Chapter 14
EMBER
I don’t hear from Rodion all day.
I hate it.
I find myself opening up the damn app every minute, checking to see if he posted a new video, or a new comment, something. Even though I have it set up to notify me when he posts, I manage to convince myself that I must’ve missed it.
I do my best to try to stay on task, but my mind isn’t in the game.
The video showed he watched mine earlier, but…
I click the focus on my camera, adjusting the lens to center on the subject—a cluster of glossy city lights reflected in a puddle on the uneven pavement. It should be an easy shot, something I’ve done a thousand times before. But my hands aren’t steady. The framing feels off, and no matter how I reposition myself, the composition doesn’t click into place.
I blow out a frustrated breath and try again, crouching lower, angling the camera upward. The viewfinder blurs for a second, and I realize I’m not even looking at the scene anymore. My mind is somewhere else.
No. Not some where . Someone.
I shake my head and reset the focus, but my fingers stay on the buttons too long. A second passes. Then another. It’s useless. The image in my head isn’t the lights or the rain or the city’s moody backdrop.
It’s him.
His hands on me, the way they linger just long enough to leave an impression as hot as a brand. The low timbre of his voice when he murmurs something teasing and sharp, a challenge laced with a dare. The heat in his eyes when he looks at me—like I’m something rare, something he’s already decided is… his.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and my hand slips, jarring the camera. “Shit,” I whisper, cradling the lens as I try to reset the shot again. Focus , I tell myself. Just focus.
But the truth is, I’ve lost the thread completely. My eyes drift to my phone resting on the edge of my camera bag. I resist the urge to check it—for messages, notifications, anything. He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, but I know he isn’t far away.
Or is he?
The lights blur in the lens again, and this time, I don’t even try to fix it. I set the camera down, my breath catching as my thoughts spiral back to him. I’m gonna give myself a minute to indulge the fantasy, to be as fucking obsessed about him as he is about me.
What’s he doing right now? Thinking about me? Planning something?
My heart beats faster at the thought, and I press my hands to my thighs, willing the adrenaline to fade. But it doesn’t. Not when every part of me is tuned to him like a live wire.
The camera sits forgotten on my lap as I stare out at the city, my pulse pounding in sync with his memory. I know then… it’s hopeless. I’ve got a big, head-over-heels, heart-pounding crush for the guy.
I send him a message but it goes unreturned. I barely stifle the need to pout.
I need to talk with someone.
I pull up the app and message Bookbabe.
I haven’t heard from my stalker.
Bookbabe
Nooooooo. He posted last night, though, didn’t he?? Did you shamelessly flirt with him, or…?
I did and he responded and then nothing
Bookbabe
Oooh. Does he…usually respond to you more often? Maybe he’s… I dunno, like… offing someone or unaliving them or whatever tf mafia men do? What DO Bratva men do?
I don’t want to know but I think it’s more than that?
Jesus. I hope it’s more than that.
Also? I’m not lying. I truly have no idea what he does because I would hazard a guess that nearly everything is… well, not exactly legal.
We joke in the romance community about these guys who are morally gray. But how gray is he? Are we talking a little bit of smoke mixed in with mostly white-gray? Or are we talking, like… charcoal gray?
Gunmetal gray?
Gah.
He did say he had a job to do before he broke into my apartment, and… my cheeks flush pink.
Bookbabe
Do you think something is wrong???
Oh god.
Oh god.
Why the hell has it never occurred to me that whatever he does for his family isn’t just dangerous, it’s probably life-threatening ?
It’s like I’ve never read any of the books that go into great detail about the risks and dangers, for crying out loud. This is partly my fault for dwelling so much in my fantasyland happy endings that I’ve forgotten his job is high-risk.
I do a quick search online. Bratva jobs.
What the hell am I doing? Like they’re going to be listed in a classified section online or something.
But the hits come hard and fast, and I can’t help but read them.
I hesitate for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, like a reckless idiot, I type the words into the search bar: Bratva deaths .
The screen fills almost instantly. Headlines, articles, grim photos. It’s a deluge of violence, and I should stop scrolling, but I can’t. Each click pulls me deeper, the stories blurring together.
"High-ranking Bratva member found dead in Moscow alley."
"Explosive car bombing tied to Russian organized crime."
"Federal crackdown on Bratva operations leaves dozens arrested."
