Vitaly (Las Vegas Petrov Bratva #3)

11. Mila

11

MILA

T he next morning, I wake up early.

Dawn barely breaks over the horizon as I change into a sports bra, wincing at the bruising on my torso. It looks worse than it feels. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

None of the other women stir in their bunks as I sift through their clothes, searching for a tank top to cover up the bruises even I can’t stand to look at. When I find a bright pink number claiming to “ never give up,” I pull it on and roll my eyes at the corny phrasing. Pink looks bad enough on me. No one needs the pep talk.

Once my shoelaces are tight, I stand and leave the women to their slumber, creeping peacefully to the gym. Normally, this is my favorite part of the day, when I’m all alone and drifting through the silence.

But today, the calm feeling I usually feel when I inhale a deep breath walking the stairs to the gym doesn’t come. I’m not relaxed. I wasn’t relaxed all night, and it had nothing to do with sleeping in a dead girl’s bed.

Vitaly gave me nothing last night. Nothing to tell Nikita when he asks why he’s come back. If I had to guess, I’d say he got everything he needed from the lieutenants and just likes fucking with me.

He doesn’t want my help. He doesn’t even think he needs it. He’s more sexist than Nikita.

“ I’m all set, thanks, ” I say under my breath, my lips twisted dramatically in the most unflattering imitation of my enemy.

What is Nikita going to do when he realizes Vitaly is never going to tell me anything?

My lips relax as I consider it, but I push my mind elsewhere. It’s too soon to give up. If Nikita expected something last night, he’s delusional. Vitaly isn’t going to trust me just because he thinks I have information that could be useful, which he obviously doesn’t.

He needs time. He needs finessing . He needs?—

My thoughts are abruptly cut off when I walk through the open doorway to the gym and see I’m not the first one here.

With only one row of lights to illuminate him, I stare at the muscles rippling in Vitaly’s back and shoulders as he knocks out pull-ups, ten before I stop counting. He doesn’t grunt as he does them. I didn’t even hear him from outside. The only thing that shows he’s a man instead of a machine is the sweat slicking his tattooed skin.

I noticed the tattoos before, but now… He must’ve sat for days to get all this done. Both his arms are fully covered, and ink runs over his shoulders and covers the majority of his back as well. It might look like a shirt if his shorts weren’t hanging low, showing the stark contrast of ink and clear skin at his waist.

Eventually—it could be a minute, it could be ten—Vitaly drops from the bar and turns, glancing at me before ripping a towel from the nearby rack and wiping sweat from his face. His lack of surprise makes me wonder if he knew I was standing here staring at him, my face heating at the possibility.

I clear my throat and walk over to the mats, keeping my eyes in front of me so I don’t look at him. I want to leave, but I’ll die before giving him the satisfaction.

“Good morning,” Vitaly says.

I ignore him.

“You’re up early.”

You’re up earlier.

I lay out a mat and face away from him while I start my warm-up routine, which is about ten minutes of yoga. I start with a deep breath—zero hope of it creating any sense of calm—then lift my hands above my head, pressing my palms together and elongating my neck toward the sky.

I can feel him staring.

My eyes open on impulse, and I realize my mistake of facing away from him. I catch his reflection in the mirror lining the wall and flinch as if he’s right behind me. He hasn’t moved from the pull up bar.

“ Can I help you ?” I snap.

He shakes his head from across the room. “Just resting between sets.”

I reposition myself and try not to see him, even in my mind. Closing my eyes once more, I shift into warrior one and breathe in deep, my ribs protesting the stretch. If he wasn’t here, I would stop. I would skip the stretch, baby the injury. Now that I’ve started, halting feels like surrender.

I catch movement in my periphery and dart my eyes to Vitaly’s reflection in the mirror. He’s gone back to doing pull ups, his abs and chest in view this time.

My lip curls in a sneer as I look away, but my traitorous eyes find their way back.

Thousands of years ago, my ancestors needed men like him to protect their young. My great, great times two thousand grandmother was holed up in a cave somewhere with a newborn baby and needed to eat. She needed a person with a certain stature to be able to hunt, to protect . It only made sense to choose a man like Vitaly, for natural selection to create a liking for certain traits.

