Page 48 of The Crimson Lily
Am I going to get briefed?
Doubt spreads through my veins. A thought, an idea, a glimpse of my near future flashes before my eyes. Where am I going? Why aren’t I allowed to see? What if they’re going to kill me? I’m getting scared. My breathing increases. My eyes widen and dry up. My palms feel too warm. I pull my sleeves over my hands to hide any fear, but it becomes too much for me to bear.
My eyes search for Maksim’s next to me.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, and my voice breaks.
He doesn’t answer. I panic. The car starts up. I try to open the door frantically, desperately looking for a way to escape. I’mgoing to die. I’m no longer necessary. I let the mission fail. I’m going to die.
“Calm down, Liliana,” he orders.
I try to look through the black windows—nothing. I turn to him instantly. “You’re going to kill me!” I exclaim, out of breath.
He catches a grip of my wrist, then of my arm, then of my shoulders. He pulls me toward him, almost covering me underneath him, his thumbs pushing into my skin. I feel smothered.
“I’m not going to kill you!” he shouts and loosens his grip.
“Well…” I murmur. “Someone is.”
He leans in and takes my lips. It’s a long and soft kiss, like he missed my lips and wants to take his time tasting them again. My body relaxes, and he eventually lets go of his grip.
“Where am I going, Maksim?” I ask and bite my lip.
He kisses me again. I recover enough energy to latch on to his neck and return his kiss with all the passion I can offer him. His hands make their way down my body and, as he still holds my lips prisoner, he pulls my jeans down and slips a hand between my thighs. Maksim wants to calm me down, and I guess pleasuring me is one way to do it.
“Come for me,” he commands. “I missed how you sound.”
That’s my cue. Just by the sound of his voice, his words ordering me to surrender an orgasm to him, I feel the blaze invade my bones. He crawls down on me and finishes me with his tongue. His hand no longer covers my mouth, and I let out a strident moan. My scream is so loud, I’m worried Vladimir II hears me.
He lets me recover and slithers back on top of me. He kisses me again, sending a wave of emotions through his tantalizing lips.
“Nobody is going to kill you, Liliana,” he concedes after freeing me and letting me readjust my jeans again. “You’re too important.”
I take him in my arms right after and hold him close. I don’t want to let him loose, but the car stops, and I am forced to.
“Don’t let me go again, please,” I urge, not controlling the things I’m saying anymore.
“I won’t,” he retorts.
Two men open the door and put a bag over my face.
It’s even prettier from up close. I stand there, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower on the Champ de Mars, admiring the thousand little sparkles of a Parisian evening. I cross my arms and look up, meeting eyes with the tower’s beam.
I guess congratulations are in order—I am part of the Bratva now.
Or, at least, I am an informant under their protection—such is the deal I just made after the long and intense briefing with an actual Vladimir Morozov, brigadier of the Parisian Bratva, in an abandoned warehouse somewhere I didn’t know. I traded Bratva protection against the hunting of my boss and the Kinzhal Strastey. They are convinced thatIam their only way to William de Loit. However, things have to wait for now. People higher up need to move things around or who knows what. Vladimir didn’t seem to know about the Syndicate. I saw it in his gray eyes, the look of wonder. This puzzle definitely doesn’t elude only me.
Hence, here I am, stargazing, lost in this beautiful sight. He catches my attention with a caress of my lower back.
“Ice cream?” Maksim says with a smile, handing me a cone with the biggest chocolate scoop ever.
I hesitate and accept it. “Thank you!” I say, biting into it like I forgot how to eat ice cream. I haven’t, though—I’ve alwayseaten it like that. This is why I always end up with chocolate all over my face. This is also why I never order ice cream on dates, usually.
He offers me a napkin and a chuckle. I wipe my entire face…and bite into the ice cream again.
“I guess I missed my flight,” I say wistfully, still wiping my face.
It’s sometime after 8 p.m. Many people are still amassed on the Champ de Mars, all appreciating the view, enjoying the Parisian life with a sneaky bottle of cheap wine or a crêpe or ice cream. Maksim is beside me, silent, casting curious glances at me, possibly to observe the mess I’m making with that leaky chocolate.
