I drew in a breath, letting my shoulders rise and fall as this unwelcome reality settled over me. I started to turn to go back inside when something on a small metal bench in front of the glass barrier caught my eye. A manila envelope. And on top of it, the small green stone that I’d often seen Cole rub when he was worried or frustrated or upset.
I’d changed into jeans before I’d come to the condo, and now I slipped the stone into my pocket. The envelope was a little trickier to deal with. I wanted to open it. And yet I didn’t.
I had no idea what was inside that envelope, but I was certain that it had the power to destroy.
Still, I couldn’t fight what I couldn’t understand. And so I sucked in a breath, pulled open the already loose flap, and let the contents fall into my lap.
Oh god oh god oh god.
Photographs. Dozens of them.
The kind of photos you’d find in magazines that only existed so that men could jack off. And each and every one of them was of me.
Me, spread-eagled on the St. Andrew’s cross.
Me, bent over, legs wide, and Cole’s cock thrusting hard inside me. Not that he was in the picture—no, only I was identifiable.
Me, bound tight with hemp, a crotch knot at my clit.
I recognized each location, too. How could I not? My house. Our playroom. The photographer had found gaps in the blinds. Had trespassed into my backyard and watched as Cole had taken me—as I’d given myself to him in so many different ways.
Looking at them, my stomach churned and bile rose in my throat. Not because of what they portrayed, but how they portrayed it. Twisting my most personal moments into something cold and harsh and ugly.
Intimacy butchered to become porn.
Who? Right then, I swear I could have killed the bastard who had breached our privacy so violently. But who the hell had done it? And for god’s sake, what did they intend to do with these horrible pictures?
I was just about to call Sloane to get her thoughts when my phone rang. I practically turned a backflip to tug it out of my pocket, then deflated when I saw that the caller was Tyler, not Cole.
“Anything?” I demanded.
“He’s at BAS,” Tyler said, referring to Black, August, Sharp Security. “Just unkeyed the door with his code. I’m going.”
“No,” I said. “I am. I’m at Evan’s condo. I can be there in less than ten minutes.”
“Do you know what’s going on?” Tyler asked. “What’s he doing at the office? Why the hell did he schedule the jet for tonight?”
The jet.
I thought of the weapons room at BAS. And then I thought of the fact that a private plane didn’t have to deal with airport security.
“Where is he going?” I asked, feeling a little sick to my stomach as the pieces started coming together.
“Flight plan logged for Atlantic City,” Tyler said, and I cursed.
“I know what he’s doing,” I said. “He’s going to kill Ilya Muratti.”
twenty-five
I found him in the weapons vault tossing boxes of ammo into a duffel that already held two pistols and a revolver.
“Are you planning to take out his entire staff?” I asked softly. “Or just the man himself?”
He didn’t turn, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.
“Dammit, Cole, you can’t do this.”
“The hell I can’t.” He ground the words out, raw and rough and so filled with pain they seemed to drip like blood. “It’s the only goddamn thing I can do.”
“No.” I took a step toward him, then another. When I was standing right behind him, I pressed my hand gently to his back.
I’d expected him to flinch away from my touch, and when he didn’t, I closed my eyes, the motion like the physical manifestation of a sigh of relief. Maybe I haven’t lost him yet.
“Please,” I said. “Turn around and look at me.”
At first I thought he would ignore me, but then he turned slowly, his eyes finding mine. They were cold and determined, dangerous and wild.
I shook my head. “You can’t.”