So when my heart rate picks up as my eyes roam Vitaly’s carved muscles that glisten with sweat, it’s biology. It isn’t lust. It’s literally out of my control.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring when he finally drops from the bar, but I quickly move my eyes away and change positions. He wipes his face and chest with the towel before going to the rack of dumbbells, his back to me yet again. But the mirrors line the entire room. He can still see me if he chooses to look.

My pride nudges me, pushing me out of my pose and pointing my feet toward the drawer with a spare throwing knife. I have several positions left in my routine, but it would kill me if Vitaly left early thinking all I came in here to do was yoga.

He thinks little of me. Always has. And as much as I want to ignore it, blow it off, accept that I don’t need his approval outside of earning his trust to ultimately betray him, I can’t help but want to prove myself. Not just to him but to everyone. I feel it all the time. There’s a greatness inside me that claws to get out, but no one will let me open the door, or even a window, to show them.

I retrieve the blade and go to stand in my usual spot twenty feet away from the target.

While I’m in this spot, there’s always pressure. I crave success, need success, and when I let myself down, I feel it with an intensity that threatens to bring me to my knees.

But closing my eyes, picturing the target, knife in my grasp, I’ve never felt so much at stake. As ridiculous as it sounds, I feel this even more than I felt the job I did collecting money from the Fun House. Even more than when it really mattered.

Nine years ago, the man in this room insisted I was trash. It doesn’t feel like I’m only proving my worth to him in this moment, it feels like I’m proving it to myself.

Sweat beads on my forehead despite having done nothing. My heart races as if I’ve run a 10k.

I inhale a deep breath, bring my right foot back, rearing the knife. When I propel it forward, my yell follows it. I’m bent over, staring with wide eyes at the tip of the blade dead center of the bullseye.

I did it.

I did it.

I look in the mirror for Vitaly, unable to help myself from seeking his reaction, and when I see him with his back still to me, curling a dumbbell, I stop breathing. It feels like the air was knocked from my lungs, even though I know he couldn’t possibly have hit me from across the room.

Disappointment. Sad, pathetic disappointment sits like a heavy weight on my chest while I just stand staring at the target.

I’ve hit a bullseye two other times. I’ve thrown the blade maybe a thousand.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, but I feel a thickness in my throat that comes from sadness I don’t normally allow myself to feel.

What is it about this man that makes me so pitiful? It’s like I’m being transported back to my twelve-year-old self’s body.

Chomping down on my molars, I stride to the blade, jerk it out, and go back to my position. I throw it five more times, blocking out Vitaly the best that I can, and by the fourth throw, I actually succeed in ignoring him. It isn’t until I’m about to throw it a sixth time that I catch him in the mirror, standing right behind me.

This time, I don’t flinch.

“Something I can help you with, sir ?”

His reflection smiles at me like he finds me amusing or cute . I could kill him.

“I was just wondering how you do that.” He points to the target and nods that way as if I need the extra help figuring out what he’s referring to. “Make the knife stick every time, I mean. It’s impressive.”

I move my eyes to the target, knife wielded, and pretend to ignore him. A pleasant warmth spreads in my shoulder and up my neck until it fills my ears.

I rear back and throw the knife with a roar, landing it a few inches right of the bullseye.

“Practice,” I reply with every bit of the pride that I feel.

“Hmm.” I catch Vitaly watching me in the mirror, his head tilted while I go to retrieve the blade. “It’s a neat trick.”

That falters my steps. My foot catches on the floor, and I pause for half a second before continuing.

A neat trick.

Trick.

Trick .

I rip the knife from the target and walk back to my post with a swing to my shoulders. Except I don’t stop at my post. I continue to Vitaly, the knife burning my palm with the intensity to release it right into his heart—which would be such a fitting death for him.

I stop only a few inches away, the smell of his sweat invading my senses. It isn’t unpleasant, and I hate that.

“Do you remember when you saw me the other night in Naked City? I was doing a job , like a soldier would. Which is the same title you have, by the way. And in case you didn’t notice, I fought off several of those goons with strength, stamina, and agility I built in this gym. My ability to throw a knife is not a trick. It’s a skill, and a deadly one, useful not only to me but to the Bratva.”

He nods, but the blank look on his face makes it clear he’s unconvinced. If he watched a man do what I do, he would see a killer. But me? Oh, I’m just a girl.

