It's nearly nightfall when Boris parks the car. I stare at the barbed wire fencing outside as Mozart's Requiem-Lacrimosa plays over the radio. There are only a handful of guards milling about, which pleases me to no end. "I am sorry about this, Boris," I say, passing him a cigar. "But you must have known when you took the job you'd likely die."

He takes the cigar and nods. "I did it for my family. For the money."

"There's still hope you may make it out alive," I say.

I bid him farewell as I step from the car. The warming welcome of guns cocking sends a jolt of excitement down my spine. I can't help but smile as I glance up at the few snipers with guns leaned over the fence, for here I am, Ronan Cole, on the brink of world domination and I may possibly be brought to my knees by a woman. Just as Marc Antony and Paris, King Louis. Of all the ways I imagined my demise would come about, it was never a woman. And I must find the poetry in that.

The gate slowly creaks open and a guard stomps out, weapon drawn. He seizes me and silently leads me past several trees to a large, white house reminiscent of something in "Gone with the Wind". These old homes are never very trusty, what with the well water and faulty foundations. I laugh at myself and the guard tightens his hold as we walk down a hallway decorated with distasteful pictures of rabbits and flowers. The guard nudges me with his gun. I bite back my desire to kill him right here.

"In there," he says, shoving me through a doorway and into a formal sitting room. There, on one of the crème sofas, sits my Camilla, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her eyes lock with mine, but there's something amiss. That fire, the defiance that so readily dances in her eyes is not there.

A door on the far wall opens and a man dressed in a suit and red tie, steps in, a large grin. "Ah, I'm so glad you came," he says. His salt and pepper hair is swept away from his forehead, and while his eyes are cold, there's a shimmer of self-doubt. And I can't blame him.

"I'm here," I hold my hands up, waiting, shoving down the tingle of excitement bubbling through me. I won't lie, I find it very pleasing playing the victim. "Now, let her go," I say.

He slowly saunters toward Camilla and strokes his knuckles over her cheek. "My daughter is free to leave at any time." Camilla drops her chin to her chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs as I try to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "She's an alluring little thing, isn't she? She gets it from her mother."

My stomach slips around itself as every monumental moment since I've met Camila rolls through my mind like tattered film. Was I so blind that I fell into her trap? I step toward her, anger billowing in my chest, my jaw tensed. I raise my arm and backhand her across the face, splitting her perfect lip. Blood trickles down her chin.

The guard grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me to my knees while The Horseman circles me, tapping his finger over his lip. "Shoot him," The Horseman says, taking a gun from the guard and placing it in her hand. “His father worked with Cortez. His father helped overthrow our family.” And there it is, revenge. He simply wants revenge, how petty. Camilla turns the piece of metal over before locking her gaze with mine. A slow trickle of blood rolls over her lip, and I fight back a groan.

“He did,” she says. And maybe I have been played, maybe this has all been a grand act for which I should applaud her.

"Ah, little kitty, you played your part well. You fucked me like you meant it." I smirk.

She drops to a crouch in front of me and places the cold barrel of the gun beneath my chin, forcing my head back. "Ah, Ronan," her lips brush mine, "I'll admit, you were fun. So very addictive."

There's a slight flicker in her eyes, a flash of anger. Adrenaline swims through me at the thought of possibly dying. Will it be artful? Will my blood look like a masterpiece splattered against the wall? I shouldn't find excitement in such things, but you feel the most alive just before you die...

Pushing to her feet, she stares down at me and moves the barrel of the gun to my forehead. I can’t help but smile as I stare at her skin so smooth and tempting like a forbidden fruit. It's no wonder I loved her, as much as I've sworn I had no weaknesses, I've always been weak for pretty things—for art. And Camilla Estrada is a fine piece of art. Delicate yet strong, sensual and volatile. "Krasivaya," I say, "you are the grand crescendo of my life, a masterpiece I should have set fire to instead of admire." On an inhale, she closes her eyes and when she opens them, I see the absolute resolve, the flicker of pain mixed with resignation.

She spins on her heels, placing herself between me and everyone else in the room as she aims the gun at her father and pulls the trigger. There's a small pop followed by the heavy thump of his body hitting the floor. For a moment, she remains motionless and I take the opportunity to stand. I brush my hand over my jacket and nod at the guard next to me, watching with delight as he slowly backs away. "Little kitty," I whisper, oh so pleased with how this has played out. Camilla gasps, as though coming up for air, and she quickly presses her back to my chest, then raises the gun, swinging it from one guard to the next.

