♛Chapter twenty five♛
Lola
I’m not a particularly dumb woman. On the contrary, I’d say I’m smart.
But this? This is definitely not a smart decision.
I waited until Mikhail fell asleep before I made the call.
Now I’m standing outside the apartment building, waiting for the car that’s going to take me to God knows where.
Somewhere shady, no doubt. Hell, somewhere I could end up with my organs on the black market.
But the second a sleek black Range Rover pulls up, I don’t turn back. No, I open the door and slide in.
And Sergei fucking Kozlov is in the driver’s seat. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and my stomach twists. Shit. We have history. And not the good kind. "So, we meet again, Lola," Sergei drawls, his fingers drumming lazily against the steering wheel.
I slip into the persona that’s kept me breathing all these years. Cold. Detached. Even if, deep down, I can feel the faint tremor of fear. "Guess congratulations are in order," I say flatly. "Seems like you got a promotion. The Bratva recruited you?"
"Took them long enough, huh? You always did have a good eye for talent." He’s throwing a dig at me. At the fact that I once hired him for a job. I keep my expression bored.
"Well, I hope your rates haven’t skyrocketed too much. Otherwise, I might regret making you their problem instead of mine."
Sergei smirks. "Oh, they’ve gone up, sweetheart. Way up."
"No discount for saving your asses?"
"Nope. If anything, you should be paying extra. You made yourself invaluable, Lola. The moment they realized they needed you, you should’ve known the price would only get steeper."
He’s right. And I fucking hate that.
The car rolls to a stop in front of an abandoned building. Its windows are blacked out, its structure barely holding onto whatever dignity it once had. My pulse kicks up, but I shove down the unease and step out when Sergei opens the door.
He leads me inside. The hallway is dimly lit, the air thick with dust and something faintly metallic.
But when he pushes open a heavy wooden door, the scene shifts.
He guides me to a side room that is almost civilized.
A round wooden table sits at the center, a single overhead light casting long shadows.
A bottle of wine, already open. Two glasses.
Sergei gestures for me to sit before taking the seat across from me. He pours two glasses, the rich, deep red liquid stark against the dull surroundings. "Relax," he says, leaning back with the glass in hand. "If we wanted you dead, we wouldn't waste good wine on you."
I snort, taking the glass anyway and lifting it to my lips. I cut straight to the chase. "What do you need me to forge?"
“A painting.”
“…No shit, Sherlock. What exactly?”
Before he can answer, another voice cuts in.
“A Monet original.”
I stiffen as Roman takes a seat beside me. “Think you can manage that, Lola?”
A Monet. Jesus. That’s not just some backroom scam. That’s elite-level art forgery.
“How much time do I have?”
“A week.”
“That’s not enough time. Do you have any idea how intricate—”
"Make it work." His tone is final, cutting off any argument before it can form.
"And what if I say no?" I’m not planning to back out, but I want to see what happens if I do.
"Then we have a problem." He bites back.
Fuck.
"Does my brother know you're here?"
I hold his gaze. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I'm wondering if he knows you’re defying him."
"I’m not a dog. I don’t take orders from him."
Roman chuckles, shaking his head. "Sure, Lola. Keep telling yourself that."
My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans.
I’m in deep, and there’s no getting out clean.
A crash, a barked order, and the sharp crack of a gun being cocked pull me away from my thoughts.
Sergei tenses, his hand ghosting over his own weapon.
Roman exhales, like he's already tired of whatever is about to walk through that door.
Mikhail storms in, a force of nature, a beast let loose from its cage.
His gun is raised, his injured hand barely an afterthought, and his eyes are absolutely wild.
The shot rings out before anyone can speak.
The bullet doesn’t miss its mark, slicing past Roman’s head and grazing his ear. Blood drips onto his collar.
Roman’s chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes up, hand flying to his ear. "What the fuck has gotten into you, brother?"
But Mikhail isn’t listening.
He’s growling. A deep, guttural sound, more animal than man. He looks feral. "What did you do to get my woman here? In this shithole?"
Roman wipes the blood from his ear, unimpressed. "Nothing. She walked in here on her own two feet. You need to control your woman better."
I roll my eyes. "I’m my own person. No one is controlling me."
Mikhail’s head snaps toward me. The room crackles with his rage. I step between them, pressing a hand against his chest, and pushing his arm with the gun down.
"Mikhail—"
He hisses, the sound sharp between his teeth. "Is what he said true?"
I nod. Before I can react, he yanks me to his uninjured side. His arms lock around my thighs, and suddenly, the world tilts. He throws me over his uninjured shoulder.
"Mikhail!" I smack his back, but he’s already heading to his car.
"Enough." His voice is final.
The car door slams shut, trapping me inside. He sits in the driver seat, absolutely seething. The veins in his forearms stand out. Hot. Not the time, Lola.
"You’re not doing shit for the Bratva. This isn’t up for discussion."
I cross my arms. "You can’t stop me."
"Can’t stop you?" His eyes pin me in place. "Sweetheart, I’ll chain you to my bed for all I care, until that silly little idea leaves your pretty head."
A thrill shoots down my spine, but I ignore it. "Try it."
"Don’t cross this boundary with me, Lola."
I deliberately invade his space until we’re so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Nose to nose. "How about this? Is this crossing the boundary enough for you?"
His pupils blow wide.
"You think you can just bark out orders and the whole world falls to its knees?" I trace a finger along his collar. "That everyone bends just because Mikhail Volkov commands it?" A humorless laugh escapes me. "I don’t bend."
"I’ll make the whole fucking world kneel before you, so you have no choice but to stand beside me."
He has a way with words. I think he might break, grab me, slam his mouth over mine, punish me for my defiance the way I know he wants to.
"Why the fuck are you even doing this?" he bellows instead.
The answer is instant, screaming inside me.
To protect you. But my pride won’t let me say it. Instead, I shrug. "None of your business."
"Tell me."
I sigh, the lie slipping from my lips with ease. "I need the money."
He looks horrified, like the answer physically wounds him. "You need money? Lola, you can have everything—"
"Not yours," I cut him off. "My own. Mine alone."
"You’re not doing this."
He’s challenging me, and I never run away from a challenge. It triggers something ugly inside me. "We’ll see who gets the last say, Mikhail."