Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(3)

“Please, follow me.”

I trudge behind him as we exit the building and head to the jet, wondering if they’ll kick me off the damn thing for wearing flip-flops and sweats.

If they do, whatever. Life’s too short to wear uncomfortable pants.

The inside of the jet is nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I settle into a butter-soft leather captain’s chair and kick off my flippies. A beaming flight attendant approaches and leans over my chair.

“Good evening!”

“Hi.”

“My name is Andrea. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

She’s very attractive, this Andrea. If I were a dude, I’d already be thinking of ways she could “take care” of me.

The thought is appalling. Ten seconds on a private jet, and I’m already corrupted.

It’s a good thing I don’t have a dick. I’d probably be waving it in this poor woman’s face before takeoff.

“Um…thank you?”

She smiles at my expression. “First time flying private?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat. Anything you need, just let me know. We’ve got a full bar and a large variety of food and snacks available. Would you like a blanket?”

When I hesitate, she adds, “They’re cashmere.”

I snort. “Only cashmere? I was hoping for baby alpaca.”

Without missing a beat, she says, “We do have vicu?a, if you prefer.”

“What’s vicu?a?”

“A llama-type animal from Peru. They look a little bit like a camel, but cuter. Their wool is the softest and most expensive in the world.”

She’s serious. This broad is literally not shitting me. I stare at her with my mouth open for a beat, then smile. “You know what? I’ll just go with good, old-fashioned cashmere, thanks.”

She smiles at me like I’ve just made her whole week. “Certainly! Anything to eat or drink before we depart?”

What the hell. I’m on vacation. “Do you have champagne?”

“Yes. Would you prefer Dom Perignon, Cristal, Taittinger, or Krug?”

She waits for me to decide, as if I have a clue, then suggests, “Mr. O’Donnell prefers the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.”

I furrow my brow. “Who’s Mr. O’Donnell?”

“The owner of this aircraft.”

Ah. My future brother-in-law. An Irishman, by the sound of it. A very rich Irishman, evidently. He’s probably ninety years old with dementia and no teeth.

My sister is such a mercenary.

I tell the flight attendant I’ll take the Krug, then ask where in the world we’re going.

With a straight face, she says breezily, “I really have no idea.”

Then she turns and walks away, as if this is all completely normal.

Nine hours later, I’ve polished off two bottles of champagne, watched three Bruce Willis movies and a documentary about famous drummers, enjoyed a nap of indeterminate length, and am slumped sideways in my chair, drooling on my sweatshirt, when Andrea returns to cheerfully inform me we’ll be landing soon.

“Lemme guess. You still don’t know where we are.”

“Even if I did, Miss Keller, I couldn’t tell you.”

She says it kindly, but her expression conveys in no uncertain terms that her job would be at risk if she blabbed.

Or maybe something more important than her job…like her life.

Or maybe that’s the two bottles of champagne talking.

When she disappears down the aisle, I slide up the window covering and peer out. Above are clear blue skies. Below are rolling green hills. Off in the distance, a long strip of blue water shimmers in the afternoon sun.

It’s an ocean. The Atlantic? The Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico, perhaps?

The plane starts to descend for landing. It appears we’re headed for an island off the coast.

Watching the ground rise up to meet us, I have a dark, powerful premonition that wherever I’m headed, there’s no going back.

Later, I’ll remember that feeling and marvel at its accuracy.





2





Kage





The man standing across from my desk is tall, hulking, and silent.

Dressed entirely in black, including a heavy wool overcoat beaded with the evening rain, he stares at me with an emotionless look that somehow also conveys a capacity for extreme violence.

Or maybe I only think that because of his reputation. This is the first time we’ve met, but the man is a legend in the Bratva.

Almost as legendary as I am.

In Russian, I say, “Take a seat, Malek.” I gesture to the chair beside him.

He shakes his head in refusal, which irritates me.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

His green eyes flash. A muscle slides in his jaw. His big hands form fists briefly then flex open again, as if he needs to smash something. But he controls his anger quickly and sits.

Apparently, he likes being issued orders as little as I do.

We gaze at each other in silence for a while. The clock ticks ominously on the wall like the countdown to an explosion.

He offers no polite greeting. There’s no pleasant small talk, no effort to get acquainted. He merely sits and waits, patient and mute as a sphinx.