Page 9 of Brazen King

He’s not wrong, and though that’s all he had to say on the matter, I know he’s thinking about Boris’s secret weapon. Butthe jury’s still out on whether his faceless spy and assassin of unmatched skill is even a real person. I think they’re just rumors stirred up to make the Sokolovs seem that much more untouchable.

Still, I can’t deny the proof. Boris is considerably older than the other New York patriarchs who could threaten his reign. And it’s been years since anyone’s eventriedto step forward and challenge him…

Not that I have anything to worry about. This place is locked down like Fort Knox, and trying to get past Lance or my guards anywhere else around town is a laughable idea. Boris’s assassin would have to be a phantom to get to me.

Tossing my dress shirt in the hamper, I quickly follow it with my undershirt, then head back into my bedroom to finish off my Redbreast.

The twenty-seven-year Irish whiskey goes down smooth, even neat, and I suck in a breath as I set the tumbler back on my dresser, releasing an audible sigh of appreciation.

Then I frown.

Something about my room is different.

Different from just moments before.

Turning slowly, I scan the spacious room. The empty bed with crisp, clean sheets. The armoire, the reading chair and dresser beside me.

Then my eyes flick to the sliding door that opens onto my patio.

It’s unlocked and—if I’m not mistaken—ever-so-slightly ajar.

The flash of movement comes so suddenly, I have no time to react beyond instinct.

And as a blade flashes in the golden light of my reading lamp, I bring my forearm up to block it.

“Bloody hell,” I gasp as the tip just barely nicks my skin.

But I have no time to think about that. Because my attacker is already on the move. Dressed head to toe in a skintight black bodysuit, he’s lean and lithe—and a full head and shoulders shorter than I am.

Still, he’sfast.

All I can see of the knife-wielding aggressor is the eyes in the open panel of his black ski mask. But his nose and mouth are completely covered, making him look as much like a ninja as his flawless movements do.

And after I manage to block the first attempt to stab me, he brings his other hand across my midriff as if to disembowel me.

I jump back, barely managing to avoid the blade in his other hand.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand, swatting away a third and fourth attempt to cut me because this person means business.

So much so, he doesn’t even bother answering me.

It’s a good thing Lance and I spar daily. Otherwise, I’d already be dead.

As it is, my attacker has me on the defensive. I’m barely fast enough to step out of range before he makes his next sweeping attack. Blades held expertly in each hand, he shifts tactics as he slashes and stabs, stabs and slashes in rapid, almost-unending succession.

And just when I manage to get a sense of his rhythm, he scoops low, transitioning into a sweeping kick that slams me back against my armoire.

“Damn,” I grunt as the heavy piece of furniture rocks back on its base.

But the aggressive strike to my midsection also gave me just enough space to regain my balance. So as the assassin springs forward, coming at me for a fresh wave of attacks, I quickly unbuckle my belt and yank it free of my belt loops.

The sharp gray eyes of my attacker flash down to see what I’m doing. And in my moment of vulnerability, he slashes out, opening a long, shallow cut across my bare chest.

“Alright, asshole. Playtime’s over,” I growl, wrapping my wide leather belt around one hand and gripping the buckle loosely in the other.

Sinking into a defensive stance, I get lower to ground myself.

I don’t know how this guy got in here, but he must be good if he managed to get past the front gate and all my on-duty guards. It’s time to take this fight seriously.

---