THE TRANSLATOR'S GAMBIT

Panic surged through Eleanor, but she forced herself to remain still. She backed away toward the hallway, needing air. If Volkov believed she had the ledger, she was dead the moment she stepped out of Damien's protection.

She slipped into a side study, closing the heavy door behind her, shutting out the noise of the tense standoff in the ballroom. She paced the Persian rug, racking her brain. A package. Something her father sent.

Three years ago, just before he vanished, he had mailed her a birthday present. A cheap, ugly Russian nesting doll. She had thrown it in a box of junk she dragged from apartment to apartment. It was currently sitting in a storage locker in Queens.

"You look pale, Miss Hale."

Eleanor spun around. One of Volkov's guards—a massive man with a broken nose—stepped out from behind the velvet curtains. He had slipped in through the balcony.

Before she could scream, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth. "Quiet," the man growled in Russian. "Volkov wants you alive, but he didn't say you had to be in one piece."

He dragged her toward the balcony doors. Eleanor fought, kicking and scratching, but he was too strong. She managed to hit the panic button on her necklace, a small click that sent a distress signal directly to Damien's earpiece.

The guard hoisted her over his shoulder, stepping out onto the fire escape. The cold night air hit her face. Down below, a black van was waiting in the alley. She was being taken.

Suddenly, the study doors burst open. Damien stood there, a suppressed pistol in his hand. The charming host was gone; the apex predator had arrived.

He didn't hesitate. He raised the gun and fired twice. The guard roared in pain, dropping Eleanor onto the balcony as he clutched his shattered knee.

Damien rushed forward, pulling Eleanor behind him. He looked down at the bleeding guard, his pale eyes completely devoid of mercy. "Tell Volkov," Damien said softly, "that he just started a war he cannot win."