The funeral was full of pomp and circumstances. Speech upon endless speech praising Nicholi. Such a tragedy, really. The Prime Minister, the President... And don't terrible things always come in threes?

They do... I smile. Losing myself in my thoughts only to be jarred from my blissful daydream by my phone vibrating in my breast pocket.

"Yes?" I answer.

"The replacement for Mr. Thomas has signed the NDA."

"Very well." The car nudges through the crowded streets of Moscow, following the procession. I do hope this new person won't be a letdown. I don't have the patience for it. "He does understand the consequences of not following through, yes?"

"I promise, sir," Donovan says, "Henry will please you."

I stare through the window at the people passing by. "Please do inform this Mr. Henry of what happened to Mr. Thomas. After all, time is of the essence here. The American elections are but in a few months, and let's not forget...the election for the new Russian president is pending."

"Yes, sir."

I disconnect the call and shove the phone back inside my pocket. I won't get my hopes up. After all, it is so hard to find honest criminals to work with these days.

Several minutes later the car stops in front of the government offices. My door opens and I step out, offering Camilla my hand. The wait staff nod in acknowledgement as we step into the marble lobby. "I always did find it so peculiar that people gather after funerals."

Camilla's fingers thread through mine. "What are you up to?" she whispers.

"Oh, now, we wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, would we?"

She groans. "A surprise is a weekend away, or spontaneous gifts. Not surprise, a bullet just flew past your head and you have brain on your face."

"Let's not pretend you're a civilized woman, Camilla." I cock a brow at her. She and I both know she is not a woman who wants a weekend away. She craves the chaos, the blood. The absolute carnage. She thrives on it just as I do.

"I resent that comment." She tosses her hair over her shoulder and walks ahead of me, her hips swaying with every step. Every man's head turns when she passes by. My jaw sets. These men believe they could have her and that causes anger to flare in my chest.

She stops beside a table draped with a white tablecloth. The Prime Minster of France holds out his hand. I step up behind her just as he lifts her hand to his lips, kissing over her knuckles. "Prime Minister," I say dryly as I slip my arm around Camilla's cinched waist, staking claim.

He clears his throat as his gaze sets hard and fast on me. "Ronan," he says. He knows I'm a snake in the grass, but he's also a smart man and knows his place, so he simply pulls his chair out and takes a seat.

"You know Claude?" Camilla says with a wry smile. Ah, how quickly she is on first name terms with world leaders.

"In order to win a game, you must know each player."

She holds her hand up. "I don't know why I'm even surprised."

The first half of the hour is spent in dull conversation, tasteless wine, and hors d'oeuvres. I casually check my watch as I force a laugh at a dry joke. Camilla sits beside me, shifting anxiously every so often as her eyes warily take me in. She expects something, and I do so hope I don't disappoint her. Clearing my throat, I lean in next to her neck and sweep a tendril of hair behind her ear. "You look lovely."

Suddenly, a muted boom echoes through the room. The floor shakes. Glasses rattle on the tables. Everyone cautiously glances around. Another explosion—a very loud explosion–rocks the building. This time the windows implode and people scream. Chairs topple over as everyone scrambles to their feet. The security team whisks in, shouting for several of the leaders. Someone grabs the Prime Minister, and Camilla is hunkered down beside the table.

Pushing up from the table, I fight the smile tugging at my lips as I watch them escort so many important people from this room to one of designated safety.

A police officer scurries in. "Everyone, out!" he shouts, the herd of people rush toward the doors of the dining hall. I offer Camilla my hand and she takes it, rising to her feet with an abundance grace. "Scared little kitty?" I ask with a smirk.

She makes a show of placing her hands on her hips, glaring at me as a frenzy of people flee around us. "In Mexico, only the drunks don't duck when shit explodes."

"I see." I thread my fingers through hers and lead her in the direction of the exit. When we pass one of the security guards, I tug her close to my side. "It will be fine," I say, feigning to console her.

She squeezes my hand until her nails dig into my knuckles. "No warning," she says under her breath, "...fucking heart attack."

We file outside and down the concrete steps, all the while she's mumbling to herself. Police sirens wail around us. Ambulances and bomb squads are already here, but it will do those trapped in the safety of the panic bunker little good.

