The next evening at eight, I pushed open the private dining room door of that damned upscale Italian restaurant.
I knew it was a trap. But I had no way out. Against absolute power, my pride was worthless. I had to protect my team, and I couldn't let my critically ill mother lose her medical support.
But I was no lamb waiting for slaughter, either. I'd tucked a tactical folding knife into my clutch, and I'd set up a timed distress message to my best friend, Chloe Ashford.
Inside the private room, Ivan sat at the head of the table. Tonight he wore a smoke-gray three-piece suit, gold-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked restrained. Aristocratic. Like something off the cover of a finance magazine, the picture of a perfect gentleman.
But the moment he saw me walk in,
