"So this is what death feels like."
My lungs burned as I broke the surface of Lake Michigan, gasping for air beneath the shelter of a small, rocky outcropping. The icy water had numbed my body, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins kept me moving. Dominic surfaced beside me, his powerful strokes cutting through the water as he guided us deeper into the small cave-like formation.
"Fuck, that's cold," he muttered, helping me onto a narrow ledge. His teeth chattered slightly, but his eyes remained sharp, focused. "Coast Guard should be finding the empty boat about now."
I wrung water from my hair, watching as he retrieved a waterproof pack from beneath his diving suit. "Think they'll buy it? The Russian's bodies..."
"Two dead, two unconscious with no memory of what happened. The evidence will be messy. Contradictory." His lips curved into a ruthless smile. "Perfect conditions for a 'presumed dead' scenario."
My body trembled with cold and something else—the electric thrill of being alive when everyone thought we weren't. Of sharing this secret space between life and death with him. Only him.
"How long until we move?" I asked, watching him unpack dry clothes.
"An hour. Let the search efforts focus on the water. Then we take the path up to where I've stashed gear." He handed me thermal leggings and a black compression shirt. "Our new identities await, courtesy of our unconscious Russian friends."
Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and despite the cold, heat flared between us. His eyes darkened as they tracked water droplets sliding down my neck to disappear beneath my wetsuit.
"Turn around," I said, needing to change but suddenly shy under his intense gaze.
"Nothing I haven't seen before," he reminded me, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that made my core clench with want.
"Turn. Around." I repeated, firmer this time.
He chuckled, the sound echoing in our small sanctuary, but complied. I peeled off the wetsuit as quickly as possible, my body instantly erupting in goosebumps. As I struggled with the clinging neoprene, I couldn't help stealing glances at Dominic's broad back as he stripped off his own suit, water sluicing down defined muscles and the scattered canvas of old scars.
"Like what you see?" he asked without turning, somehow sensing my gaze.
I rolled my eyes despite him not seeing it. "Just assessing our resources."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" I could hear the smirk in his voice.
"Fuck off," I muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
Once dressed in dry clothes, I felt marginally more human. Dominic turned back around, now clad in black tactical pants and a fitted thermal shirt that did nothing to hide his physique. He unpacked more items—weapons, communications gear, a tablet.
"The Russian boat had real-time intel," he said, powering up the tablet. "Petrov's compound is here." He pointed to a location marked on a satellite map. "Heavily guarded. Ten-foot perimeter wall. At least twenty men on rotation."
I studied the layout, mind already calculating angles, blind spots, vulnerabilities. "What's our approach?"
"We're not approaching. Not directly." He swiped to a different screen. "These are Alexei Volkov and Irina Petrova, mid-level operatives in Petrov's organization. Currently en route to the compound with specialized equipment."
Understanding dawned. "The Russians from the boat."
He nodded. "We're about to intercept that delivery. Become them."
My stomach tightened at the audacity of the plan. "Petrov will know his people. We won't pass visual inspection."
Dominic's smile was cold. "He's never met them in person. They're recent transfers from the Moscow branch—chosen specifically because they're unknown to the American operation."
"How the fuck do you know all this?"
"I've been hunting these people for a decade, Valentina." His expression hardened. "I know how they breathe."
A chill that had nothing to do with the water ran down my spine. This was the side of Dominic I sometimes forgot existed—the ruthless strategist who had survived in Chicago's underworld through cunning and merciless precision.
"So we become Russian ghosts," I said, trying to wrap my mind around it. "Then what?"
"We gather evidence linking Petrov to Russian intelligence. The proof your father died trying to expose." He reached out, tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering. "And then we disappear. For real this time."
His fingers trailed down my jaw, tilting my chin up. "You okay with this? Last chance to back out."
I caught his wrist, holding his hand against my face. "I've been a ghost before. And I'm not leaving without finishing what my father started."
Something flashed in his eyes—pride, maybe, or that dangerous heat that seemed to simmer between us constantly now. "That's my girl."
My pulse quickened at his words. His girl. It shouldn't have felt so right, so natural. But it did.
"We should go over our covers," I said, pulling back slightly, needing to focus. "What do we know about Volkov and Petrova?"
Dominic handed me a slim dossier from the pack. "Married. Both former Russian special forces. Trained in weapons, explosives, technical equipment. Petrova is the tech specialist; Volkov handles security."
I flipped through the pages, memorizing details. "Happily married?"
