feeling of a job well done; not the driving need to do it again and again until I died. Sergey’s pained groans filled the room as I stared at the strand of hair on my sleeve, relishing the fact it was there and hating it all the same. Pd like to think my interest in Mila was just about her body, but I’d never talked to a woman as much as I did her without experiencing the pull of suicidal boredom. And yet I was the one striking up conversation even while balls-deep inside of her just to hear what that mouth of hers had to say. The truth was . . . Mila could have braces and leprosy, and Pd still want to fuck her six ways to Sunday. I ran a thumb across my lip, coming to terms with the uncomfortable realization while Albert grabbed Sergey by the hair and threw him into the wall. The side table splintered, breaking beneath the banker’s hefty weight. Less than forty-eight hours. That was how long I had left before making the trade with Alexei. He was the one with a death sentence, but somehow, it felt like I was getting fucked over. The passing minutes mocked me, settling beneath my skin with an edgy feeling I couldn’t shake. Alexei’s head no longer seemed an adequate trade for Mila. She was worth millions more . . . and the stolen Eiffel Tower. As a tension tightened my body, searing my chest, I pondered asking for exactly that. It would give me more time. More time to get Mila out of my blood. Though if things continued the way they were, she’d only work her way in deeper. Not to mention, this meeting told me the one thing I didn’t have on my side right now was time. Albert wiped the wall clean with Sergey’s face. Picture frames fell, and glass shattered on the floor. Any other day, I would have something to say about Albert destroying my office, but all I could focus on was this token of Mila’s she’d left behind and how, soon, it would be all I’d find of her. It felt like a hot iron was wedged in my ribs at the thought of pushing her into Alexei’s men’s arms. The idea of Ivan being one of them made me grind my teeth. Apparently, jealousy was imagining smashing the other man’s head into a wall. Five times. A sinister feeling spread through me, telling me she was mine—every yellow, sickly-sweet, hearts-in-her-eyes inch of her. Albert slammed Sergey’s face into the desktop, and blood splattered on my inked hands. The same ones that would separate Mila’s papa’s head from his neck.