Page 149 of Sin & Sapphire

For now.

My bodyguard, soon to be my jailor, opened the door of the penthouse suite for me, gesturing for me to enter. All these fucking mafiosos were the same. Luxury after luxury after luxury, with nary a thought to the cost.

Not that I was any better. No. Not that Ihad beenany better, until Tchérnov’s son raped me, and I had to learn to live on scraps to survive.

And I had. For three weeks.

I might be a spoiled princess, but I’d blown up this asshole’s yacht and lived to tell the tale.

“Ana Maria Costa. Twenty-six years old. Master’s degree in Quantitative Finance. Slut to Angelo Costa and Valentin Rochefort. And possibly Luca Russo, if the rumors are true. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Like the villain in a movie, Boris Tchérnov sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, his face hidden by shadow.

“I’m here to offer myself in marriage in exchange for the release of Fatimata Rochefort and Enrico Costa.”

I let the words sink to the floor like deflated balloons, flat and dour. Silence was a weapon when men liked to talk.

Boris leaned forward in his seat, revealing his face. I’d never met him face to face, but I could see the resemblance to his son. He was handsome—stunning blue eyes the color of a summer sky, tan skin, silver hair, a close-cropped beard that faded into tattoos on his neck, and a scar that ran down the left side of his face, from above his eyebrow down through his lip.

The scar did nothing to detract from his ice-cold beauty.

“Not beating around the bush, are you?”

I gestured to him. “You could have said hello, asked me how I was. Instead, you asked me why I was here. So I told you.”

Tchérnov cocked his head like a cat weighing whether he was ready to pounce on his prey. I suppressed a fearful shiver but couldn’t stop the goosebumps from spreading down my arms. He wasnothinglike his son, and I was a fool for underestimating him.

Grégoire was an abusive idiot. Boris was dangerous.Shit shit shit shit shit.Had I made the biggest mistake of my life?

When his lips turned up with amusement, relief rushed through me. “Ivan,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Tea for Miss Costa, vodka for me.”

One of the men who’d escorted me in turned on a kettle and puttered around in the kitchen, pulling accoutrements out of cabinets. The domesticity of the scene rendered me silent.

“Your life for theirs, is that right?” he asked, his accent not quite Russian, not quite French.

“My hand in marriage for their lives,” I corrected.

His cruel smile sent another shiver racing up my spine. “The mouse has come to negotiate with the lion and thinks she can set the terms?”

“You won’t have access to the Costa empire if I’m dead.”

“I won’t have access to it anyway. It belongs to Angelo.”

“It belongs tome, and then my future husband.”

Boris’s laugh was unkind, his mockery cutting at each and every one of my insecurities. “Sure, princess.”

Regret cut through me, that I’d never hear Valentin use that endearment toward me again. I steeled my spine. “My name is Ana.”

Boris tilted his lips down in a frown, then laughed quietly. “Bon, Ana, you think you can bring me your father’s empire?”

Would they follow him, even if marriage to me gave him the legal right to my inheritance? No. Did it matter? Also no. “Yes.”

He looked me up and down, from my kitten heels to my knees, to my hips and stomach, to my chest, to my face—assessing me, not sexualizing me, to my shock and surprise.

“Angelo Costa murdered my son,” he said, his voice no less dangerous for his softness.

“Your son raped me,” I snarled.

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