Page 31 of Arranged with Twins
My phone vibrates against my ribs. It’s a text from Ilya with a single word:“Perimeter.”That’s code for potential trouble spotted by our security team. I glance around the dining room with renewed focus, noting exit routes and the positions of our people stationed throughout the restaurant.
“Leo?” Sienna follows my stare, her voice carrying new tension. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing definitive. It’s probably just Ilya being cautious.” I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, both for her comfort and to maintain our cover. “Still, we should be prepared to leave quickly if necessary.”
She nods, understanding immediately. Whatever distance exists between us in private, she’s learned to read the signs of potential danger. She tenses slightly but doesn’t pull away from my touch. I allow myself a moment to savor the feel of her soft skin against my rougher palm before shutting down that line of thought.
The past nine weeks have brought escalating pressure from Adrian’s organization. Shipments belonging to Vincent’s legitimate businesses have gone missing, always with just enough plausible deniability to avoid direct confrontation. Port Authority records show the cargo was loaded correctly, but somewhere between departure and arrival, containers disappear.
Two weeks ago, someone hit a weapons cache belonging to the Kolnaykov family. It was professional work utilizing inside information and no witnesses. The stolen guns haven’t surfaced in any of the usual markets, which means they’re being held for a specific purpose.
Adrian’s signature is all over both operations but proving it requires evidence we don’t have. He’s too smart to leave obvious trails and too careful to expose himself unnecessarily. The attacks feel like probing, as if he’s testing our responses and defenses.
Tonight’s dinner was meant to show a normal routine and demonstrate the recent pressure hasn’t affected our operations or public presence. Adrian needs to see his tactics aren’t working, and Leo Denisov remains untouchable and unworried.
“Mr. Denisov?” A waiter approaches our table, silver tray balanced in his left hand with a cocktail sitting on it. “Compliments of the gentleman at table twelve.”
I follow his gesture toward a corner table, where a man in an expensive suit raises his wine glass in our direction. He’s someone I don’t recognize, which immediately puts me on alert. Unknown faces at social gatherings require careful evaluation. “Thank you, but we’re not accepting?—”
He moves his right hand quickly, and a blade appears from beneath the linen napkin draped over his arm. The steel catches the chandelier light for a split second before he lunges forward, aiming for my chest with deadly precision.
Training takes over before conscious thought. I shove Sienna’s chair backward with enough force to send her tumbling away from the table while simultaneously throwing myself sideways to avoid the blade’s path. The knife scores across my ribs instead of finding my heart, and it tears through my dinner jacket and the shirt beneath.
The dining room erupts into chaos. Screams, breaking glass, and the crash of overturned furniture fills the air as guests scramblefor exits. I grab the attacker’s wrist to twist until I hear bones snap, and the knife clatters to the floor while he cries out in pain.
He recovers faster than I expected, throwing a wild punch that connects with my jaw hard enough to make my vision blur. I return the favor with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet before slamming him down onto our table, sending crystal and china exploding across the marble floor.
Security swarms the area within seconds, with restaurant personnel and my own people closing in from multiple directions. The fake waiter struggles beneath my grip, his face flushed and desperate as he realizes his plan has failed completely.
“Sienna?” I look around frantically until I spot her pressed against the far wall, her face pale but uninjured. Relief floods through me with surprising intensity. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, pushing off from the wall to move toward me despite the continuing chaos around us. “You’re bleeding.”
I glance down at my torn shirt, where blood seeps through the fabric along my ribs. The cut burns but doesn’t feel deep enough to be dangerous. “It’s superficial.”
Ilya appears at my elbow, his expression grim. “The exits are secure. Police areen route, but we should move before they arrive. If they want to interview you, I’d prefer we control the scenario.”
I nod in agreement. “The attacker?”
“He’s unconscious and restrained. Restaurant security is holding him for police questioning.” Ilya’s voice drops lower. “He was armed with more than just the knife. There was a guntucked in an ankle holster.” He discreetly pats his pocket, which conveys he now has possession of the gun.
I process this information while watching Sienna approach cautiously, her gaze fixed on the blood staining my shirt. The attack wasn’t random. It was planned, coordinated, and designed to be a public spectacle.
“Let’s go.” I reach for Sienna’s hand, noting how her fingers tremble slightly as they close around mine. “We’ll discuss details in the car.”
The Ritz staff efficiently clear a path to the service exit, away from the main dining room where guests and media are undoubtedly gathering. My driver waits with the engine running, Ilya having coordinated our departure while I dealt with more immediate threats.
In the back of the armored sedan, I strip off my ruined jacket and shirt while Sienna opens the first-aid kit the driver keeps stocked for exactly these situations. Her hands shake as she cleans the wound, but her focus remains steady.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” I try to reassure her, though the cut stings more than I want to admit. “He mostly just sliced through fabric and skin.”
“You could have been killed.” Her voice carries a tremor she can’t quite hide. “If you hadn’t moved when you did...”
“I did move. That’s what matters.” I catch her wrist gently as she applies antiseptic to the wound. “Sienna, look at me.”
She meets my gaze, and the fear she’s trying to hide beneath practical concern shines through. The realization that she was genuinely worried about my safety sends warmth through methat has nothing to do with the adrenaline still coursing through my system. “I’m fine. We’re both fine. That’s what counts.”
Ilya’s voice cuts through the moment from the front seat, his head bent over something on his lap. I hear a click as he ejects a magazine from the grip. “The weapon from his ankle holster is interesting. It’s the same caliber and manufacturer as the guns stolen from the Kolnaykov cache two weeks ago.”