Anger bubbles my blood to the point I shudder with it, my jaw clamping down so tight, my teeth protest. The knife clangs onto the hard floor when I drop it, and Vitaly’s eyes are there while I raise my fists, planting one foot back to get into a fighting stance.

His brows shoot up. “You can’t be serious.”

“Humor me.”

He blinks, a startled laugh skittering from his mouth. “Mila, you’re wounded . You shouldn’t even be in here. You should be resting. And your face…” He gestures to my cheek. Last night, I covered the bruise with makeup so he wouldn’t ask, but now I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks about it. “You look like a ragdoll as it is. Does Nikita spar with?—”

My fist connects with his mouth in a jab before I bounce back on my toes, feeling powerful from the surprised look he gives me. It was a sucker punch, but it sent the message I wanted.

Shut the fuck up.

When he doesn’t put his hands up, I lunge forward with two jabs to his abdomen followed by an uppercut that he takes without lifting his hands. I fall back, a rush of endorphins giving me a surge of energy.

“Fight, you pussy,” I sneer, my fists in front of my face, watching carefully for his to raise so I can wait for the best possible moment to deflect. That’s all I have to do to get that big bundle of muscle on the floor. From there, I won’t stop. I’ll kick and kick and kick until he relents. Until he admits that I’ve won.

I was too angry when we were back at his cabin. I couldn’t think straight. I had no plan of attack, no brain power .

Now I’ve got this motherfucker.

He keeps his hands down, eyeing me like I’m a wild animal he doesn’t know how to approach. I hop in closer, ready to catch him off guard, but instead of landing the punch he’s expecting, I swing my leg toward his liver with a howl.

His hand moves so fast, I don’t register it until it’s too late. Confusion sets for a split second when he grasps my ankle, oxygen bursting from my lungs as he flips my leg over—thus me— and sends me to the ground. I catch myself by my palms, but it’s still a hard land on my sore ribs. I cringe in pain but bite back the groan, pressing my forehead to the cold floor.

I’m done. I can feel Vitaly standing over me, waiting for me to get up, but the pain that radiates from my ribs from the fall makes me feel too vulnerable.

Vitaly crouches and puts a hand on my shoulder. I try to shrug it off, but he doesn’t move it, and shame prevents me from speaking.

“You’re right,” he says, his soft voice more insulting than if he’d sneered. “You’re a talented woman with a knife, and maybe you could even hold your own against some men. You have some usefulness as a soldier, if that’s what you really want. With a bit more direction, I have no doubt you could be great, but as it stands… I would be shocked if you weren’t dead in your first fight against anyone with a brain or a gun. The other night, that man had your life in his hands, and I’m not sure he had either.”

My body feels like it’s made of lead as I close my eyes against the weight of Vitaly’s words. They don’t sting, they injure. Far worse than any kick would. His words are a gunshot to the abdomen. They steal my breath, clog my throat.

Seconds pass while I wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. His hand remains on my shoulder while he leans in close.

“ Get up .”

No.

He stands and nudges my leg with his shoe. “Let’s go, soldier .”

Soldier?

Is he mocking me?

The pain furling my stomach moves to my chest where it thaws into anger. Opening my eyes, I plant both palms on the floor and slowly push myself up, climbing to my feet before turning around to glare at Vitaly.

He doesn’t smirk or gloat like I expect. His expression is neutral, even as his eyes dip down my body and back to my face again.

He steps up so we’re a mere foot apart again. Our height difference wasn’t so striking to me last time, but with his shoulders squared, he seems to tower over me now, enough that I stand up as straight as I can, my neck craned to sneer up at him.

“Hit me,” he commands.

I rear back, squinting.

“I’m not going to hit you back,” he says, as if I’m worried about that. As if I haven’t taken a beating before. As if I didn’t take a beating due to his actions just yesterday.

I don’t care about my body. I care about my pride. He’s already wounded it.

Nails digging into my palms, I rear back my fist and drive it toward his nose, putting all my weight into the punch. But before I make contact, Vitaly's grasp on my wrist stops me an inch from connecting with him. My momentum sends me stumbling forward, falling against his rock-solid chest before jumping back and jerking my wrist from him.

“You’re staring right at your target.” He shakes his head with disapproval. “And you're slow . You make a face that shows exactly what you’re planning on doing, and then you put everything you have into executing it. Then what? You have no plan for what happens if you miss, do you? Or if I catch you?”

