An Angel For Tsar

CHAPTER 1

IRIS

"I'm coming, I'm coming, Tessa! Don't rush in there, you and I both know those bastards will overpower you, so wait for me," I say as I run down the street toward the factory. My legs feel heavy, my head throbs from last night’s drinking, and the hot coffee in my hand is the only thing keeping me upright.

I am just about to turn the corner when I collide with something solid enough to feel like a brick wall.

The impact knocks the breath out of me and sends me stumbling backward, and for a moment I am completely sure I am going to faceplant on the pavement.

Instead, I feel strong arms wrap around me and hold me steady before I can hit the ground.

My brain takes a second to catch up because walls do not have arms, and if they did, I would be in far more trouble than I already am.

Maybe all that drinking really is getting to me.

I was aware I had an alcohol problem, but I did not realize that at twenty-five I would already be on track for early-onset dementia.

I shake my head, trying to clear my vision.

When I finally look up, my stomach drops because it is not a wall I crashed into, but a very intimidating man.

The first thing I notice is the scar across his neck that looks exactly like a slit throat, and the only thing I can think is that it must have hurt like hell.

He has blonde hair and light blue eyes, a straight almost pointed nose, a sharp jawline, and lashes so long they should be illegal.

It confirms my long-standing suspicion that God prefers handing out pretty features to men while leaving women to fend for themselves.

Even with all that ridiculous beauty, a cold sensation runs through me when I see the way his eyes sweep over my face and take in every detail of my body. He studies me so intensely that I forget how to breathe. Then he speaks, and his voice sounds almost curious as he asks, "Are you an angel?"

I have no idea what to make of that. Angels do not drag themselves out of bed after drinking to delirium.

Angels do not go on revenge missions while clutching a cup of hot coffee so strong it could kill a mortal.

Angels definitely do not carry iron baseball bats they bought at an auction and had to register as weapons because of one unfortunate incident.

If I were not such a good lawyer, I would still be dealing with the paperwork from that mess.

He still calls me an angel, which is strangely flattering, until I realize my hands are empty.

My coffee cup is gone, and based on the dark stains spreading across his very fancy clothing, I know exactly where it ended up.

The man is wearing a fur jacket and a suit decorated with little noble-looking trinkets, the kind you only see in old aristocratic films. This is really bad.

I immediately try to pull away and say, "Sir, if I said I was an angel, would you let me pay one rouble for your suit's dry cleaning?"

He glances down at the coffee spreading over his clothes, and then his eyes lift back to mine.

Even while holding me steady, he is enormous.

His shoulders fill my vision, his chest is broad beneath the fur jacket, and the way he moves makes it clear he’s built like a professional WWE wrestler, someone in the league of Roman Reigns but somehow even larger.

His olive skin gives him an even deadlier edge, and I feel that cold wash over me again, I have a feeling that this man is not to be messed with.

Then he asks, "You're not hurt, are you, angel?"

I blink, startled, and respond quickly, "No, I'm fine. I'm really sorry I poured coffee on you."

He waves it off, saying it is no issue and that I should not worry about things like that. Clothes are replaceable, but skin lacerations are harder to heal. I smile nervously and struggle even more fiercely. "Sir, can you let go?"

He finally does, but he does not step back. His gaze falls to my phone and my murder weapon, also known as my bat for big bugs, lying on the ground. He picks both up, and for some reason, I suddenly feel shy about taking them back.

He gives an amused chuckle. "Hmm, and what would you need an iron bat for this early in the morning?"

I just grab them, say nothing, and sprint off to go save Mr. David.

It does not take long before I reach the factory. Tessa is already there, standing outside, tapping her foot impatiently and glancing inside, then around the place. The second she spots me, she grabs her bat, waving it urgently.

"Quickly, quickly, quickly!" she yells.

I sprint toward her, my heart pounding in my chest. The moment I reach her, we shove the door open together. Without hesitation, I shout, "What the fuck do you think you are doing here?"

The men harassing Mr. David whirl around to face us. They do not hesitate either. They immediately start charging. So, naturally, we charge right back.

I know exactly what you are thinking. You are probably thinking, what can a couple of girls do against three grown men?

I know the physical difference between men and women.

But they do not have an iron bat. I do. And I am not afraid to swing it.

I am not saying Russia is particularly dangerous, like some people make it out to be, but when you are dealing with greedy politicians who harass a man for his property, you have to get creative.

One way I got creative was owning this iron bat. I even sleep with it.

