Chapter 3

Jane unlocked the door to her apartment and disabled the alarm system. She tossed her keys on the kitchen island and reached for an open bottle of wine. She poured herself a healthy dose of the rich, red liquid and sipped it as she made her way to the back of her small living space. She discarded clothes as she went until she stood in only her bra and panties. She barely glanced at her compact body as she passed the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door.

She stripped off her underwear as she turned the shower on. She took another healthy sip of wine before unclipping her bra and letting it fall to the floor. Stepping into the hot shower, she moaned at the feel of the spray on her skin. Showering was cleansing. It washed away the stress, the sadness and the death of her job. She closed her eyes and let the water soothe her.

Today the pounding heat of the water hitting her skin wasn't working the way it usually did. She couldn't forget the black eyes that hunted her in the interrogation room. Even in the small space of her tiny bathroom she felt those eyes roving over her, pinning her in place against her will. She smacked her palm against the tiles and then hurriedly finished her shower, washing her body before shampooing and conditioning her shoulder length black hair.

She turned the water off and carefully stepped out of the shower, reaching for the forgetfulness found in her wineglass. She gulped a generous mouthful of wine and pulled her bathrobe from the back of the door. The satin material clung to her wet body like a second skin, covering her from throat to knees. She allowed herself very few luxuries, as her job took up so much of her time, but she thoroughly enjoyed the feel of the royal blue kimono-style robe where it caressed her curves.

Picking up her now empty wineglass, Jane paused in the doorway of the washroom, studying herself in the mirror. She was comfortable in her own skin, but she wished sometimes she had more padding to her curves. She used to have them. But nowadays when she wasn't chasing bad guys she was training her body into fitness for the chase. She kept her black hair deliberately shoulder length so the straight, black mass could be easily styled when she was in a rush. Which was pretty much every day. Unfortunately, the city she chose to pursue her career in had one of the highest murder rates in the country.

Jane was in the process of pouring herself a second glance of wine and flicking through TV choices on Netflix when a knock on the door startled her. She frowned. She could count on two fingers the amount of people that knew where she lived. She didn't have any friends to speak of and the little family she had didn't come to the city. They preferred the purity of countryside community living. Which left her landlord, Gruber or a stranger at her door.

Jane swiftly opened the drawer of the cabinet in the hallway where she kept her gun. She pulled it out and flicked the safety off. Approaching the door cautiously, she peeked through the view hole. With a loud gasp, she jumped back. Vladimir Sitnikov stood in the dilapidated hall of her apartment building. Her heart beating loudly, Jane cautiously took another peek, resting her hand against the wood panel of the door. There he stood, bold as day. She watched as he lifted a fist and banged on her door again, louder this time. She jumped back.

What should she do? What if he was here to kill her? She knew with every fibre of her being that Sitnikov had killed people with his own hands. Was this how he killed Dennis Yankovich? Just walked right up to the door and knocked? It wouldn't be above him to choke the life out of her for hauling him into a police station and making him wait on her leisure. As confident as Jane was in her own abilities to take down common perps, she knew she likely didn't stand a chance against a man of Sitnikov's caliber.

Yet, if he wanted to murder her, he probably wouldn't be waiting politely in her hallway while she debated whether or not to shoot him through the door and call it self-defence. If he really wanted her dead, he would have found a way into her apartment while she was sleeping, or have her taken out while she was on her way to work  a traffic accident or the victim of a crossfire gang shooting.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Jane cursed her lack of tough cop attire, unlocked the door and opened it a crack. She kept the gun on the other side so he couldn't see it. His dark, amused eyes met hers. She glared at him and refused to speak. She wanted to demand he tell her why he was there and how he found her, but she would control the situation by remaining silent and forcing him to speak first.

"Jane McKinley." His accent caressed her name in a way that made her shiver with sudden heat. He had found out her first name. "I'm not here to hurt you so you can put the gun down."

Jane raised an eyebrow and didn't move.

"Ah," he said, nodding. "You do not trust me."

She snorted indelicately, still refusing to speak.

