Chapter 10
The plan came together over the next forty-eight hours.
Viktor laid it out with military precision — maps, timelines, contacts. The vault was in Geneva, buried beneath a bank that served as a front for the old Karev network. Biometric access: retinal scan and blood confirmation. Only a Karev could open it.
Only me.
"We fly Thursday," Viktor said, pointing to a blueprint on the table. "Small team. Four men, you, me. In and out before Volkov can react."
"He'll know," I said. "He has people everywhere."
"He won't expect us to move this fast." Viktor's eyes met mine. "That's our advantage."
I nodded, but my stomach churned. This was insane. A week ago, I was pouring coffee for strangers. Now I was planning a heist into my own inheritance with a mafia don who made my pulse race every time he entered a room.
The days blurred together in preparation. Training — Viktor insisted I learn basics. Not combat, but escape. How to break a hold. How to run. Where to aim if I had to shoot.
"You won't need to," he said. "But I want you prepared."
We trained in the basement. Close quarters. His hands correcting my stance, adjusting my grip. Professional, controlled. But every touch lingered a half-second too long. Every correction brought his body closer to mine.
"Elbow up," he murmured, standing behind me. His chest pressed against my back. His breath at my ear.
I couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except the heat of him.
"Sera."
"What."
"You're not breathing."
I exhaled sharply. He laughed — low, barely there, but real. The first time I'd heard it. It did devastating things to my composure.
"Again," he said, stepping back. Professional mask back in place.
We ran the drill again. And again.
On the second night, I found him in the living room after everyone else had gone. He sat on the couch, whiskey in hand, staring at the fire. No suit tonight — just dark jeans and a henley that made him look impossibly, dangerously human.
I sat beside him. Not touching. But close.
"Nervous?" I asked.
"About Geneva? No."
"About what?"
He turned his head. Firelight danced in his silver eyes.
"About after."
"After?"
"After we destroy Volkov. After you're free." His voice dropped. "After you decide."
I studied his profile — the strong nose, the scar, the jaw that never unclenched. This man had killed people. Had ordered deaths. Had built an empire on blood and fear.
And yet.
"What if I've already decided?" I whispered.
Viktor went still. His glass hovered midway to his lips.
"Don't," he said quietly, "unless you mean it."
"I mean it."
He set the glass down. Slowly. Deliberately. Then he turned to face me fully, one arm resting on the back of the couch, body angled toward mine.
"Sera." My name on his lips — a warning and a prayer.
"I'm tired of fighting this," I said. "Whatever this is."
"You know what it is."
"Then say it."
His hand cupped my face. Rough palm, gentle touch. His thumb traced my cheekbone.
"I want you," he said. "Not as collateral. Not as an heir. You."
I turned my face into his hand, lips brushing his palm. He inhaled sharply.
"Then take me."
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not sweet. He kissed me like a man who'd been starving and finally allowed to eat. His mouth claimed mine with devastating certainty — firm, hot, consuming. One hand in my hair, the other gripping my waist, pulling me closer until I was practically in his lap.
I gasped against his lips. He swallowed the sound.
"Sera," he breathed between kisses. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
His grip tightened. He pulled me fully onto him, my knees straddling his thighs. The fire crackled. His mouth found my neck — not biting, just tasting. Lips and tongue tracing the line from ear to collarbone.
"I've thought about this," he murmured against my skin, "every night since I first saw you."
I arched into him, fingers raking through his hair. He groaned — low, broken, perfect.
His hands slid beneath my sweater. Warm palms on bare skin. I shivered, pressed closer.
"Viktor—"
"I know." His forehead dropped to my chest. "I know."
We stayed like that — breathing hard, tangled together, the fire painting shadows across our skin. He didn't push further. Just held me, hands tracing slow paths along my spine.
"Thursday," I whispered.
"Thursday."
"And after?"
He lifted his head. His eyes — usually cold, guarded — were molten. Open.
"After, I'll give you the world."
"I don't want the world."
His lips brushed mine, soft this time. "What do you want?"
"This," I said. "You."
He kissed me again — slower, deeper, like sealing a vow.
When we finally separated, foreheads touching, breath mingling, something had been decided.
Not just about Geneva.
