Nothing in her body language even remotely communicated distress, though she was standing a hand’s span from a monster. She hadn’t learned to recognize what he was because monsters hadn’t been a part of her life. She thought Worontzoff was human.

She sure as hell wouldn’t smile up at him if she knew half the things he was capable of.

Then the fucker reached out an arm and put it around Charity’s shoulders and her smile widened. Worontzoff bent down to whisper in her ear and Charity’s bright laugh rose clearly in the air, audible all the way across the room.

Every cell in Nick’s body screamed and jangled. He had to actually stop and take a breath, because what he wanted to do was to rush forward, break Worontzoff’s arm, throw Charity over his shoulder, and get out of there, just as fast as was humanly possible.

His entire system buzzed with the need to get Charity out. Hand reaching for a gun that he couldn’t use, adrenaline flooding his body with no outlet possible.

Usually, his hunches were fairly subtle—a vague feeling that he should zig instead of zag. But there was nothing subtle about this. This was full out red alert, the siren in the submarine booming remorselessly just before the incoming torpedo hits.

Part of it was jealousy, of course. Two hours ago, he’d painted kisses across Charity’s shoulders, right where Worontzoff had his arm. That pretty breast pressing against the jacket of Worontzoff’s tux—he’d kissed it and suckled it so often he felt like he owned it.

So, yeah. He was jealous. Jealousy wasn’t anything he’d ever felt before, so it took him a second to recognize it.

He hated another man’s hands on her, another man making her laugh, another man inside her space.

But it was more than jealousy. There was terror bubbling right underneath, sharp and electric. Worontzoff was obsessed with her, with the woman who could have been his Katya reborn.

But it was make-believe. Charity only looked like Katya. She was another woman entirely and when Worontzoff finally figured that out—that his Katya was forever dead and Charity could never take her place—God only knew what kind of revenge he would take.

Worontzoff moved. Nick’s whole system jolted, another layer of sweaty fear added to the mix. Worontzoff had shifted so he could come closer to Charity, in profile to Nick. Who could now clearly see what had been hidden before.

A hard-on. The fucker had a hard-on. It was lightly hidden by his jacket but it was unmistakable. Thank God Charity didn’t notice anything, smiling upward into Worontzoff’s face, chattering away. Knowing her, she was talking about a good book she’d read, the upcoming concert, her garden. She was clueless.

Clueless people ended up dead around monsters, and they died badly. Charity’s pretty head was filled with literature and music, love for her aunt and uncle, and kindness toward her friends. She had no idea what the outside world was like. She had no idea that the man she was probably discussing concerto movements with could have her strung up on a meat hook, as one of the women who’d testified against Worontzoff’s proxy in Belgrade, Milic, had been.

Nick was the one who’d lifted the woman off the hook and down to the floor. The man who ran that prostitution ring answered directly to Worontzoff.

When Worontzoff’s madness ebbed, when he finally realized that Charity really and truly wasn’t his Katya come back to life, but a nice little American librarian, his revenge would be swift and terrifying.

Nick’s feverish imagination could conjure up any number of horrifying scenarios. Someone might lift Charity’s body off a butcher’s hook one day.

The thought drove him crazy wild, made his whole system buzz with terror, made his heart thud.

He wouldn’t be there to protect her. One way or another, he’d be gone soon, leaving Charity staked out like a lamb for the wolves. There would be nothing between her and some of the most ruthless men on earth.

Nick’s fists clenched and for a second, he forgot to hold his wristwatch in a position to record his surroundings. He watched Charity and willed her to leave. To just turn her back on this monster and walk away.

He could protect her now. Break cover, then put her in protective custody until they’d put the scumbags away. Even if that meant ripping her from her life forever, it was worth it. Once the image of Charity’s broken, lifeless body bloomed in his mind like a poisonous flower, he couldn’t get rid of it.

Leave him, Nick told her from across the room, sending her screaming mental vibes. Get out of here. Run for your life.

As if sensing danger, Worontzoff’s back stiffened and he turned his head swiftly. Too fast for Nick to look away, or wipe the expression of hatred from his face. Their gazes met, and locked.

Nick could feel the cold blast from across the room and his stomach clenched as Worontzoff turned back to Charity and, smiling, held out his arm. From the next room came the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments. Worontzoff gave a look to one of his thugs dressed as a servant and a brass bell was rung.

Worontzoff raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the concert begins in five minutes. Take your seats, please.”

With one last, murderous glance at Nick, he waited until she laid her pretty hand on his arm, and then escorted Charity into the music room.

Teeth grinding, sweaty hands shaking, Nick followed.

The concert had been exquisite. Cha had outdone himself, his bow weaving magic in the room. As always with great art, the world had fallen away. He felt as if there were just the two of them, Vassily and Katya, listening to great music, just like in the old days.

He was in his sitting room. Though the big hearth was ablaze, the fire was barely able to leaven his perennial chill. Vassily lifted his glass of vodka and sipped, letting the memory of the music go through him, tapping out the rhythm on the heavy silk brocade of the arm of the sofa.

Ah, money and power. There was nothing like it. It could buy everything, including bringing Katya back from the grave.

Vassily took his stylus and lightly pressed a button on the table next to him. As always, it only took a moment.

There was a soft knock on the door and at Vassily’s command, Ilya walked in.

“Come in, my friend,” Vassily urged. “Pour yourself a drink.”

Ilya did, refreshed his own, then sat down on the armchair next to the sofa.

He had changed out of his livery and was dressed casually. He gulped the vodka down in one swallow and poured another large measure. Vassily knew what a solace alcohol was for his friend and employee and never begrudged him his release. Ilya had a lot to forget. They both did.

Vassily knew Ilya understood him, through and through.

“What did you find out tonight?”

Ilya answered promptly. “Nicholas Ames. Thirty-four years old. Retired from an American corporation, Orion Investments. Drives a Lexus with a New York State license plate. Property in Manhattan, a condo on Lexington Avenue. Value a little over two million dollars. No criminal record. That’s all I have for now.”

It was enough. Bravo, Ilya.

“I need wetwork done,” Vassily said. Wetwork. Mokrie dela. Murder. The KGB’s specialty. “But not by one of ours.”

Ilya nodded.

“Someone untraceable to us. Someone efficient, who can make it look like an accident. And I want it done tomorrow.”

Ilya looked at him. “I know someone in Brooklyn who can help us, Vor.”

“Use a cutout,” Vassily said sharply. “Nothing must ever be traced back to here. Is that understood?”

Ilya nodded. “I understand, Vor. This man I am thinking of is not one of ours. He is a free agent. Nothing will ever be traced back to us.”

“Make sure you get the best. Take what you need from the vault. Give the cutout ten percent of the final amount. Keep everything clean.” Behind a false wall in the basement of the mansion was a bank vault with twenty million U.S. dollars in cash, another several million dollars’ worth of foreign currencies, and the other intangibles of the trade, useful for barter—drugs, diamonds, ingots.