Chapter 16
IRIS
I try to avoid Ilay for the next few days.
I do everything possible not to check on him or breathe the same air as him.
He’s a dangerous man and the freaking pakhan of Russia.
I’d be a fool to involve myself in an affair with him.
No matter how tempting he is or how obsessively devoted he acts, he’s still a mafia boss, and I’m just a normal citizen trying to make it till forty-six.
Good thing he has a shoulder injury. It gives me the perfect excuse to avoid having dinner with him.
I eat alone, I work alone, I exist alone.
Every now and then, I catch the house staff giving me Pitying looks.
They are used to seeing me by his side, and yes maybe I could tolerate him for a few weeks, but hurting someone I consider a friend because they held my wrist for a fraction of a second is low.
If he wants me, he sure as hell has to be a better person.
***
A week passes, and Ilay and I have become the hottest gossip in the house. You’d think, with how big the place is, the staff would have their hands full, but no—they’d rather sit around during breaks to discuss the issues their boss has with his employee.
I head down to his study and knock once before pushing the door open.
At first, the room seems empty, but then my eyes fall on him, slouched in the oversized leather chair.
I step closer, leaning in to inspect his face.
His sleeping face is… absurdly beautiful.
I swear, sometimes I wonder why God decided to bless a man with features straight out of some tortured Renaissance painting.
Too bad he has the personality of a dog with rabies.
I stand there judging him silently. Then, without opening his eyes, he says, "Are you going to say anything, or do you want me to switch angles so you can get a better look at me?"
I blink. This man. "You wish," I mutter, stepping further in, annoyed at myself for standing there like an idiot. "If I want to look at something irritating while doing nothing, I'd watch Worldstar."
He cracks one eye open, then smirks at me.
He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, then tilts his head with a slow smirk.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks.
"You didn't come see me for a week. I feel…
very sad. If not for the thought of you still breathing somewhere inside our home, I might've gone insane. "
I roll my eyes. "Stop with the theatrics." He raises a brow, amused.
"I'm here because I crack the will." I toss a folder onto his desk. "It's under a different name, and the person isn't even in Russia."
"It's an American man," I go on. "Spencer Wright. Age thirty-eight. My guess? He's the real lover of Professor Lev. Or, if not that, then he's where the money gets laundered."
Ilay stays silent. I frown. "Did you hear what I just said? Or am I talking to myself?"
Instead of answering, he rose slowly and crossed the distance between us, his hand reaching up to brush his fingers against my cheek.
"I hear you haven't been eating properly," he said, his voice deceptively soft and gentle.
His voice was soft, terrifyingly gentle, and though my mind screamed at me to step back, my feet wouldn't move.
"Your cheeks look hollow," he murmured, his thumb brushing the skin as if he were testing for a pulse.
"Have you not been sleeping?" His touch was intoxicating, and those wicked, hypnotic eyes were weaving their spell again, stripping away my defenses until I forgot exactly why I was supposed to hate him.
I shook my head, physically forcing myself to break the trance.
"I’ll answer that when you finally address the information that is starving me.
" He frowned, his unblinking gaze locked on mine.
"Yeah," he muttered in a tone of feigned disinterest, though his eyes never wavered, studying me as if gauging my reactions.
Then, he began to lean in. I jerked my face away before his breath could ghost over my lips.
"Ilay," I whispered, the plea tearing from my throat. "Please… not today."
He exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath, the sound harsh in the quiet room. But instead of forcing my submission, he stepped back, and the air rushed back into my lungs. Just like that, the monster receded, and the mask slid back into place.
"I guess we're going to America," he said, his tone jarringly light, as if he hadn't just been cornering me.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the study, leaving me paralyzed in his wake, suffocating in silence.
***
I retreated to my room and collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling until the silence was shattered by the buzz of my phone.
Tessa.
I answered immediately. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," she replied, her voice bright and victorious. "Guess what? We won. The judge gave that bastard a ten-year sentence. They're actually doing it. Justice is served."
I sat up, a genuine smile tugging at my lips despite the exhaustion weighing me down. "Tessa, that's amazing. Seriously. You guys did it."
