Chapter 10
Ayla
Istand outside the warehouse, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
The rain stopped hours ago, but I’m still damp. Still cold. My legs ache from walking miles through streets I shouldn’t have survived crossing.
But I did.
I always do.
The metal door groans when I push it open. Inside, my crew sits scattered around our makeshift planning room. Ricky’s smoking again, annoyingly so. Kay’s on her phone, fingers flying. Jace stands in the corner like a statue.
They all look up when I enter.
“Christ,” Ricky says, stubbing out his cigarette. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Working.” The lie tastes like ash.
Kay’s eyes narrow. “Your shift ended at ten. It’s almost four in the morning.”
I drop my backpack on the table. “I had complications.”
“What kind of complications?” Jace’s voice is gravel and suspicion.
I can’t tell them. Can’t explain that I spent the night in Maksim Korsakov’s bed.
“The kind that are handled,” I say instead.
Ricky stands, crosses his arms. “Hot wired your car, dropped it off by your place.”
I sigh. Grateful, but now they know I’m a liar.
“Gabriel was there looking for you,” he adds.
My stomach drops. “When?”
“Two hours ago. Emir too. They were pissed that you turned off your location?”
Fuck.
I pull out my phone. Seven missed calls. Twelve texts. All from Gabriel.
The last one reads:
Gabriel
You have until sunrise. Then I come for Santi.
My blood turns to ice.
I check the time. 4:23 AM.
Sunrise is in two hours.
“I have to go,” I say, already moving toward the door.
Kay grabs my arm. “Ayla, wait—what’s happening?”
I try and pull free. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Bullshit.” Her grip tightens. “You’re shaking.”
I am. I didn’t even notice.
I force myself to breathe. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Ricky mutters. “Starting to sound like a lie.”
He’s right. It is a lie. But it’s the only one I have.
I yank my arm away and head for the door. Behind me, I hear them arguing; should they follow, should they let me go, what the hell is wrong with me.
Everything. Everything is wrong with me.
Outside, the pre-dawn air bites at my skin. I run. My boots slap against wet pavement, lungs burning, ribs screaming. I don’t stop. Even when I know I’m being followed, I divert and lose the tail.
Gabriel’s house looms ahead, all stone and shadow and secrets buried in the foundation.
The gates are open. Waiting.
I slow to a walk, force my breathing steady. Can’t let him see me rattled. Can’t give him that satisfaction.
Emir meets me at the door. His expression is unreadable.
“He’s in his office,” he says quietly. “And he’s not happy.”
“When is he ever?”
Emir’s jaw tightens. “Ayla—”
“Save it.” I push past him.
The walk to Gabriel’s office feels like miles. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I don’t knock.
Gabriel sits behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes cold. Two of his men flank the door behind me. I hear it click shut.
Trapped.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Traffic.”
His hand slams down on the desk. I flinch—can’t help it.
“Don’t fuck with me, Ayla. Give me all the intel you have.”
I lift my chin. “I don’t have any.”
“You don’t have any?” He stands, moves around the desk. “So spend the night at Korsakov’s apartment to get fucked and have nothing for me?”
My blood runs cold.
“Don’t be a whore for free Ayla” He stops inches from me. “If that’s what you want to be, I have men who would line up and hollow you out.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t fuck him, he didn’t touch me or give me intel.”
“No?” He grabs my jaw, forces me to look at him. “Then why were you there so long?”
“He kept me out of rain, that’s all.”
His grip tightens. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
He shoves me back. I stumble, catch myself on the desk.
“You went to his apartment,” Gabriel says, voice deadly quiet. “You stayed the night. And now you’re standing here telling me he did that out of the what? Kindness?”
“He offered me shelter. I chose that over walking in the rain, you texted me to stay, I stayed, but he didn’t tell me anything. That’s all.”
“Bullshit.” He circles me like a predator. “What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
His fist connects with my stomach.
Air rushes out of my lungs. I double over, gasping, pain exploding through my abdomen.
“Try again,” he says.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
“I didn’t get anything from him,” I manage between gasps. “I swear.”
He grabs my hair, yanks my head back. “Then why did you stay so long?”
“Because you told me too and walking through Bratva territory alone at night is suicide and you know it.”
His eyes search mine. Looking for the lie. He won’t find it.
Finally, he releases me. I collapse to my knees, clutching my stomach.
“Get up,” he orders.
I force myself to stand. Every muscle screams in protest.
“You’re going back,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“To Maksim. New plan is, now that you’re in with Maksim. Seduce him, make him like you, let him fuck you, whatever you got to do. Get me my intel.”
