Page 47 of The Wrong Brother

I almost laugh. “What an insane thing for you to say.”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “Perhaps.”

“You’ve spent the last week threatening people. Including me.”

“Only people who deserve it.”

I stare at him, a brow raised. He stares right back. The confidence in his expression should irritate me, but it actually loosens something in my chest. Just a little bit.

“I don’t think you understand,” I admit quietly. The words slip out before I can stop them. “I really didn’t want to come back here.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Is thereanychance that a criminal like him can feel remorse? Guilt for dragging me back? Not that he has any idea what kind of mess my life was before my “vacation” in California. The contract we both sign keeps him from digging.

“I understand more than you think,” he says softly, and something twists his features. I almost recognize it. It’s the kindof longing that sits heavy in my gut, the homelessness that follows everywhere I go. But Ruslan seems so confident, so in control of this empire he built on the west coast. Why would coming back here make him feelless?

Outside, Denver grows closer. The runway appears in the distance, and my pulse speeds up again. To top all this off, I’ve never been great at flying.

Ruslan reaches across the space between us and closes his hand around mine.

The gesture catches me completely off guard. His touch is warm and steady. His thumb brushes once against my knuckles.

“I will keep you safe.”

He says it like he’s making a promise. I’ve known men like Ruslan Smirnov, even if only from afar. And the most dangerous thing about them is that they keep their promises.

For one brief, dangerous moment, I want to believe him.

The wheels drop beneath the aircraft, and the city rushes upward. Every rational instinct tells me I should be terrified of trusting a man like Ruslan, but I feel better anyway. Which may be the most frightening thing of all.

* * *

By the time we arrive at the hotel downtown, my nerves are shredded. All I want is to bleed into the late afternoon shadows, between the alleys, but Ruslan seems dead set on making it known that we’re here. The hotel is huge and luxurious. He’s chosen the Four Seasons.

The lobby is full of hanging globe lights reflecting off a wall of mirrors, against a dark caramel backdrop. It’s warm and inviting, and Ruslan strides in like he isn’t a prodigal son returning for vengeance.

A small entourage follows us. A young woman, a few years younger than me, meek but strong, leads the way with our luggage. Stepan, disappearing off to the side. I wonder if he’ll be more comfortable sleeping out on a park bench, or on a ledge of the building.

There’s no way anyone recognizes Ruslan. Not if what I’ve gleaned (that he hasn’t been to Colorado for a decade) is true. But people naturally defer to him; it’s noticeable.

A manager escorts us toward the elevators while explaining the spa, the pool, and the dining arrangements we can make. Security spreads subtly around the lobby without appearing obvious about it; three men peeling off from Stepan’s watchful eye.

I hate that I really do feel safe, even though I’ve been practically dragged here against my will. Hunted down.

In the elevator, silence stretches tautly between us. Finally, I say quietly, “Money laundering.”

His eyes lift slowly. There’s no point pretending I didn’t overhear. “Yes.”

The directness catches me off guard anyway.

“You just openly admit criminal activity now?”

“You already know I’m a criminal. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who will make the mistake of giving me up to the government, Emma.”

He has no idea.

The elevator doors slide open onto the 44th floor. Only three doors line the hallway. Ruslan pulls two cards from his pocket and hands me one. I half-turn away from him as he flashes his to the door marked 442, and my eyes drop to mine.

442.