"We did it," she corrected firmly. "I'm coming back today. We're flying in tonight."
"Perfect," I said, my mind already shifting gears. "I actually need you for something. We're heading to America for a case, and I could use someone with your talent for sniffing things out."
"America?" She perked up instantly. "Say less. I'm in. Where are we meeting?"
"The airport. I'll text you the details.
" There was a brief pause on the line before her tone shifted.
"Also… I heard Jackson got shot." I groaned, rubbing my temples.
"Yeah. He did." She burst out laughing, the sound sharp and unapologetic.
"I know I should feel bad, but honestly? I’m kind of happy he did.
It makes up for all the times he teased me about being poor.
At least I'm poor with two functional hands. "
"Yeah, but we're still poor," I interrupted dryly.
She waved it off. "Nope. I’m still poor. I don't have a mafia man with money turning my insides out. At least you made it. I didn't have to sleep in a tent for weeks because of your magic lips."
I snorted. "Tessa, please."
"I'm just saying," she continued, relentless. "Jackson is a man, and not a smart one. If he knew who you were with, why pull out a gun? Men are clueless."
"Fair point."
"Anyways," she said, her brightness returning. "Let's go. I'll see you at the airport."
"See you there."
I hung up, staring at the phone for a second before the reality set in. America. Here we come.
***
Three days blurred into a haze of preparation and anxiety.
As the departure date loomed, Ilay became increasingly volatile—snapping at subordinates, pacing like a caged animal.
I didn't know why, and though part of me wanted to ask, I refused to let him think I cared enough to inquire. So, I kept my silence.
He had located Spencer Wright deep in Montana, living off the grid in the vast, open plains outside a forgotten town called Clearwater Ridge.
Apparently, Spencer had reinvented himself as a cattle herder.
It was on-brand for someone hiding from both the mafia and corrupt politicians—quiet, isolated, and far from the spotlight.
But it was also incredibly stupid.
If someone like Ilay decided to track him seriously—and he had—there would be no witnesses, no neighbors to scream for help, and zero chance of survival.
No one would even know he was gone. According to the intel, Spencer’s only contact was his grandmother, a sweet old woman in the city who received monthly shipments of beef and dairy just to keep up the charade that everything was okay. But we both knew it wasn't.
***
The night before our trip, I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped tight around my body as I dried my hair with another. My mind was racing, cluttering with thoughts of the flight, Spencer, and the mess I was drowning in.
Then I turned, and my heart slammed against my ribs.
Ilay. He was sitting on my bed, watching me.
A scream tore from my throat, louder than necessary. "What the hell are you doing in my room at—" I glanced frantically at the clock. "At 10 PM?!"
He didn't answer. He just looked at me, his gaze heavy and unreadable. Then, he stood up.
God, I always forgot how massive he was until he was this close—the height, the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence.
It was a miracle I had survived every time I’d slapped, shoved, or screamed in his face.
He didn't speak, he just stalked forward, forcing me to retreat until my shoulder blades hit the dresser.
And then, like a moth to a flame, his hand reached for my face. He peered down at me with those maddening, soulless eyes. "Are you still angry that I shot that man?"
I scoffed, tightening the towel around my chest as I sidestepped him. "That man? You still have no remorse. You won't even call him by his name. He is a friend of mine, Ilay."
He didn't flinch or blick. He simply took another step, cutting off my escape route. "I don't like it when you keep your distance from me," he said, his voice restrained but vibrating with tension.
I turned to face him, gripping the windowsill behind me to anchor myself.
"Then stop doing things that push me away," I said, my voice quiet, exhausted.
"You hurt someone I care about, and you don't feel a thing.
Why do you even care what I think of you?
" I looked him dead in the eye. "Why should you care?
I'm just some underpaid lawyer you hired for a case. "
His mask cracked. "Because I fucking like you, okay? I don't—" He runs a hand through his hair, taking another step closer. "Fuck, it's so hard to talk to you when you're mad. I never think I'd feel anything close to remorse, and I'm sorry I don't, but I can't stop liking you, Iris."
My breath hitched. "What?" I whispered.