***
Between the diner, cleaning Mrs. Hardinoff’s place, and the bakery, I’m exhausted and I haven’t seen Maksim in weeks.
Excellent for me but also Gabriel is on me almost daily. I don’t dare tell him I have Maksim’s number. He’d force me to call him. I drag the trash to the alleyway behind the diner, toss it in and shut the top.
Footsteps shuffle behind me.
The hair raises on the back of my neck. I drop, grab the knife from my boot and turn with a swing.
A hand catches my wrist.
“Hey, it’s just me.”
Santi.
“Don’t sneak up Santi, what the hell!”
He chuckles, dropping my wrist. “Where’s the fun in that?”
His hands find his pockets, his green eyes find mine, even in the low light of the alleyway they glow, just like when we were kids.
“I haven’t seen you around in a while,” I mutter.
“I didn’t want to be seen, I’ve been busy.”
I scoff. “Too busy for me?”
I tuck my knife back in my boot.
“Wasn’t like you’ve been around.”
I nod. “True, why you lurking around back here?”
“I got a job. In Florida. I leave tomorrow.”
“What the fuck? Way to bury the lead! You’re getting out?”
I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face.
“Something like that,” he shrugs.
“Something like that? What does that mean?”
He shifts his weight, eyes dropping to the ground. “I need to get away from Arsen. He’s... he’s getting worse.”
“What did he do?” I ask, voice low.
Santi’s jaw clenches. “Nothing yet. But I see the way he looks at me. Like I’m a problem he needs to solve.” He finally meets my eyes. “I’m not waiting around to find out what that solution looks like.”
“Florida’s far enough?”
“It’ll have to be.” He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket, presses it into my palm. “My new number. When you get out from under Gabriel, call me. We’ll figure it out together.”
The paper feels heavy in my hand. Like a promise. Like goodbye.
“Santi—”
“Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Be safe.”
“You too.” He pulls me into a hug—quick, tight, desperate. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the shadows like he was never there.
I stand in the alleyway, paper clutched in my fist, trying to breathe around the weight crushing my chest.
One less person to worry about.
One less person in my corner.
I shove the paper deep into my pocket and head back inside.
***
My eyes snap open.
Someone is in my apartment.
No.
Someone is on my bed.
I jolt upright, blanket sliding down into my lap.
Maksim Korsakov.
My gaze drifts to his hands.
My stuffed bunny, perched in his lap.
Instinct takes over—I snatch the bunny from his grip and fling it aside without even looking where it lands.
My heart is already slamming against my ribs.
Too loud. Too fast.
Embarrassment flares, hot and stupid and completely unwelcome because that’s what my body reacts to first.
Not the man in my apartment. Not the fact that Maksim Korsakov is sitting on my bed like he owns it.
Just—
My bunny.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His mouth twitches.
“Boy underwear again,” he says casually, eyes flicking to my lap.
I glance down before I can stop myself. Tank top. Soft cotton. My favorite pair, the stupid gray ones I stole from a thrift-store men’s rack because they’re comfortable and don’t pinch. The blanket barely covers my thighs now.
I yank it higher.
“Don’t look at me,” I bite.
“Too late.”
I glare at him. “Why are you in my house?”
“Don’t be hostile, Krolik.”
My spine goes rigid.
“Don’t call me bunny.”
His brows lift. “You speak Russian.”
“No,” I say immediately. Too fast. “I inferred.”
It’s a lie, I understand enough of it.
His eyes narrow a fraction—sharp, assessing. Like a blade sliding free.
“Hm.”
My knife. I need my knife. It’s by the front door, in my boot. Too far.
“Don’t,” he drawls.
My eyes meet his.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He leans back on his palms, relaxed, unbothered—like this is normal. Like he didn’t break into my apartment while I slept.
“Go freshen up,” he says. “Then we’ll have breakfast.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He stands. The movement is smooth, like he’s in no rush. He steps out of my door-less room and down the hall like this place is already mapped in his head, disappearing into the kitchen nook.
Panic finally punches through.
I scramble off the bed and bolt for the bathroom, locking the door behind me with shaking hands.
I press my forehead against the door, trying to steady my breathing.
Maksim Korsakov is in my apartment.
In my kitchen.
With breakfast?
What the actual fuck.
I need to defend myself.
I look around my tiny box of a bathroom. A toothbrush. A razor—the disposable kind you buy in a pack of ten. I pick it up, turn it over, thumb brushing the plastic.
Could I break it?
The blade would be small. Close combat. He’s bigger. Stronger. Faster. My stomach twists.
I drop it.
No time.