His eyes met mine, a hint of amusement in them. "Very. Known for being... enthusiastic about it."
Heat bloomed in my cheeks. "So we need to sell that too."
"Only if necessary." His voice dropped lower. "But I doubt it'll be much of a hardship."
The tiny space suddenly felt even smaller, charged with electric tension. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus on the mission, not the way his eyes tracked my every movement or how my body instinctively leaned toward his.
"Language?" I asked.
"You speak Russian, don't you? Part of your undercover training?"
I nodded. "Da. Enough to get by. You?"
"Fluent," he replied, then said something in Russian that made my eyebrows rise.
"What does that mean?"
His smile was slow, predatory. "It means 'you look beautiful when you're plotting someone's destruction.'"
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help the flush that crept up my neck. "Charming. Let's hope Petrov's people don't expect poetry."
We spent the next thirty minutes going over the intel, planning our approach, rehearsing details. When it was time to move, Dominic repacked our gear with military precision.
"Ready?" he asked, slinging the pack over his shoulder.
I nodded, reaching for the Russian weapons we'd retrieved from the boat—a Makarov pistol and a serrated combat knife. As I tucked them into my holsters, Dominic caught my hand.
"Valentina." His voice was serious now, all traces of flirtation gone. "If anything happens in there... if we get separated... the extraction point is here." He pointed to a location on the map. "An abandoned hunting cabin five miles east of the compound. If shit goes sideways, that's where we meet."
"Nothing's going sideways," I assured him, but memorized the location anyway.
"One more thing." He reached into the pack and pulled out two small metal objects—simple, plain wedding bands. "For our cover."
My breath caught as he took my left hand and slid the ring onto my finger. It was cool against my skin, unfamiliar and yet somehow not unwelcome.
"Mrs. Volkov," he said softly, a strange intensity in his eyes.
I swallowed hard, taking the other ring and sliding it onto his finger, trying to ignore how intimate the gesture felt. "Mr. Volkov."
For a moment, we stood there, fingers intertwined, the false wedding bands catching what little light filtered into our hideaway. Then Dominic leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine.
"No matter what happens in there," he whispered, his breath warm against my lips, "come back to me."
It wasn't a request. It was a plea. From a man who had spent his life giving orders, not making them.
"I will," I promised. And I meant it.
He pressed his lips to mine, a kiss that was both gentle and fierce—a seal on our pact, a talisman against the dangers ahead. When we broke apart, his eyes had that dangerous gleam again, the one that made my heart race.
"Let's go be dead people," he said with a grim smile.
As we emerged from our hiding place into the fading light, I felt the strange, exhilarating freedom that came with shedding my old life. Valentina Ricci was dead. Shade was gone. Now I was Irina Petrova, Russian operative, tech specialist, devoted wife.
And the man beside me—the man I'd spent a decade hating, then burning for—was now my husband, my partner in this deadly game of pretend.
The path up from the shore was steep, cutting through dense woodland. Dominic moved with confident familiarity, leading us through undergrowth until we reached a small clearing where a nondescript black SUV waited.
"Your husband always this prepared?" I asked as he unlocked the vehicle.
His smile was dark, satisfied. "Always. Gets me in trouble sometimes."
"And out of it," I pointed out, climbing into the passenger seat.
As we pulled onto a service road, leaving the lake behind, I caught my reflection in the side mirror—hair darker from the water, eyes hard with determination. A ghost stared back at me, one with a mission and nothing to lose.
"How far to the compound?" I asked, checking the weapons stashed under my seat.
"Two hours. We'll arrive after dark, right when our Russian friends were scheduled to." He handed me a phone. "Final briefing materials. Study them. By the time we get there, you need to be Irina Petrova in your bones."
I scrolled through technical specs, security codes, personal history. The woman I was becoming had a brutal past—orphaned young, recruited by military intelligence at sixteen, known for her brilliant mind and complete lack of empathy. A woman whose loyalty was to herself first, then to her husband, then to the mission.
I could work with that.
"Ready to be Russian, malyshka?" Dominic asked, his accent flawless as he used the endearment.
I met his eyes, letting Valentina slip away completely as I answered in Russian, "Ready, husband."
His smile was all predator now, a mirror of my own. "Then let's go raise some hell."
As we drove north, I felt that strange electric charge building again—the thrill of the hunt, the comfort of having him beside me, the lingering taste of his kiss. We were dead to the world, ghosts with nothing but a mission and each other.
And somehow, that felt like enough.