The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting prisms over the wall. The child sits on the floor, drawing pictures which Camilla praises. I'm almost unable to see the little savage I've come to adore, and while I'd usually find something such as this to be a weakness, with Camilla I can only see it as a symbol of strength. A sign that when the time comes, she will be able to mother my child while teaching it the brutal ways of the world in which we live. After all, some instincts are deeply engrained, and I can't help but find the idea of Camilla's belly swollen with my child to be fatally seductive.

I fold the newspaper, bored with all the murder and crooked politicians that plague this nation. I approach Camilla and she glances up just as the child crawls into her lap. "I'll be back soon," I whisper kissing her cheek.

"Wait, what?" She picks the child up and puts her on the sofa. "Rosie, I have to go and talk to Mr. Grumpy, okay. Stay here for me. Draw me another pretty flower." Camilla pushes to her feet, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the kitchen. "You had better not be going after The Horseman without me."

"But..." I smirk. "The child is scared."

She jabs a finger into my chest. "Fucking... I swear to God." I string of Spanish curses leave her lips. "Rosie will be fine with the young one." She waves a hand through the air. "I forget his name."

"Ralph." I find it very intriguing how she flip-flops around.

"Ralph. She'll be fine with Ralph because I'll break Ralph's legs if she's not." She smiles almost sweetly.

I grab a cigar, tucking it in my pocket. "You will stay here."

"Ronan," she growls. "This," she gestures between us, "is not a fucking dictatorship."

"You serve me no purpose there."

She folds her arms over her chest. "I serve no purpose," she repeats. "Careful Russian, or I won't be serving your purpose either."

I grab a pair of binoculars from the counter. "Every move I make is calculated. Every movement serves a greater good." I smile. "You have proven your purpose is here." I nod toward the child. "With her."

"You think I'm a babysitter?"

I do not want her going, and in order to appease her ego, I must make it seem like she has purpose. "Little kitty, I need you here to protect her. If The Horseman's men come for her..." I glance at Ralph sitting in the corner of the room. "They will be no match for him, but you..." I suck in a breath. "You will rain down bloodshed." I mean not a word of it.

"You're full of shit," she grumbles before huffing a breath. "Think I don't know you, Ronan Cole... Manipulative... shady." She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. "Fine. I'll stay, but not because of your bullshit."

"Of course not." I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and slip my arms through. "There's a gun under the table," I say on my way to the elevator.

"Ronan," Camilla calls. "Don't die."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Never in a million years," I mumble as I step into the elevator.

Boris parks along the perimeter of a chain-link fence surrounding grounds reminiscent of a prison yard. Mario steps out of his Cadillac, anxiously glancing around before he walks toward the rundown warehouse. A door at the side of the building opens and a man in a linen shirt walks out, stopping to light a cigarette. He meets Mario halfway between the car lot and the building. There's an exchange of a briefcase, a shake of hands, and then the man strolls over to a black Mercedes and climbs inside.

The car pulls through the gate, turning onto the side street, and Boris falls behind him, keeping a safe distance.

The traffic in this city is abysmal at best. Bumper to bumper, people with reddened faces honking. Oblivious drivers drifting in and out of traffic while shoving a cheap hamburger down their throats. Deplorable. I sit smoking my cigar, listening to Pachebel in an attempt to find some form of serenity, and I couldn't be more pleased when Boris follows the sleek Mercedes down an exit ramp that circles back underneath the blue steel of the Manhattan Bridge. We must be close.

Within minutes, the lovely Brownstones and quant sidewalks turn to ramshackle houses with bedsheets draped in the windows as makeshift curtains. Such disparity from one street to the next, I think as I blow a steady stream of smoke through my lips. There's a loud crash. Metal against metal and glass shattering. I'm jostled about as the car spins around like a toy top in the middle of the road. The jolt from the seatbelt catching causes my cigar to fly from my hand. When the car comes to a stop, I throw my door open and quickly step into the street. The smell of exhaust swirls around me, the blare of horns. The hood of the car is completely smashed in, the windshield cracked. Boris is slumped over the wheel with blood oozing from his forehead. And the car that hit us... I spin around. Nowhere. And the Mercedes is nowhere to be seen.

I slam my fist over the top of the car. "Inconceivable!"

The driver door opens and Boris slowly staggers out, clutching his head.

I spot one of my guard's SUV behind us, jog over and climb in the back, Boris following suit. The driver glances over his shoulder. "Go! Find him!" I shout, my blood pressure ticking dangerously high with each second lost. He jerks the wheel to the side, skirting around the demolished car, but the Mercedes is long gone.