I click one article. Then another. And another. Each one I read is more gruesome than the last.
A politician found shot execution-style in broad daylight. A businessman’s body discovered weighted at the bottom of a river. A nightclub leveled in a firebombing.
Oh my fucking god.
Each story tightens the knot in my stomach. This isn’t just some romanticized, book-boyfriend fantasy.
This is… this is his world.
Rodion’s world.
I dig deeper. The arrests. Some of them make the news—sleek photos of men in tailored suits being led away in cuffs. Others… don’t. They disappear, swallowed up by the system or something worse. The price of getting caught is isolation, surrendering any possibility of a relationship.
And the deaths? From what I’m reading? Those are the lucky ones.
My chest tightens as I read about men vanishing without a trace, rumors swirling that they were taken, interrogated, tortured for weeks. Families left to guess, their silence bought with fear.
I click off the screen.
What am I doing?
I sit back, pressing my hands against my face, trying to steady my breathing. He’s reckless. Impulsive. Wild. And yet, somehow, he’s survived this long. But how much longer can anyone survive in a life like this? What if a single mistake could bring it all crashing down?
And yet, here I am, tangled in the web he’s spun around me .
I’m not usually neurotic or this nervous, but…
That’s it. At the risk of playing the role of needy, wannabe girlfriend, I go to text him again.
Hey. It’s me. Remember me? The girl you were obsessed with and now you haven’t even said good morning to??
No. Too toxic.
I delete it try again.
Hey. I know this might be over the top, but I haven’t heard from you all day and I’m wondering if you’re okay. I know the things you do are…er. Risky. Check in, okay?
I add a heart emoji and stare at it for a minute.
Too forward?
Then I remember the feel of his tongue between my legs and the way he made me come so hard I screamed.
Cheeks flushing, I sheepishly add two more hearts and send the message.
I drum my fingers on my thigh, waiting.
Nothing.
What do I even do with this nervous energy?
I could hit the gym… that might work. But even the gym has lost its appeal when I go alone and don’t have my inked personal bodyguard by my side.
I could go home and eat dinner like a sensible person.
Or I could?—
“Miss Steele?” A friendly-looking woman with silvery hair tucked into a merciless bun smiles at me. “Mr. Kopolov sent me to fetch you.”
Fetch me?
I blink. “What?”
She smiles broadly. “He sends his apologies, miss, and said he wanted to give you warning but had no time.”
What the hell?
“Please. Come with me.” Smiling, she gestures toward a sleek navy town car that purrs at the edge of the curb.
“Um. Who are you?”
Still smiling, she takes out a business card and shows it to me.
“Mr. Kopolov asked me to assist you in preparing for this weekend’s gala?”
Oooohhh.
“Um. Yes?” I say hesitantly, though I feel the overwhelming need to verify what’s happening. “Just a minute.”
I pull out my phone to call Rodion, even though he’s ignored every single one of my calls today. My stomach churns when I see he’s not only ignored my messages but sent me one of his own:
Bratvabloodline
Go with Cindy and do what she says.
I’ll fill you in later.
Oh, the fucking nerve.
I clench the phone, debating whether to call him again out of sheer spite. Instead, I take a deep breath and remind myself that his cryptic commands, as infuriating as they are, usually have some kind of purpose. Still, I’m not thrilled about being shoved into some mysterious agenda without so much as a heads-up.
The car is already waiting downstairs, Cindy standing patiently beside it, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my tone wary as I approach her.
“Rodeo Drive, miss,” she says, smiling with a hint of a sigh like she’s anticipating the fun she’s about to have. “One of my very favorite places to shop, and it’s been a while.”
I blink. Rodeo Drive? As in the Rodeo Drive? I’ve heard of it, of course—who hasn’t? The stretch of boutiques that practically screams money, luxury, and exclusivity. A place so far out of my price range that it’s laughable.
I hesitate, glancing at Cindy’s polished appearance. Compared to her chic tailored blazer and heels, my casual skirt and top feel like a poor excuse for “effort.” But at least I wore a skirt, I remind myself. It’s better than the usual jeans and sneakers.
“Well,” I mutter, sliding into the car, “I suppose if Rodion is otherwise occupied, I could handle something like this.”
I think.
“Have you eaten?”
I shake my head warily. What does that have to do with anything?