"What is that?" a stranger in the crowd shouts, pointing at the tiny plume of smoke now rising from the roof of the building. Men in padded suits and helmets rush in, guns at their sides, and I simply pull my cigar from my breast pocket, light it, and take a long drag. Camilla snatches it from my hand and places it to her mouth. The smoke crawls through her red lips like a seductive temptress, and I grip her chin between my fingers. "Let's leave, krasivaya."

Later in the evening, I enter my living room, Camilla following behind me. As always, there's a drink and cigar waiting for me.

One of the servants rushes to the sideboard to pour a glass of vodka as Camilla and I take a seat on the sofa. He hurries across the room and hands the drink to Camilla with a small bow. "Really?" Camilla glares at me when she takes the glass. He turns the television on before handing me the remote.

"Manners are of the utmost importance," I say with a subtle grin.

Camilla downs the vodka before crossing the room and snatching the bottle from the cabinet. Arching a brow, she takes a seat next to me again as she turns the bottle up. I watch the tiny bubbles float up the neck and shake my head. "We really must work on your manners," I say before directing my attention to the news.

"Oh, I don't know, Ronan. I think you like a little savage."

I ignore her. I know she hates it when I do that.

The first thing the anchor addresses is the supposed attack on the government building. How dreadful to have someone attack mourners after a funeral. Tsk. Tsk. She goes over the explosions, the chaos–"The leaders of Germany, China, Great Britain, France, and Italy were taken to a safe room where it is believed a deadly chemical agent was piped through the ventilation system." I smile, tipping my drink back as I glance at Camilla.

Camilla laughs and shakes her head. "Clever, Russian."

I hold my glass up in a toast, clinking mine against hers. "Do you have any idea how long I've planned this?" I nod toward the TV, my chest swelling with pride.

"I'd say possibly since birth, but I'm not sure you weren't spat from a fiery crack in the earth fully grown."

I laugh. "Years, krasivaya," I say as I skim my fingers along her cheek, her neck. "So many years."

Her pupils swell and her breath catches, though her body stiffens. Something is off with the little kitty... She swallows hard. "Well, all those women to kidnap and puppets to manipulate," she whispers, "...it takes time."

"And what will I do with myself once it's all over?" It's a very real fear I have. The boredom. The inability to aim for greater things, for once you hold the world in the palm of your hand, what then can you possibly want? "I despise the thought of normalcy."

She shrugs. "People like us can never have normal, but we find our own version within the chaos."

And the more I watch her, the longer I have her—I wonder if she realizes that is what she will be to me. My normal within the chaos. "I would never be satisfied with normal."

"My normality is my business and my brother's carnage." Laughing, she ducks her head. Her laughter is such a foreign, care-free sound, like the song of some exotic bird I'd long to cage and force to sing. "It doesn't have to be awful."

There's a spark of vulnerability in her eyes, and if I had a conscience she may very well cause me to feel sympathy for her. She loves her brother, and there's a moment when I recall what it was like to be a small boy swaddled in my mother's lap, but that fondness is quickly replaced with the pain of losing someone you care for. Love is an emotion which offers you no control... I sweep my fingers over the scab at Camilla's throat, my heart pounding in an odd fashion in my chest. "Such a vicious little thing," I say, "and yet, you're able to love. So very interesting."

She tilts her head to the side, studying me. "Does that disappoint you?"

"Maybe." I take a sip of my whiskey, redirecting my attention to the TV. That's enough intimate conversation for the evening.

Laughing, she pats my thigh. "Don't worry, it's something reserved only for Gabriel."

I watch the images of war flashing on the screen, my fingers dancing over her thigh. "You can call him, you know..." It's a peace offering possibly, or possibly something for my own amusement—to watch her reaction when she speaks to him.

There's a long pause. I can feel her staring at me, but I don't look her way. "Because," she finally breathes, "I'm not a captive..."

I do believe she is having quite the internal war. She has chosen to stay, and yet, she must convince herself she's not a captive. To answer her question, I take my cell from my pocket and hand it to her.

And I ask myself: Why am I really doing this... It seems I may care for her more than I let on.

May being the key word.