Page 31 of The Enemy Protector
He hands me the necklace that is essentially a panic button and a tracker. I don’t argue. If something goes sideways, I want my men to find me. I put it on.
“Happy?” I snap. I have to make it sound like I’m pissed to be wearing it.
“Nope. Happy would mean you don’t go.”
We compromise. Gregor and two others will wait outside in the SUV. Close enough to respond if things go sideways, far enough that Sokolov won’t feel like I’m disrespecting his request.
The address is a restaurant in Tribeca that’s upscale, discreet, the kind of place that caters to people who value privacy.
The hostess leads me through the main dining room to a private area in the back. I clock every exit, every person, every possible threat.
And then I see him.
Sergei Sokolov is sitting at a table near the window, backlit by the late afternoon sun. He’s bigger than I expected, not just tall, but broad through the shoulders in a way that suggests real strength, the kind that comes from use rather than vanity. Dark hair with silver at the temples, sharp jawline, and eyes that track me the moment I enter the room.
Blue eyes.
Something about them makes my breath catch, but I can't place why. For just a second, my mind reaches for something else. Something darker. Green.
I blink and it's gone.
He stands when I approach. Good manners from a man who’s probably killed more people than I’ve met in my lifetime.
And then his scent hits me like a brick wall. Familiar in a way I can't explain. I know that scent. I know I do. I reach for the memory but?—
“Miss Baranova.” His voice is deep and velvety. Very seductive for a murderer. “Thank you for coming.”
“Mr. Sokolov.” I take the seat across from him, keeping my hands visible, my posture relaxed but ready. “I have to admit, your invitation surprised me.”
“I imagine it did.” He settles back into his chair with the kind of ease that comes from never doubting you’re the most dangerous person in any room. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
He signals the server without looking away from me. The intensity of his gaze is unsettling. Not threatening, exactly, but assessing. Like he’s cataloging every detail, every micro-expression.
A whiff of his cologne hits my nose from his raised hand a moment earlier. My brain glitches. I know that smell, don’t I? But how? I fight the urge to explore that thought. Every second matters here, and I can’t get distracted.
His eyes drop to my necklace, and I swear his lips quirk. The necklace looks like any other pendant.
Does he know?
Of course he knows. He probably wears something similar. My gaze drops to his hands in search of a ring that would act as his own panic button. No rings but a lot of tattoos. There’s a refinement to him, but the standard Russian tats across his knuckles and over the back of his hands that disappear into his sleeve say otherwise.
“I’ll get to the point,” he says once the server disappears. “Someone has placed a contract on your life.”
I keep my face neutral even as my stomach drops. “I’m aware people want me dead. That’s not exactly breaking news.”
“This is different. This isn’t a hired hit or a reckless driver. This is a professional contract with a significant payout. The kind of contract that attracts serious operators.”
“Who placed it?”
“I think you know.”
Yuri. Of course it’s Yuri.
“And you’re telling me this because?” I lean back slightly, mirroring his casual posture even though my heart is hammering. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not known for my goodness.”
