Page 16 of Ruthless Love

Which is why I am once again headed to this luxury estate with an indoor and outdoor pool, tennis court, staff of eight, and baker’s kitchen whose Italian marble counter I just want to have sex on.

To do it. To break up with Dimitri. Once and for all.

Unsettled, I hope to hell the man lets me go this time. Before I cross the fine line of coveted asset to inconsequential ... to invisible.

Inside the gates of his lavish estate, I stare down a mansion teasing me with its Mediterranean influences. It’s a gorgeous solid-gold cage, custom-built for my soul.

At least I’m in my own car, I tell myself, as if that’s better.

It’s a Mercedes convertible I bought two years ago with cash—partly derived from successful investments, and partly from my fine negotiating prowess. I grip the wheel tighter, knowing that at the moment, I might not own my soul, but at least I own this. Somehow, it makes me feel better.

My foot eases on the gas, and my car rolls forward slowly as I take a long, apprehensive breath.

Next to the pristine lawn, manicured shrubs, and three-tiered fountain that’s always running, is parked a hot-as-hell classic Harley Davidson. I swallow the lump of uncertainty lodged in my throat, because if Dimitri has suddenly taken to the unbridled testosterone of American heavy metal, this breakup will be harder than I thought.

A man walks out—or rather storms out—through the massive front doors. As usual, my fiancé is making friends.

This is the time I’d normally lay low, waiting until the dust of the shitstorm settles in the wake of another pissed-off person departing the estate. But when I see that face, accompanied by that scruffy scowl and those magnetic jeans, my car door flies open.

Chapter Nine

AUSTIN

“Money’s no object,” the notorious Bratva mobster Dimitri Antonov reminds me.

When he says this to me, my ears perk up, zeroing in on his accent being distinctly central Russian. His jet-black hair and cold dark eyes are offset by an upbeat lilt in his voice that’s well trained to be both pretentious and enticing. I suppose even venomous reptiles have access to charm school.

“An unlimited budget,” he says, “and you have free rein to do whatever you want.”

Underwhelmed, I glance around, careful to avoid insulting the man outright by an obvious eye roll that could get me shot. Instead, I take a loose interest in studying the details of his home.

Between the gold accents on every inch of his residence and the confused mixture of modern and gothic designs, the whole place is a testament to bad taste. And that’s coming from a man who’s got half his shit in cardboard boxes.

I have no idea why I’m even here, having made the near hour-long drive to satiate my need to know. And I do need to know, as do all the operatives who’ve had their paths darkened by the man.

His name is one of a dozen from a not too distant past that should stay buried. At least, that was the assurance I was given. My tracks weren’t covered. They were burned beyond recognition, washing all traces of my existence from a mission that just won’t end.

Could this be a trap? Sure. And I’m the idiot mouse staring down a big fucker of a piece of cheese, thinking I’m faster than the deadly hinge that will snap my neck.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s snapped, letting a heavy cloud of paranoia suffocate me in conspiracies and international plots where none exist. Anything’s possible. Because when notorious Bratva mobsters lure ex-operatives to their death, they do it with a mild handshake and a warm smile, and say shit like, “Come be my architect.”

Architect is a stretch, but one I’m comfortable assuming with my background in construction. And Coop doesn’t mind that the only commercial street cred I’ve got in construction is his building. Yet, somehow I’m now front and center as someone with the chops to redesign this guy’s McMansion.

Unsettled, I laugh, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in both options. It’s a trap and I’m off my rocker.

Already exhausted, I pull in a breath, ready to move on with my day. I’m only here because, as usual, Maverick managed to lure me.

Oblivious to my disinterest, Dimitri keeps going. “Seriously, the sky’s the limit. Name your price.”

“Well,” I say slowly, leading him through one of several scripts I’ve practiced in my head. “Residential’s not exactly my specialty. My work’s all commercial.”

“Yes, but I’ve seen your building. Brilliant.”

I take the compliment because despite his piss-poor taste, the man’s not wrong. Busting my ass fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, has given me a standout monument on the Dallas skyline covered in my fingerprints. It’s also given me an excuse to keep going when my heart felt a million miles away.

Feels a million miles away.

“Thanks, but as I said, I’m—”

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