Chapter 6 - Matvei
If Matvei had thought a silent, compliant Irina was suspicious, it was nothing compared to the defiant, rebellious version he’d been living with for the past two weeks.
The woman was like smoke, impossible to contain, no matter how many security measures he put in place.
Every time he thought he had her figured out, she’d slip through his fingers with an ease that would have been impressive if it wasn’t so infuriating.
He’d increased the guard rotation; she’d charmed one of them into taking her to the museum, claiming she needed culture to maintain her sanity.
He’d installed motion sensors on every window and door; she’d somehow convinced his housekeeper to let her use the service entrance for her “morning runs” that lasted suspiciously long and always ended with shopping bags.
The woman was a menace, and the worst part was that Matvei was starting to respect the hell out of her for it.
Tonight, though, she’d crossed a line.
“Sir?” His lieutenant, Pavel, looked up from the surveillance reports spread across the conference table. “Is everything alright?”
Matvei stared at the text message on his phone, his jaw clenching as he read the location his security team had sent him.
Remix, one of the most popular nightclubs in downtown Boston.
A place where half the city’s elite went to see and be seen, where discretion went to die, and where his wife was apparently spending her evening.
“Meeting’s over,” he said abruptly, standing from his chair with barely controlled violence. “Pavel, handle the shipping manifests. Dmitri, I want those warehouse schedules on my desk by morning.”
“But, Sir, we haven’t finished discussing the San Diego situation and the shipping...”
“Handle it. I pay you all enough to handle shit in my absence.” Matvei was already moving toward the door, his mind racing with possibilities, none of them good. “And if anyone asks where I am tonight, you don’t know.”
The drive to Remix took fifteen minutes through Boston’s evening traffic, fifteen minutes for Matvei’s imagination to conjure increasingly disturbing scenarios: Irina dancing with strangers, Irina drinking with people who might recognize her, Irina being photographed by someone with connections to rival families who would love nothing more than to get their hands on compromising material about the youngest Nikolai.
Irina was getting herself killed because she was too stubborn to understand the reality of the world they lived in.
The club’s bass line was already vibrating through the walls when he arrived, the kind of deep, thrumming beat that seemed designed to scramble rational thought. Matvei bypassed the line of hopeful party-goers, his reputation and a few folded bills ensuring immediate entry past the velvet rope.
Inside, the club was a carefully orchestrated chaos of lights, sound, and bodies.
The main floor was packed with dancers, while elevated VIP sections overlooked the scene like balconies at the opera.
Matvei’s eyes swept the crowd methodically, searching for one particular figure among the writhing masses.
He found her on the dance floor, and his breath caught in his throat.
Irina moved like water given human form, her body flowing with the music in a way that seemed almost otherworldly.
She’d chosen her outfit with deliberate precision: a black dress that clung to every curve while still maintaining an air of sophistication, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she danced.
She was beautiful, mesmerizing, and completely exposed.
“Fuck.”
Every protective instinct Matvei possessed roared to life as he watched her, along with something darker and more possessive that he didn’t want to examine too closely.
She was his wife, his responsibility, his problem to solve.
The fact that she was also the most captivating woman in the room was irrelevant.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
He was making his way toward the dance floor when another figure caught his attention. A man, mid-thirties, expensive suit, predatory smile. The kind of guy who thought money and charm could get him anything he wanted, including things that weren’t for sale.
The stranger approached Irina with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting what he wanted, his hand landing on her waist as he leaned in to speak directly into her ear. She didn’t pull away immediately, and something violent and primal clawed at Matvei’s chest as he watched the interaction.
His wife was flirting with another man. In public. Where anyone could see.
Matvei moved through the crowd like a shark cutting through water, his focus narrowed to laser precision. Dancers parted instinctively before him, some primitive part of their brains recognizing the danger he represented even if they couldn’t articulate why.
