Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Katya
The party guests return to their hushed conversations and the incident is forgotten. A maid is already sweeping the glass and waiters are restocking the stemware. Glancing at my blood-soaked clothes, a wave of exhaustion hits me. I scan around for a bathroom, but before I can move, Mikhail approaches.
“The boss wants to see you,” he says, his gaze averting to everywhere else but directly into my eyes.
I follow Mikhail into an office. Despite the light streaming through the curtains, the dark wood of the desk and bookshelves makes everything feel heavy and important. The air carries a faint scent of leather and aged paper. This room is the epitome of power and money.
Dimitri’s father sits in a large chair behind the desk, Uri and Dimitri flanking him. Mikhail stands silently behind me.
“Thank you for your service today,” the family leader says.
I nod. “Of course.”
“You handled yourself with great composure.”
“Thank you.”
He leans forward on his desk, his sharp gaze locking onto mine. “Explain to me why you told my grandson I was a hero, when you know I am not.”
“He was already scared, and he should feel safe.”
The patriarch frowns, the sort of frown that even makes his forehead seem grumpy. “He needs to fear and respect his role in this world we’ve created.”
I shrug. “Generational trauma sure has worked out well for this family.” I twirl my fingers in a circle. “Just trying to disrupt that cycle, if only for a few minutes.”
There’s a stillness before it breaks with Uri’s chuckle and spreads to everyone else.
“Katya, you’re a funny one,” the family leader says. He pats Dimitri on the arm, “Just like my youngest son.”
This blows my mind. I point to my boss. “Him?”
“Yes.”
I turn to Dimitri, stiff and unsmiling. His strong jaw tightens as his sharp blue eyes dart to Uri, then back to me. Maybe he’s still reeling from the stress, but his glower is deeper than ever.
“That guy right there? He’s funny?” I tilt my head to the side. “Nope. Don’t believe it. I’ve spent the last year with him, and not once has he done anything remotely funny.”
Dimitri’s broad shoulders slump but he quickly straightens up, his brows furrowing. “I’m funny.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what the evidence suggests.”
He lets out a growl and says, “Come on. We need to find you new clothes.” He steps from behind the desk, and I can feel his annoyance as he brushes past me.
Dimitri leads us down a corridor to a second staircase far away from the party. Family bedrooms and private offices line the hallway. From the other side of a door come the grunts, groans, and bed squeaking that leaves little to the imagination. Dimitri's forehead vein pulses, and his body tenses. He exhales and hurries his pace.
He stops in front of a door two rooms away and pushes it open. The dark green walls and a painted ceiling make the room feel closed off and formal. The only sprinkling of personality are aged, framed posters and a few trophies that break up the monotony of the bedroom’s walls. Beyond that, it’s all leather-bound books and rich dark wood. Poor guy never had a chance to be himself, always living in his father’s image and his brother’s shadow.
Dimitri huffs and pushes past me, heading straight to the closet. He glances over his shoulder at me before pulling out a shirt—correction, a tent. It’s a white button-down, easily seven sizes too big.
“Here.” His lips curl into a smirk, and there’s a flicker of satisfaction in his otherwise serious eyes when he sees my wide-eyed, open-mouthed reaction.
“Ohhh. I get it. You’re a visual comedian, like Carrot Top.”
His lips flatten. “I have no idea what that means.” But he thrusts the shirt at me and points to a door next to the closet. “Go get changed.”
“Bossy,” I grumble, snatching the shirt.
The bathroom matches the bedroom to an unnerving degree—right down to another football player’s picture hanging on the wall. I peel off my blood-soaked clothes, rinsing my skin in the sink to erase any evidence of Ian’s episode.
The "tent" shirt is even worse than the bloody uniform. It swallows me whole, hanging awkwardly.
“Hey, are you emotionally committed to this shirt?” I call out.
“No.”
“Excellent.” I wiggle my fingers in my best Mr. Burns impression.
With a few creative folds and a satisfying rip of the sleeves, I transform the oversized shirt into a form-fitting dress, tying the sleeves as a makeshift belt. I pull my hair into a neat bun to hide any stray blood that might have mixed in. My black heels, previously hidden by my slacks, complete the look—hot mess sexy vibes.