“Ah. Mr. Kopolov instructed me to feed you first if you hadn’t eaten yet.” She smiles.
I open my mouth to protest because how dare he , but when my stomach growls, I remember how starving I am.
Fine, then. Apparently, the first stop is dinner. I suppose I’ll make better decisions on a full belly, and I can assume he’s paying, so…
Cindy ushers me into a sleek, minimalist restaurant with dark wood finishes and glowing pendant lights. The kind of place where the menu doesn’t list prices, just descriptions so elaborate you’d need a dictionary to translate them. I order a gourmet burger and a side of truffle fries because I want to eat fast and get to the shopping.
What I really want is to get to him , and I think a part of me knows that doing what he planned for me is a good first step.
I’d be lying if I didn’t like the way she swipes her card, and I don’t have to pay for a thing though.
I’m starting to relax—right until I realize she’s not just friendly. She’s efficient. She’s steering this whole outing like she’s orchestrating an event.
When we pull up to Rodeo Drive, my jaw practically hits the ground. I knew it was fancy but seeing it in person is something else entirely.
Every storefront gleams with sleek displays of designer gowns, handbags, and glittering jewelry. I didn’t think I was that into things , but seeing the gorgeous displays in front of me, I can’t help but want to reach out and stroke the soft, buttery leather and gleaming diamonds.
Cindy leads the way with a confidence I can’t even fake, gliding into a boutique where we’re immediately greeted with smiles for her and a subtle once-over for me.
“This way, miss,” the attendant says, ushering me toward a row of dresses displayed like works of art.
Cindy picks out a few, her discerning eye scanning me critically but kindly. “You’ve got wonderful proportions,” she says, holding up a stunning deep emerald dress. “This color would bring out your eyes beautifully.”
I almost snort. I’m not used to this kind of flattery, and I’m definitely not used to this level of attention. But I follow her lead, slipping into the dressing room with the kind of hesitation that makes the attendant tilt her head like she’s trying to figure out how I got in here.
Well, she can fuck off. My Bratva boy book boyfriend got me here, so here I am.
The first dress fits like a dream, and I catch myself staring at my reflection, almost not recognizing the woman in the mirror. It makes my cheeks look flushed, my breasts fuller, my waist accentuated, and my curves… wow.
“Champagne?” the attendant asks as I step out to show Cindy. She doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing a delicate flute into my hand before I can refuse. Not that I would. Free champagne?
The bubbles tickle my nose as I sip, letting Cindy fuss with the hem of the dress. I feel out of place, sure, but there’s something undeniably thrilling about this—the attention, the indulgence, the way these clothes make me feel like I belong.
Even if I’m just Cinderella in a borrowed dress, I’m going to enjoy it for a little while.
I glance at my phone, hoping for some kind of update from Rodion, but there’s nothing for the first hour of our trip. I finally send him an admittedly petulant little message.
Thanks and all but WHERE are you? Are you alright?
My heart skips when I see a new message.
Bratvabloodline
Yes and promise I’ll make it up to you
It’s simple, but it makes my chest tighten anyway. A promise. I’m drinking champagne, wearing a gorgeous gown I could never afford, and eying shoes fit for a princess and her rendezvous with Prince Charming, and he’s telling me he’ll make it up to me.
I take another sip of champagne, glancing around the boutique with its opulent decor and whispering sales staff. Rodion’s world is nothing like mine. It’s overwhelming and glamorous as fuck, but maybe, just maybe, I can navigate it.
If he’s going to make it up to me, I might as well enjoy this strange ride while it lasts.
I’m sitting in the back of the car alone. Cindy’s had all my purchases delivered to my apartment. We pull up to my building, and I see a shadow of a man but can’t see details. From the distance in the dark I wonder if it’s him but quickly decide it isn’t because he doesn’t walk like Rodion.
I stifle a sigh.
When he turns, horror dawns on me. Is it… Shawn ?
Oh god. I can’t handle the emotional rollercoaster from one thing to the next like this.
My mind races. The words are frozen on my lips. I’m trying to think of what to say. His messages have gone quiet for a few days, and I had almost convinced myself he was going to give up, but then?—
I look again, and he’s gone.
Was it my imagination? Did I conjure that up?
I shake my head and take my keys out when a low, dangerous voice whispers in my ear.
“Do exactly what I say, and I won’t hurt you.”