice came from behind me, close enough that I felt his breath on my neck.

"It's beautiful," I managed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Make yourself comfortable." He moved to a bar area, pulling out two crystal glasses. "Vodka? Wine? Whiskey?"

"Wine is fine," I said, perching on the edge of a leather sofa that probably cost more than a car.

This guy is rich-wealthy. Fucking wealthy.

I watched him pour, my muscles coiled tight, ready to She watched him pour, her muscles coiled tight, ready to run. The elevator required a key card to operate. I'd seen him use it. Which meant I was trapped up here unless he let me leave.

Okay, calm down, I told myself. You're being paranoid. This is just a drink. Thirty minutes and you're gone.

Damien returned with two glasses of white wine and sat down beside me. Not across from me, beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.

Breathe, girl.

"To partnership," he said, raising his glass.

"To partnership," I echoed, taking a small sip.

For a moment, we sat in silence. The view really was spectacular. Moscow glittered below them like a universe of stars. It was easy to see why someone with this much money, this much power, might feel like a god looking down on mortals.

And here I was, willingly walked into the beast's belly.

"Can I ask you something, Anastasia?"

The way he said my name. My fake name. Made something cold slither down my spine.

"Of course," I said.

"What's your real name?"

My.... heart stopped.

"I... what?" I forced a confused laugh. "Damien, my name is Anastasia. I don't understand...."

"Your real name." His voice was still pleasant, conversational, but there was steel underneath now. "The one your mother gave you. The one on your actual passport, not the fake one you're planning to use at the airport tonight."

The world tilted. Busted.

CHAPTER SIX

IRINA VOLKOV

I set down my wine glass carefully, my hand shaking. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He knows me. Fuck he does.

Who is he? One of Sergei's men? No....Damien has this power and money aura than Sergei's.

So who the fuck is he?

"Don't you?" Damien....no, not Damien, whoever the hell he really was, leaned back, completely relaxed. "Let me help you remember. Your name is Irina Volkov. You're twenty-four years old. You live in apartment 412 in Tekstilshchiki, though I suspect you won't be going back there. Your stepfather is Viktor Volkov, a gambling addict who transferred his debts to you before you ran away two years ago. Five hundred thousand dollars. You've been paying it off slowly by running romance scams. I'm your seventh target this year, though you had others before. Should I continue?"

Jesus christ!

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room spun around me.

He knew. He knew everything.

"How..." My voice came out as a whisper. "How long have you known?"

"From the beginning." His smile was cold, predatory. "I knew before you sent me that first message. In fact, I made sure you'd find my profile. You're good, Irina. I'll give you that. Very good. But I'm better."

"Who are you?" The question came out broken, desperate.

"My name is Nikolai Dragunov." He looked at me carefully, and whatever he saw on my face there made him smile wider. "I see you recognize it."

Fuckity, fuck fuck fuck.

I did recognize it. Everyone in Moscow who had even a passing knowledge of the underworld knew that name.

Nikolai Dragunov. The Winter King. Pakhan of the Dragunov Bratva, one of the most powerful criminal organizations in Russia.

I scammed a mafia boss.

Irina, how can you be so careless? God, I'm so dead. Utterly, completely dead.

"Please," I whispered, and I hated how my voice shook. "Please, I'll give the money back. All of it. I'll ....."

"I don't want the money."

I looked at him, confusion cutting through her terror. "You... you don't?"

"Four hundred and sixty-three thousand dollars means nothing to me." Nikolai set down his own glass and turned to face me fully. "Do you know how much money I control? How much power? Four hundred thousand is what I spend on suits in a year. The money was never the point."

"Then... then what do you want?" But even as I asked, I knew. The way he looked at me. The way he'd been looking at me all night.

Me.

The con artist.

"You." The word was simple. Final. "You interest me, Irina Volkov. You're intelligent. Resourceful. Fearless enough to con dangerous men. You've survived things that would have broken most people. And for three months, you've given me the most honest conversations I've had in years. Even though every word out of your mouth was a lie."