"Fine," he said, lifting his hand to show her a tiny, feminine ring on his pinky finger. She had been so transfixed by the other more masculine ring he wore she hadn't seen this one earlier. "I swear to you on the grave of my mother that I will not harm you tonight. Please allow me entry so we may talk. I will leave any time you wish it."

Jane's heart pounded. She knew he chose his words carefully. He wouldn't harm her tonight. Which meant he considered her to be fair game for future harming. She sensed he was speaking the truth though. From everything she had read and heard about him, his mother was one of the greatest influences in his life besides his younger sister, Anastasia. The death of his beloved mother was, in part, the reason he had become a successful mob boss. Grief was a powerful motivator.

Knowing that she was safe for the moment, Jane allowed her curiosity to make the choice. She wanted to know what Sitnikov would say to her and if she might be able to trap him into incriminating himself. Standing away from the door, she allowed it to swing open. She gestured for him to enter into her private sanctuary. She brought her gun hand forward to show him that she was indeed carrying.

"Just to be safe," she said in as tough a cop voice as she could summon. "I've been known to piss people off. I wouldn't want you accidentally going back on your word if I insult your heritage or something."

He didn't even look at the gun, likely because he was completely comfortable in the presence of deadly weapons. Something they both had in common. Instead, he studied her robed body with intense interest. She shifted uncomfortably and went to cross her arms in front of her body for protection when she remembered she was holding a gun. Sitnikov closed the door firmly behind him and locked it.

When she frowned he said, "So we won't be disturbed. I have things I wish to say to you."

Jane shrugged. "No one knows where I live. So far you're the only person, besides trick-or-treaters, that's come to my door unannounced since I moved in here."

He studied her, taking her words into his calculating mind.

Damn it! She just told a very deadly man that she not only lived alone, but also that she had little or no contact with the outside world when not on the job. Perfect. Way to keep her secrets close to heart. She should probably just draw him a map of her morning commute to the subway so he and his men could decide the best way to take her out.

"What do you want?" she snapped in annoyance, waving her hand toward the small table and chair set.

Jane rarely sat at the table, so it was piled up with bills and sundry other papers. Sitnikov pulled a chair out and sat, his tall body settling awkwardly into the cheap plastic chair. Jane sat down directly across from him and laid her gun on the table in front of her. He looked amused at the precaution but didn't say anything.

"I asked you a question, Sitnikov," she spat his name like it was a curse. "What do you want?"

His thin lips curled up in a cruel smile  though, to be fair, she didn't think the hard slash of his mouth was made for anything other than cruel expressions. "Ah, Jane, now that is a question with many answers. Few that I think you would enjoy quite yet." He leaned back, his chair creaking against the worn tile of her kitchen floor.

Jane rolled her eyes. "I'm definitely not in the mood for word games, Sitnikov. Why the fuck are you here, in my home? One would think that you'd prefer to keep your distance from the cop that's about to take you down."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression didn't change. "You have a smart mouth, Jane, you should be careful what you say with it, lest a concerned citizen step in to shut those lovely lips," he remarked quietly. "Call me Vladimir."

"Not in this lifetime, Sit-ni-kov," she sneered, pronouncing each syllable of his last name deliberately. "Also, I'm pretty sure that was a threat you were uttering. You might want to step lightly while in the presence of a police officer and her gun. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be too difficult to claim self-defence if a suspected mob boss were shot in my apartment."

A muscle in his strong jaw jumped. The sudden tightening of his body was barely perceptible, except to the eyes of an experienced cop. She'd spent enough time in the interrogation room to know when a man was stopping himself from lunging across the table toward her. She almost smirked at the thought of getting a reaction out of a man like Sitnikov. She really did have a remarkable tendency to piss people off. It was how she had made detective at such a young age. Her dogged determination combined with her take-no-prisoners attitude had impressed the higher ups. Plus, she pissed off her beat sergeant to the point where he was happy to see her promoted and out of his department.

"I have an offer for you," Sitnokov said, his dark eyes drinking her in.

She arched her eyebrow. "This should be good."

"Be my mistress."