I find it cute that she feels the need to protect the Big Bad Wolf. "Are you going to shoot them," I say, a thrill in my voice.

She remains tense. "I don't know, Ronan! I don't know if you noticed but there's five of them and one of me," she snaps.

"Ah," I place a hand on her shoulder and slowly step around her, turning to face her, "so there is, whatever shall we do?" I notice one of the guards stiffen.

She narrows her eyes at me, before glancing at each of the men. "You fucking bought them, didn't you?"

I shrug. "Bought isn't the proper term, really." I sweep a piece of hair behind her ear. "How did it feel?" I jerk my chin toward her father's body. "To kill someone who betrayed you? Someone who would have stood in our way?"

"I don't know," she whispers. "I wasn't thinking about that."

Such a shame. The moment I killed my father, I still relish in that. It's one of my fondest memories. "That's too bad, krasivaya."

She looks at me and for the first time, my little kitty looks truly lost. "It hurts," she says, her voice so quiet I barely hear her.

On a sigh, I take her by the arms and close the space between us. "Relish in it."

"He would have killed you. I had no choice.”

I'm fairly certain that is an attempt to convince herself. Some bonds, no matter how twisted, are hard to break. I pull back to look at her. Her eyes water, her jaw sets, and I stroke my fingers over her cheek. "Thank you," I whisper, the words so foreign on my tongue.

Gripping my jacket, she pulls me closer and presses her face into my chest. "Thank you for coming for me. Every time."

"A king always saves his queen, krasivaya."

"I knew you'd come, even though I warned you not to."

"I don't recall being warned." I smirk.

She pulls her face from my chest and rolls her eyes. "Please. As if I would ever beg you to rescue me," she snorts. "I did avoid the water though."

"Good, kitty. I'd have hated for you to die such a distasteful death."

"Would you miss me?" she teases.

And there my krasivaya is. Guilt isn't something she wears for very long. "Tremendously," I say.

On a sigh she glances around the room. "How many of the guards do you have?"

"Ten, unless one carelessly drank the water..."

"Okay. I'm going to need to borrow a couple." She flashes me a wry smile and crooks her finger at a couple of the guards. They approach her, visibly nervous in her presence. "Go to my father's office, take everything, the computers, the paperwork, all of it." They hurry away and she walks to the door, stepping around her father's lifeless body. "Give me a minute," she says, leaving the room, her hips swaying.

Guards rush through the house, grabbing items before hurrying outside. I watch them through the window as I pull a cigar from my pocket and light it. I pace the length of the room, running my finger along the wall before I step over The Horseman's body. Blowing a puff of smoke through my lips, I crouch next to him and search his pockets, pulling out an old military knife. I flip it open, smiling at the serrated edge before I slip it inside my pocket. "I can't blame you," I say, standing. "So many men have thought to overthrow me."

"Let's go, Ronan," Camilla calls from the doorway.

I take another drag from the cigar as I make my way toward her, the slight smell of gas permeating the air.

Shaking her head, she grabs the cigar and smashes it on the wall before dropping it to the floor. "For fuck's sake.” She snatches my hand and drags me toward the front door.

Some of the guards are piling into the SUVs Boris called in, while others are standing in the middle of the yard, their brows wrinkled in confusion. One of them steps forward. "What is this?" he asks Camilla.

"New management," she says with a smile before flicking the flint of a lighter. "You better run." And then she turns and hurls the lighter at a window. Glass breaks and she ducks, dragging me down with her just before a loud boom shakes the ground and a blazing heat flashes over my skin.

When I glance up, she's staring at the flaming carnage with a blissful grin. Her eyes shift to me. "Now what, Russian?"

"Now we rule the world, little kitty." I push up from the ground, taking her hand and dragging her to her feet as I stare at the roaring fire. "I can see the appeal," I say, pulling her against me.

"Oh, we both know fire is far too uncontrolled for you, Ronan." She brings her lips to my ear. "You can't tame it."

"Some things shouldn't be tamed." Fisting her hair, I tilt her head back and brush my lips against hers.

Her eyes close and her breath catches. "I love you, Ronan."

"And I love you as all evil things love the darkness in which they were created—infinitely."