Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
At some point, I must have fallen asleep.
A loud banging at the door jolted me awake.
I shot up. The bed was empty.
My pulse pounded, adrenaline slamming through my veins. My breath locked in my throat.
Fuck. She’d run.
She’d fucking run again.
Then I heard her voice from the other room.
“Should I answer that?”
The tension in my body loosened, just slightly.
She stayed.
“No,” I said, already moving toward the door. “Did you order more room service?”
“No.” She was flipping through the designer clothes that had been delivered late last night. Her fingers skimming across the expensive silks and cashmeres.
I approached the door, wishing I had my gun, and peered through the peephole.
One of Gregor’s men stood on the other side, a scowl set deep into his face. I couldn’t remember his name, but I’d recognize that glare anywhere.
He was carrying a duffel bag and was armed to the teeth, at least three guns that I could see.
I opened the door just enough, keeping my body in the way, my foot wedged against it in case he tried to force his way through.
He was friendly. But I didn’t know him well enough to let him near my girl.
The man said nothing as he handed me the duffel bag. Then, without a word, he drew two guns from his shoulder holster and passed them over, grips first.
Gregor had sent up supplies. And the bag Marina stowed in the storage locker.
I should have been pissed that he retrieved it without me. But all I felt was relief. If we had the bag, there was no reason to put Marina in danger.
“Were there any issues?” I asked.
“None.”
I gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a glance before shutting the door.
As I turned around, Marina was slipping into the bathroom, a few hangers in her grip. Pity. I had enjoyed having her in just that robe. Her body within reach, one pull of the terry cloth belt away from being mine again.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she called through the door. “Just getting dressed.”
“I prefer you naked, but if that’s what you want to do.” I shrugged, smirking when I heard her suppress a laugh.
Getting dressed wasn’t the worst idea.
I went to the rack and picked a pair of slacks and a gray cashmere sweater to pull on. Comfortable. Warm. Functional. What more did clothing need to be? I told myself that was the only reason I chose it, not because I wondered if Marina liked the way I looked in cashmere.
I tucked the smaller Glock into the back of my waistband, keeping it ready. The other I set on the side table. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my leather holster. That was on the train, along with the gun that was no doubt already in security’s hands.
What was I going to do? Walk up to the station’s lost and found and ask if they happened to come across a firearm with the serial number filed off? Yeah. No, thank you.
I wasted no more time. Unzipping the duffel bag, I dumped its contents onto the table.
Stacks of cash spilled out, crisp bills fluttering in uneven piles. At first glance, it looked like a fortune. But something was off.
Why this much cash? And why in such small denominations?
This wasn’t just money.
There was something else here.
Something I wasn’t seeing.
First, the obvious.
I checked the bag itself, running my hands along every seam, feeling for hidden compartments. Nothing sewn into the lining. Nothing tucked into that stupid zipper pocket always hidden on the inside.
Nothing.
Completely empty.
“I told you,” Marina said, stepping into the room.
I glanced up and nearly lost my train of thought.
She wore jeans that hugged her ass in a way that made my mouth water, and a red sweater cut just low enough that I’d kill any man who stared too long.
“There’s nothing there,” she insisted.
“Maybe.” I forced my attention back to the task at hand, ignoring the heat pooling low in my gut.
Thumbing through the crisp blue-green stacks of thousand-ruble notes, I studied them carefully.
They looked real. They smelled real.
Still, I was meticulous, searching through each bundle, making sure nothing was hidden between the bills—no microchips, no thin slips of paper with encrypted messages.
There was an old KGB trick: bring in stacks of money just under the amount that required declaration at customs. The agents would glance at it, ask how much you were carrying. When you told them it was below the threshold, they’d wave you through. They didn’t care.
Back then, slipping something between the bills would’ve been easy. Even writing coded messages directly onto the notes.
It was old-school.
Outdated.
There were more secure, more practical ways to smuggle things into the U.S. these days.
But Solovyov’s obsession with such a small amount of money? That didn’t sit right.
I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that this was more than just cash.
“I told you,” Marina repeated, frustration creeping into her voice. “There’s nothing there. It’s just the money Veronika gave me. She told me to hold onto it.”