“Excuse me,” he said when he reached them, his voice pitched low enough to cut through the music without seeming to raise it. “I believe you’re dancing with my wife.”
The stranger looked up, taking in Matvei’s size, his expensive suit, the cold promise of violence in his golden eyes. Whatever he saw there made him take an immediate step back from Irina, his hands rising in a gesture of surrender.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know she was married,” the guy said, his earlier confidence evaporating like smoke. “She wasn’t wearing a ring, so I figured...”
“You figured wrong.” Matvei’s smile was all teeth and sharp edges. “I suggest you figure your way to somewhere else. Now.”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. He melted back into the crowd with the speed of someone who’d just realized he’d wandered into a predator’s territory by mistake.
Matvei turned his attention to Irina, expecting to see gratitude or at least acknowledgment of the favor he’d just done her. Instead, he found her glaring at him with undisguised fury, her ice-blue eyes blazing with indignation.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, having to raise her voice to be heard over the music.
“Protecting what’s mine,” he replied without thinking, then immediately regretted the phrasing when her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“What’s yours?” She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume over the club’s mixture of alcohol and sweat. “I am not your property, Matvei. I am not something you own.”
“You’re my wife,” he said, the possessiveness in his voice surprising even him. “That makes you mine whether you like it or not.”
“I’m your wife because you forced me to be,” she shot back. “That doesn’t give you the right to act like some kind of Neanderthal every time another man looks at me.”
“It does when that man could be a threat.” He reached for her, his hand closing around her wrist with gentle but implacable pressure.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to be here alone? How many people would love to get their hands on a Nikolai, especially one who’s making herself such an easy target? ”
“I’m not alone,” she said, pulling against his grip without success. “I have bodyguards.”
“Where?” Matvei’s eyes swept the immediate area, noting the complete absence of anyone who looked like security. “Because I don’t see them.”
For the first time since he’d approached, Irina looked uncertain. “They’re... around. Keeping their distance so I can have some fun without feeling like I’m surrounded by an army.”
“Jesus Christ.” The words escaped him before he could stop them. “You dismissed them, didn’t you? You actually sent away the people whose job it is to keep you alive so you could dance with strangers.”
“I can take care of myself,” she insisted, but some of the fire had gone out of her voice. “I’m not some helpless little flower who needs constant protection.”
“No,” he agreed, his grip on her wrist gentling slightly. “You’re a brilliant, stubborn, impossibly reckless woman who’s going to get herself killed because she’s too proud to admit she might need help.”
The compliment, buried though it was in criticism, seemed to catch her off guard. Her struggles ceased, and for a moment, they stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, connected by his grip on her wrist and the strange electricity that always seemed to spark between them.
“I’m not helpless,” she said again, but quieter this time.
“I know you’re not.” He stepped closer, close enough that they were nearly touching, close enough that anyone watching would assume they were lovers having an intimate conversation rather than a married couple having their first real fight.
“But helpless and invulnerable aren’t the same thing, Irina.
Even the strongest people need backup sometimes. ”
She was about to respond when Matvei’s instincts suddenly screamed danger. It was nothing he could pinpoint exactly, just a subtle wrongness in the atmosphere around them. His eyes swept the club methodically, searching for the source of his unease.
There. Two men at the bar, expensive suits, professionally casual postures that didn’t quite hide the way they were watching him and Irina. Their faces were unfamiliar, but something about their positioning, their body language, set off every alarm bell he possessed.
Surveillance. Professional surveillance.
“Irina,” he said softly, his grip on her wrist shifting to something that looked more like a caress than a restraint. “I need you to listen to me very carefully and not react to what I’m about to tell you.”
The change in his tone must have gotten through to her because her posture shifted subtly, her training as a Bratva daughter kicking in even if she’d never been allowed to use it before.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice steady despite the sudden tension he could feel radiating from her body.
“We’re being watched. Two men at the bar, both in gray suits. Don’t look,” he added quickly as her head started to turn. “Just keep looking at me.”