Page 64 of Boardroom Mask

And when he does, I won’t need the Taser. I won’t have to fire anything or swing anything or run. I don’t need a weapon you can hold in your hand. I have something better.

I have hisname.

And tonight, when he climbs through that window expecting the same desperate, broken girl on her knees, I’m going to look him dead in the face and say five simple little words:

The tables have turned, motherfucker.

25

JILLIAN

“Take you down another level / And get you dancing with the Devil”

— “Wicked Games” by The Weeknd

It’s late when he finally shows.

He comes through the front door this time. I didn’t even bother locking it. I just watch as the knob rotates slowly. Then the door swings inward, and a tall figure steps through.

I take my time drinking in the sight of him. He really is beautiful, but in the way a knife or a bird of prey is beautiful. Black boots on my hardwood floor, chunky and cruel. Dark jeans. A fitted black jacket, zipped to the sternum, with the collar turned up. His hands are bare tonight, no gloves. I can see his long fingers and prominent knuckles, with a tattoo on the back of one hand and a thin scar across the other.

He’s tall enough that he has to duck his head coming through the doorframe, and when he straightens, he fills the entryway in a way that makes my apartment feel half its actual size.

A fit, narrow waist spreads out into broad shoulders. There’s not an ounce of anything wasted on him. No useless gym muscles or anything of the sort. His neck is exposed above the collar, and there they are: my scratches, still healing, four parallel lines of scabbed red against pale skin.

I drag my gaze higher, up to a jaw I’ve only ever felt with my fingers, hidden now behind black fabric. Cheekbones I’ve never seen.

And then the mask, the same one as always. Black, fitted, covering everything from the bridge of his nose to below his chin. Above it, those pale gray eyes find me in the dim kitchen light.

I know what’s behind that mask now. I know the name and the face and the corner office on Sixth Avenue it inhabits.

He doesn’t know I know.

Until I smile devilishly and say, “Hello, Kir.”

He stops.

“Kir Lazarev,” I say again, just to be certain so there’s no confusion. “CEO of Lazarev Global. Son of Lukas and Elena.”

He stands there for a long time. Five seconds, ten. Then he reaches up with both hands and peels the mask off his face, pulling it over his head and letting it drop to his side.

Now, at last, I see him.Allof him.

Kir Lazarev, standing in my apartment with nothing left to hide behind.

He’s exactly what the portrait promised and nothing like it at all. The painting got the bones right, the sharp jaw, the highcheekbones, the straight, proud nose. But it missed everything that matters. It missed the way his mouth sits slightly uneven, the left corner tugged down by the constant scowl. It missed the hollows under his eyes, bruised purple from what I’m guessing is roughly the same amount of sleep I’ve been getting. It missed howyounghe looks without the mask.

Thirty, maybe. Not much older than me.

His hair is pushed back but messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a nick on his jaw, just below his ear. A shaving cut, ordinary and human.

Part of me is almost disappointed. I didn’t realize until now that I wanted him to be ugly. If the mask came off and revealed something monstrous, that would make all of this easier to categorize and dismiss.

He’s not ugly, though. Not at all.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of what’s about to happen.

I don’t like feeling like I’m beneath him, so I stand up. “I went to your office today,” I inform him. “You didn’t even bother to slap a Band-Aid on the back of your neck? Congratulations, you’re officially the worst assassin in the history of organized crime.”