He leaned closer, and I found myself frozen, unable to move away.

"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay here. With me. You're not going to the airport. You're not going to Prague. You're not going anywhere."

"You can't..." I stood up abruptly, panic flooding my system. "You can't keep me here. That's....that's kidnapping!"

"Is it?" Nikolai stood as well, and suddenly the space between us felt very small. "You came here willingly. You took my money. You're in my home. Who exactly are you going to report this to? The police?" He laughed, a cold sound. "Half of them are on my payroll."

"Let me go." I tried to sound firm, commanding, but it came out as a plea. "Please. I'll disappear. You'll never hear from me again."

Yes, I promise. It's high time I repent. God, please, just let me escape.

"I know I won't. Because you're not leaving." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture oddly tender. "You took my money, malyshka. Now you belong to me."

"I don't belong to anyone." I jerked away from his touch, fury cutting through my fear. "I'm not some object you can own."

"No," he agreed. "You're much more interesting than an object. You're a puzzle. A challenge. And I haven't been challenged in a very long time."

I backed toward the elevator, my mind racing. I needed to get out. Needed to run. But Nikolai just watched me with those cold eyes, making no move to stop me.

I reached the elevator and jabbed the button. Nothing happened.

I'm in trouble.

"It requires my keycard," Nikolai said calmly. "Or my fingerprint. This entire floor is locked down. The only way out is if I let you leave."

Son of a bitch.

"You bastard." The words tore out of me. "You set this whole thing up. From the beginning, this was a trap."

"Yes," he said simply. "Did you really think you could con me? That I wouldn't notice the inconsistencies in your story? That I wouldn't have you investigated? Irina, I've been hunting you since you scammed one of my associates six months ago. Creating the Damien Romanov profile was easy. Getting you to take the bait was even easier."

"So this was all..." I couldn't finish the sentence. The conversations. The late-night messages. The moment I'd felt a connection, something real. It had all been manipulation. He'd been playing me the entire time.

God, how did i not notice? What did i miss for me to make such a huge mistake like this?

"Not all of it." Nikolai moved closer, and this time when I backed up, I hit the wall. He placed one hand on either side of my head, caging me in. "The conversations were real. My interest in you is real. This..." His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. "This is very real."

"I hate you," I whispered.

"I know." He smiled, and it was the first genuine smile I'd seen from him. "But you'll get over it."

"How long are you planning to keep me here?" My voice shook with rage and fear in equal measure.

"As long as it takes."

"As long as it takes for what?"

His eyes softened slightly, and somehow that was more terrifying than his coldness had been. "For you to understand that you're safer with me than you've been in years. For you to realize that I'm not your enemy. For you to stop running."

"You're insane."

"Perhaps." He pushed away from the wall, giving me space to breathe. "But I'm also the only person who can protect you from Sergei's men. You think I didn't know they found your apartment yesterday? That they're looking for you right now?"

My blood ran cold. "How do you..."

"I know everything, Irina. I've known for months. I know about the debt. I know about Viktor. I know you're thirty-seven thousand short of paying it off. I know Sergei is losing patience. I know that if you try to run, he'll find you within a week and kill you."

He moved to the window, looking out at the glittering city. "But they can't touch you here. They can't even find you here. As long as you're with me, you're untouchable."

"So what, you're my savior now?" Bitterness laced every of my word. "My white knight?"

"No." He turned back to face me. "I'm many things, Irina, but a white knight isn't one of them. I'm a criminal. A murderer. I've done things that would give you nightmares. But I'm also the only person who can keep you alive."

"Why?" The question came out broken. "Why do you even care? If this is about the money..."

"It was never about the money." He crossed the space between us in three long strides. "It's about you. You fascinate me. You infuriate me. You made me feel something other than cold calculation for the first time in years. So no, I'm not letting you go. Not now. Maybe not ever."

I stared at him, this stranger who knew everything about me, who'd orchestrated this entire nightmare, who was simultaneously offering me protection and imprisonment.

"You're a monster," I said quietly.

"Yes." No denial. No justification. "But I'm your monster now."