Back to the fight. I swing and hit one of the guys square across the face. He probably does not expect it to hurt so badly, considering I usually keep it wrapped with gauze.

Tessa is hitting another guy, but these men are not going down without a fight. They struggle, trying to take the bats from us. I am so focused that I do not notice when one of them sneaks behind me and lands a punch right in my stomach. Pain shoots through me, and I double over.

"Stop, stop, stop!" the leader shouts angrily. "Why the fuck did you hit her?"

The lackey who punched me scoffs. "Oh, so she’s allowed to hit us and almost kill us, but when I hit back there’s suddenly no equality?"

I nearly spit at his shoes while Tessa swings her bat again at his face. Another man grabs the bat from her hands, shaking his head.

"We’re stopping here," he says, glaring at us. "But old man, we’re coming back." He makes a threatening gesture, dragging his thumb across his throat.

They finally leave, and Tessa rushes to help steady me. "You alright?" she asks, her voice full of worry.

I smile weakly. "Yeah, I’m okay."

Mr. David approaches, and together they help me sit down.

I glance around the factory, taking in the mess.

Everything is trashed, there’s hordes of breads thrown carelessly on the floor.

This factory has been in Mr. David’s family forever.

Sure, they don’t have many customers these days, and the place is barely holding up, but why can’t they at least let the poor man keep it until he passes it down to his grandchildren?

They just want to force it out of his hands because he seems easy to bully.

Mr. David tells me he’s going to get some water, and I nod absently, looking around at the fresh bread scattered everywhere. Tessa notices my expression and tries to comfort me.

"Don’t worry," she says fiercely. "We’ll get those bastards back."

I shake my head at her, “don’t do anything impulsive,” she grins at me in response.

Tessa is incredibly beautiful, but she’s also more impulsive than I am.

She always dresses like she’s headed to a farm, wearing a hat tilted casually toward the back of her head.

Her hair is long, brown, and wavy, her eyes a warm brown framed by perfect lashes.

Her button nose and full lips make her sparkle when she smiles.

She’s not short like me, maybe around 5’7, but her petite frame makes her seem smaller than she is.

I shake my head and tell her, "Don’t worry, I have a plan.

This is the senator’s doing, and I’m going to get him for it.

I already know how I’m going to make him compensate us.

He’s paying for my therapy, your therapy, and Mr. David’s therapy.

He’s also paying for the damages today. And I’m adding an attempted murder charge. "

Tessa blinks. "Wait, wait. Attempted murder? They could try to make a case against you, you know, you used an iron bat."

"It’s self-defense, obviously. They have no case against me," I say, shaking my head.

She points out, "Well, that police officer did warn you not to use it."

I shrug. "I made my argument. He said in certain circumstances. I already have enough against this senator."

She grins. "Don’t worry. If anything happens, me and my NGO are backing you up."

Tessa runs an NGO or, honestly, it’s more like a troublemaking agency.

She does it for a good cause and doesn’t make much since she and three other girls started it from scratch.

Their main mission is to help young women who face injustice and have no voice, and expose what politicians are really up to.

Half the time, they stand in front of government buildings, staging protests even if it’s just the three of them, and they always seem to have inside information about politicians and their scams. Most politicians and even some people in the underworld are scared of her.

She has deep connections, so I’m not too worried.

Still, with the way I take politicians to court, I know that one day I might end up in a dumpster, my body found months later if anyone even bothers to look.

Tessa has risked so much that they might never find her if something goes wrong.

People say birds of a feather flock together.

In our case, maybe birds of a feather also die together or however the fuck that saying goes.

I only get poetic when I’m drunk, but yeah.

After Mr. David hands me water and a drink, he says, “Here, drink this. You’re going to need your energy.”

I take a sip of water when he asks quietly, “Are you sure we should be suing him?”

I put my hands on the documents and look at him. “What, are you trying to back out now? We’re in too deep. They already harassed you. They harassed me too. Somebody punched me in the gut. Obviously, I’m getting compensated for that. We’re not backing out. I’m not letting them bully you.”

He gives me a small smile that looks like it might turn into tears. “I just… I don’t know if I can handle all this.”

I shake my head. “Don’t cry. I’m handling everything. You just need to give me until tomorrow for results.”

He nods and takes another sip of water. I watch him, trying not to feel much sympathy for him. When you get attached to clients, the judge starts thinking you’re too emotional and your case looks shaky. That’s what I want to avoid.