Page 4 of Victor's Lethal Desire
I should stretch. Do some yoga or something to pass the time so I can hurry up and do what I need to do and get the hell out of this place.
The last time I was in this country... I close my eyes and just like that, the arrogant smile of Victor Ionescu pops into my head.
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Of course he's the first thing my brain conjures when I think about Romania. Not any other time I've been here, or even why I'm here.
I could be thinking about the routes I'm going to take or the clean shot I'll need to make. Even the logistics of getting his hard drive that Ivan wants.
No.
It's Victor fucking Ionescu.
I open my eyes and glare at the ceiling.
He's not even worth the mental space. He's a politician playing at being dangerous, a man who relies on expensive suits and a charming smile to mask the fact that he has no real tactical skill. He walked into that house in the countryside like he owned it, like his name alone was enough to protect him.
And then he tried to sweet-talk his way out of it, so I stabbed him for it.
I laugh to myself, the sound lightly echoing in the empty room.
He let himself get stabbed. Let me get close enough to slide a knife between his ribs because he was too busy running his mouth to pay attention to my hands. Too confident, arrogant, and egotistical.
He's an amateur pretending to be a player, and the only reason he's still breathing is because I chose to let him live.
I pick up my fork again and stab another piece of lettuce, the prongs hitting the table underneath.
He was out of his depth. Completely. Like he really thought sheer size would be enough to stop me. The way he looked at me, all cool and calculated with his so-called sharp intelligence, as if he could outwit me in a fight.
Please.
I've taken down men twice his size with half the effort. I've fought highly trained military operatives from five countries in close quarters at one time or another and walked away without a scratch. Victor Ionescu, for all his tailored suits and political maneuvering, is nothing more than a nuisance.
A distraction.
A complication I don't need.
I chew slowly, forcing myself to focus on the sound of my own breathing. I cannot afford to be distracted by a pretty boy who thinks he's more dangerous than he actually is.
Because that's all he is.
Pretty.
And actually, kind of annoying.
And absolutely, completely out of his league.
I set my fork down and drain the last of my water, the plastic bottle crinkling in my hand.
Just because I'm back here doesn't mean he needs to occupy my thoughts. This is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed. Victor is nothing. He's a man who got lucky enough to survive an encounter he had no business being in.
And yet.
I lean forward, my fingers drumming against the table.
He's still alive.
I could have killed him. Should have killed him. The Volkovs would have one less problem to worry about. But I didn't. I let him live, and I've spent the past two weeks trying to figure out why.
