Chapter 4 – Karik
Lightning flashed across the dark skies above, accompanied by a low rumble of thunder. My shoes scuffed against the pavement as I stepped out of the restaurant, one hand buried in my pocket.
The gentle breeze grazed my skin, prompting my eyes to squint by a fraction. I walked across the street without looking back, even though all I wanted to do was catch a glimpse of the fear she tried to mask.
Sergei opened the backseat door, and I climbed in before he closed it. Seconds later, he took his place behind the wheel, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
I looked out the window, fingers adjusting the tie around my neck. “She’s stubborn as a mule, that one,” I replied, watching her from behind my tainted glass.
“Do you think she’ll drop the case?”
I hesitated because, for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t predict someone’s next move. I was already used to people trembling in my presence, too afraid to look me in the eyes, let alone say no to me.
“I don’t know,” I answered, my voice barely above a whisper.
This Eliza girl proved different. Although she was intimidated and afraid, she refused to show it. She knew I wasn’t a man she wanted to mess with. Yet, she didn’t back down. She denied me the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.
Remarkable!
My lips curled into a mischievous grin as I watched her sip her tea in silence. She remained seated in the same position, seemingly unaffected by what I’d said to her.
I watched her fingers curl tightly around the cup. But that was pretty much the only reaction I got from her. Her expression didn’t change even when she looked toward my car.
Her ability to control her fear and act completely unbothered was rather fascinating. Most people in her shoes, after being visited by Karik Tarasov himself, would’ve already collapsed under pressure.
Not this one.
She slipped her tea and pushed her light brown hair behind her ear, her warm hazel eyes staring blankly into space. I recalled the look she gave me when she asked who I was—terrified and confused. It made me feel a certain type of way. Strange.
Though scared, she didn’t panic and didn’t ask the wrong questions either. The girl refused to break, claiming she wouldn’t stop until justice prevailed. Her enthusiasm and trust in the justice system were admirable.
Eliza was a gentle, patriotic citizen with good intentions, smart but naive. And in my world, those attributes often got people like her canceled. Or worse. Silenced.
“Bravery,” my father used to say, “isn’t the absence of fear. It is refusing to let your fears control your actions.”
Eliza was afraid. But the look in her eyes when she said no to me told me she was going to see this through to the end. No matter what.
People like her, though gentle on the surface, didn’t break easily. Good. I’d always loved a good challenge anyway.
“What do you want me to do about her?” Sergei asked, stealing a glance out the window.
A pause.
“I’ll deal with her later,” I replied. “For now, take me home.”
He gave a curt nod and started the engine. As the vehicle hummed to life and began rolling down the street, I wound down my window. It was as though time slowed down just enough to let me meet her gaze.
Her eyes followed mine while she slipped from her cup, her expression as flat as the one on my face. The look she gave me seemed like a reminder that she wasn’t backing down.
Time reset again, and the vehicle sped past the restaurant in a heartbeat. I wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about this young woman that pulled me in.
Whatever it was, it was as interesting as it was unsettling.
Back at my mansion, Sergei pulled up beside the fountain in the center of the courtyard. He killed the engine, stepped out, and opened the door for me. I climbed down, fingers undoing the button of my coat as I made way toward the entrance.
Once inside, I was greeted by the familiar sound of classical music, so loud it sounded more like a noise than a melody. My face twisted into a frown, and my blood boiled with fury.
The place was quiet when I left this morning, peaceful as always. So who the fuck was unfortunate enough to disturb the peace in my house? Definitely not one of my staff, because they knew better than that.
I ran this mansion on a set of rules, one of which was “No noise pollution. Ever.” No one had ever broken any of my rules, so what was the meaning of this nonsense?
I’d barely taken four steps into the living room when the housekeeper, Maria, approached me.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said politely, noticing my displeasure. “I told him to keep the music down, but he wouldn’t listen.”
I stopped before her, my brows knitting ever so slightly. “He who?”
“Your Uncle Pavel.”
Why am I not surprised?
“How long has he been here for?” I asked her.
She paused, as if running the math in her head. “About an hour or so.”
Great.
Uncle Pavel had always been a pain in the ass. The fifty-nine-year-old man was unapologetically loud and lousy for his age and political status.