I step out of the bathroom, and his eyes widen as his mouth drops open. “Are you a wizard? How did you do that?”
I shrug. “Way too much time on YouTube.” I point to his hands. “You should wash.”
He huffs. “Well, now it’s going to be underwhelming when I come out looking exactly the same.”
“Not everyone can be fashion magicians. Some of us have to settle for being mid-level comedians from the ’90s.”
While he’s in the bathroom, I wander around, inspecting the books on the shelves. Part research, part curiosity—and maybe just a little intel gathering. “Was this your room?”
“Yes.”
“Not a lot of space for personality in this house, was there?”
“Nope.”
He steps out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes scan me slowly, his jaw tightening as he rubs his chin. His expression shifts, darkening and unreadable yet intense. A flash crosses his face, something I’ve only ever imagined seeing from him.
Suddenly, the room feels massive and yet suffocatingly small, the bed dominating the area as tension settles in the space between us.
He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, the lust vanishes, replaced by his usual stoic control. “Come on,” he says, his voice flat.
We head into the hallway.
Another door swings open, and his brother steps out, adjusting his shirt as though he’s just been interrupted.
“Ian and your wife left in an ambulance,” Dimitri says, his tone sharp, each word dripping with restrained rage.
Damien freezes, panic flashing across his face. “What happened? Is she okay?” It’s the first time I’ve seen genuine concern for his family.
Dimitri barks out the truth, his jaw tight and shoulders stiff. “Ian had an allergy attack and fell into a table, sliced the shit out of his arm.” He jerks his chin toward me. “Katya saved him.”
Damien shoves Dimitri, his voice rising. “What the fuck? Why didn’t someone get me?”
My boss doesn’t flinch. He juts his chin toward the room his brother just came out of. “You were busy fucking my future wife.”
Sveti steps out behind Damien, her dress wrinkled and her cheeks red. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. Her lips part, but Dimitri raises a hand, silencing her.
His glare is icy as he turns back to his brother. “You did me a favor. Now I don’t have to fuck her.” He motions to me without sparing Sveti another glance. “Come, Katya.”
A small smirk tugs at my lips as I pass her, adding a little victory strut to my step. I can feel Sveti’s glare in the back of my skull. Mean girl, petty bitch glare. The kind of girl who would leave passive aggressive comments on all your selfies like, “Oh it's brave of you to wear that!” And I don’t have a single fuck to give about her.
We return to his father’s office, and once again, eyes widen and jaws drop when they see me.
His father claps his hands together. “Katya, well done.” He turns to his nephew, his tone shifting to something almost jovial. “Uri, take this woman home and show her a good time.”
Wait. What?
“Umm…” Uri’s eyes dart nervously between Dimitri, his uncle, and me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dimitri interjects, his voice tight. He clears his throat, his gaze flicking to me. “Look what she did to Mikhail.”
His father waves him off dismissively. “Yes, but Mikhail is disgusting. Uri is a prize. It’s been a while since Uri’s taken a woman home, and Katya is beautiful—it would be a waste.”
What is happening right now? I force a polite smile. “Um, thank you, but that really isn’t necessary.”
“Is he not good enough for you?” the patriarch asks, his sharp gaze pinning me in place.
“No, Uri’s great,” I wave my hands and get all flustered. Did the temperature spike ten billion degrees? Dammit. I'm a spy. I've been trained to think fast on my feet. “It’s just... I’m not looking for anything right now.” Nailed it.
Uri's reply is dry and flat. “And I don’t think Dimitri would like that.”
His uncle snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Why would Dimitri care who’s fucking his bartender?” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at me. “Oh, unless you already have a boyfriend?”
I exhale a long breath. “No.”
He claps his hands together as if solving a problem. “It’s settled. Uri, take her back to your place.”
The air in the room turns heavy, loaded with awkward tension, the kind everyone feels but no one acknowledges. Words, logic—none of it will sway him. Uri dips his head in resignation, letting out a long sigh. “Let’s go.”
Great. I’m spending way too much time following grumpy men today.