Page 28 of Sweet Animosity

“I told you. I wasn’t here to kill you, and I didn’t kill the bastard, but an unhinged Southside gang did. It’s only a matter of time before they learn about you. You’re in danger. You’ll be safer out of the country for a few weeks.”

My lips thinned. “And fucking me?”

His head tilted as he stared at me. “That was just a farewell bonus.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“So you’ve told me. If you’re not going to change, we really need to get going. Your flight leaves soon. Where is your passport?”

Despite my strenuous objections, I somehow found myself sitting in the passenger seat of his car, parked outside the international terminal at O’Hare airport.

They were so skittish about bombs that usually a person couldn’t so much as pause here without a police officer coming up and threatening federal prison. But one after another they approached the car and the moment they caught sight of Varlaam, they tipped their hat and moved on.

Who the hell was this Russian?

He handed me a printout of my ticket.

First class to Italy.

At least he wasn’t cheap.

He leaned his arm along the backseat of the car. “I’ll come and find you in a few weeks. In the meantime, find yourself a nice hotel and lie low. If you have any issues, in the duffel bag there is the contact information for Benedict Cavalieri on another piece of paper. He’ll be able to help until I get there.”

I stared at the ticket printout. Without looking up, I asked, “Find me? Why would you want to do that?”

He grasped my chin and forced me to look at him. “Because I’m not done with you.”

“What if I don’t want to be found?”

His thumb stroked my bottom lip. “I’ll find you anyway and convince you otherwise.”

He’d taken my cellphone and told me my bank accounts and credit cards had been closed to avoid anyone tracking me. I couldn’t see how he’d find me, even if he wasn’t lying and wanted to.

Without saying another word, I got out of the car.

He followed.

Popping the trunk, he grabbed my suitcase.

A porter appeared out of nowhere to take it from him.

He stepped close, pushing me against the warm metal of the car. “Kiss me.”

“Mr. Rubashkin?—”

“Var.”

“What?”

“Call me Var.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Do it anyway.”

I sighed. “Fine, Var. I?—”

His hand wrapped around my neck and pulled me close as his lips claimed mine. As with everything, he dominated and controlled. Taking and tasting. Stealing my breath away.

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