“You just said to hit you,” I snarl. “Obviously, it wasn’t going to come as a surprise.”

He cranes his neck as he peers at the ceiling and seems to consider this. “If you told me to hit you , do you think you could block my punch?” he asks, returning his gaze to me.

I stare for a moment, keeping my face neutral, but inside I feel uncertain. Block a punch? I don’t know that I’ve ever tried to block a punch before. Certainly not consciously. I imagine that would’ve resulted in a much worse beating.

“Yes,” I answer with confidence I don’t have. “Of course.”

He nods and raises his fists, so I do the same, resisting the urge to swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth for fear of him seeing my throat contract. His eyes stay locked onto mine while my forearms prickle with energy. I’m ready to move them at his slightest movement, my whole body ready. It takes everything I have not to flinch at nothing.

Two seconds pass.

Three.

Four.

When my eyes detect movement below, I brace my forearms on my stomach, but it isn’t his fist that moves, and he isn’t aiming for my gut. He sweeps my legs from under me with one swift swing of his foot, and I gasp as I fall.

I prepare for impact, pulling my shoulders in and tensing, but Vitaly catches me before I hit the floor.

I’m panting as he brings me up and sets me on my feet.

Rough palms linger on my shoulders while he ensures I have my balance, then he backs up a few feet, scrutinizing me intently. “The most powerful gift you’ll ever receive is your enemy believing they know your intention. Do not ever reveal it. Everything you do should come as a surprise.”

“Wow, thanks, sensei.” I huff out a bitter laugh, but it’s weak.

I want to sneer, bite, claw, but I’m too stricken to do anything. I don’t understand why he caught me. I don’t understand why he isn’t gloating.

He beat me at his game. He made me look like a fool, like a silly girl playing with knives. He made me look exactly the way he wanted to.

So why doesn’t he look happy? Why is he still here?

Why is he acting like he’s trying to help me?

He gives me a tired smile in response and shrugs. Then, as if finished with me, he walks back to the dumbbells and resumes his curls. Just like that.

I consider leaving, but his words play in my mind while I watch him, and I remember my true mission.

The most powerful gift you’ll ever receive is your enemy believing they know your intention. Do not ever reveal it. Everything you do should come as a surprise.

Does that include his intention in coming here? Will he never reveal it?

What the hell are you up to, Vitaly?

“Good morning.”

My attention whips to Nikita’s voice in the doorway, but his eyes are on Vitaly. Vitaly sets down the weight and walks over to Nikita.

“Morning.”

“You slept well, I hope?” Nikita’s voice oozes with friendliness that’s so fake, it makes my teeth ache. “The mattress was okay? Mila didn’t keep you up with her snoring?”

Nikita chuckles. Who the fuck is he, the inn keeper? And I don’t snore.

“Everything was great.”

“Good, good. Well, I have wonderful news. I found work for you. Today, you and Mila will be picking up rent checks on Custard Street.”

Vitaly gives a single nod. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent.” Nikita smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Vitaly glances at me, then back to Nikita. “I’ll go get cleaned up.”

Nikita turns as Vitaly leaves, watching him go, and I feel it instead of see it when his smile falls. Like he’s been holding his dark energy in and now lets it loose to envelop us both.

“Well?” is all he asks.

I’ve been dreading this moment. He wants answers I don’t have in timeframes that are impossible to achieve. And now more than ever, I truly don’t believe I’m ever going to know what Vitaly is planning. I don’t think he plans to tell a soul. Certainly not me.

The most powerful gift you’ll ever receive is your enemy believing they know your intention. Do not ever reveal it. Everything you do should come as a surprise.

All I know is what he tells me. And what he tells me is, based on his own philosophy, a lie.

But it’s all I have for Nikita.

“I don’t know how true it is, but so far, all he seems to want is me.” I keep my voice so even, I’m positive he can’t tell it’s a lie. “Like you said, he feels he has a right to me. I think he’ll tell me more, but it’ll take time to build his trust.”

Seconds pass before Nikita nods. “Fine. Start earning it today.”

“Yes, sir.” I move when he nudges my back. My heart beats wildly as I head up the stairs to prepare for my first day as a soldier, a title I truly didn’t earn. It’s all fake. I’m no soldier.

I’m just a temporary spy.