“Of course it’s him,” I muttered under my breath, then began ascending the curved staircase.
Down the hallway, I loosened my tie as I traced the sound to my study. My shoes scuffed against the polished marble floor, my fingers rubbing my eyes.
The door was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the lit interior and the art pieces on the wall.
The classical noise drowned out the sound of the door creaking open. When I stepped inside, my eyes fell on the turntable in the corner, the record spinning lazily beneath the needle.
To my right, Uncle Pavel was helping himself at the minibar, dressed in a white tux. His signature attire.
I crossed the room in a few long strides, lifted the tonearm, and set it back in its cradle. The music stopped, leaving only silence.
“Well, that’s not rude at all,” Uncle Pavel said, pouring himself another glass of vodka.
“I’m not about to let you bring my house down with your loud music.”
He chuckled lightly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little too serious?”
I looked right at him. “No. Never.”
His lips curled into a faint grin as he poured vodka into another glass.
“Uncle Pavel,” I called. “Why are you here?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair by morning.”
“You’re always welcome in my house,” I replied. “I’m just wondering what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone.”
Uncle Pavel lifted the two glasses, walked around the minibar, and approached me. “Pakhan Artem asked me to speak with you in person,” he said. “Besides, this isn’t a phone conversation.”
At this point, my interest was piqued.
“Here. Drink up.” He handed me a glass and walked over to the nearby couch.
If Pakhan Artem sent him to me, this had to be important.
He sank into the cushion, the fine leather crunching beneath his weight.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about, or do I have to offer a burnt sacrifice first?” I teased, swirling the glass in my hand.
“Relax.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “It’s nothing serious. We just want to know what your plans are for settling down.”
I should’ve known.
I raised my brows in disbelief. “This again? Really? That’s what you came all the way here to discuss with me?”
“Well, the last time I mentioned it over the phone, you hung up on me.”
Guilty as charged.
I stared at him in silence, thinking of ways to dismiss the conversation before it even started.
“At this stage in your life, you should be thinking about marital stability and legacy,” he said, flashing a crooked grin. “If you’re having a hard time picking a wife, just say so, and I’ll gladly help out.”
Silence.
He went on, “Have you considered Anastasia Solokova? The girl is the perfect example of beauty with brains. She’s respectful and very traditional too.”
My uncle and I had gone over this same topic multiple times before, and I always owned up. However, something told me he wasn’t going to back down easily this time.
“There’s also the gorgeous daughters of Alexei Kurylenko. Ekaterina, Sofia, and what’s the last one’s name again?” He thought for a second. “Ahh, Valentina.” He sipped from his glass. “If I were you, I’d go for Valentina. She just turned 19. Catch them young, am I right?”
The girls he recommended were all from powerful families. In my world, marriage was a business that strengthened the alliance between two families. It was always strategic and sacrificial.
“I’m not ready…Uncle.”
“No married man I know ever was,” he replied. “Not even Pakhan Artem.”
I lifted my glass to my lips and took a sip.
“Duty calls, nephew.” He rose to his feet. “And sooner or later, you’re going to have to answer.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Marriage was expected of me at this point. It was an obligation, not an option. The pressure was mild now, quietly brewing beneath the surface. If I didn’t act soon, everything could blow up in my face.
He drained his drink in one gulp and walked over to me. “Take your future into your own hands and position yourself for greatness.” His palm settled on my shoulder. “Find a wife before the Bratva finds one for you.”
I stood there, digesting his advice with a flat expression on my face.
He glanced at the empty glass in his hand, his head tilting to the side. “This vodka tastes different.”
A pause.
He added, “I’m taking the bottle, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
I watched him move past me, heading straight to the minibar.
He grabbed the half-empty bottle and strolled out of my study, saying, “I’ll send Pakhan Artem your regards.”
I lowered my head with a faint scoff, my fingers rubbing my eyes. He’d passed his message; I was overdue for marriage, and if I didn’t make a move, the Bratva would move on my behalf.
The idea lingered, and the concept itself made me sick in the stomach. None of the women he suggested seemed right for me, even though they all belonged to prestigious families.
I’d met all of them on different occasions. They were pretty and quite attractive. However, deep down, I knew none of them was right for me.
In that case, who was my missing rib, and how was I going to find her?