About us.
And there was no going back.
Viktor laid it out with military precision — maps, timelines, contacts. The vault was in Geneva, buried beneath a bank that served as a front for the old Karev network. Biometric access: retinal scan and blood confirmation. Only a Karev could open it.
Only me.
"We fly Thursday," Viktor said, pointing to a blueprint on the table. "Small team. Four men, you, me. In and out before Volkov can react."
"He'll know," I said. "He has people everywhere."
"He won't expect us to move this fast." Viktor's eyes met mine. "That's our advantage."
I nodded, but my stomach churned. This was insane. A week ago, I was pouring coffee for strangers. Now I was planning a heist into my own inheritance with a mafia don who made my pulse race every time he entered a room.
The days blurred together in preparation. Training — Viktor insisted I learn basics. Not combat, but escape. How to break a hold. How to run. Where to aim if I had to shoot.
"You won't need to," he said. "But I want you prepared."
We trained in the basement. Close quarters. His hands correcting my stance, adjusting my grip. Professional, controlled. But every touch lingered a half-second too long. Every correction brought his body closer to mine.
"Elbow up," he murmured, standing behind me. His chest pressed against my back. His breath at my ear.
I couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except the heat of him.
"Sera."
"What."
"You're not breathing."
I exhaled sharply. He laughed — low, barely there, but real. The first time I'd heard it. It did devastating things to my composure.
"Again," he said, stepping back. Professional mask back in place.
We ran the drill again. And again.
On the second night, I found him in the living room after everyone else had gone. He sat on the couch, whiskey in hand, staring at the fire. No suit tonight — just dark jeans and a henley that made him look impossibly, dangerously human.
I sat beside him. Not touching. But close.
"Nervous?" I asked.
"About Geneva? No."
"About what?"
He turned his head. Firelight danced in his silver eyes.
"About after."
"After?"
"After we destroy Volkov. After you're free." His voice dropped. "After you decide."
I studied his profile — the strong nose, the scar, the jaw that never unclenched. This man had killed people. Had ordered deaths. Had built an empire on blood and fear.
And yet.
"What if I've already decided?" I whispered.
Viktor went still. His glass hovered midway to his lips.
"Don't," he said quietly, "unless you mean it."
"I mean it."
He set the glass down. Slowly. Deliberately. Then he turned to face me fully, one arm resting on the back of the couch, body angled toward mine.
"Sera." My name on his lips — a warning and a prayer.
"I'm tired of fighting this," I said. "Whatever this is."
"You know what it is."
"Then say it."
His hand cupped my face. Rough palm, gentle touch. His thumb traced my cheekbone.
"I want you," he said. "Not as collateral. Not as an heir. You."
I turned my face into his hand, lips brushing his palm. He inhaled sharply.
"Then take me."
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not sweet. He kissed me like a man who'd been starving and finally allowed to eat. His mouth claimed mine with devastating certainty — firm, hot, consuming. One hand in my hair, the other gripping my waist, pulling me closer until I was practically in his lap.
I gasped against his lips. He swallowed the sound.
"Sera," he breathed between kisses. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
His grip tightened. He pulled me fully onto him, my knees straddling his thighs. The fire crackled. His mouth found my neck — not biting, just tasting. Lips and tongue tracing the line from ear to collarbone.
"I've thought about this," he murmured against my skin, "every night since I first saw you."
I arched into him, fingers raking through his hair. He groaned — low, broken, perfect.
His hands slid beneath my sweater. Warm palms on bare skin. I shivered, pressed closer.
"Viktor—"
"I know." His forehead dropped to my chest. "I know."
We stayed like that — breathing hard, tangled together, the fire painting shadows across our skin. He didn't push further. Just held me, hands tracing slow paths along my spine.
"Thursday," I whispered.
"Thursday."
"And after?"
He lifted his head. His eyes — usually cold, guarded — were molten. Open.
"After, I'll give you the world."
"I don't want the world."
His lips brushed mine, soft this time. "What do you want?"
"This," I said. "You."
He kissed me again — slower, deeper, like sealing a vow.
When we finally separated, foreheads touching, breath mingling, something had been decided.
Not just about Geneva.
About us.
And there was no going back.