Chapter 28 Alison
ALISON
I woke lost and confused, comically small in the emperor-sized bed. Someone was knocking on the door, too lightly to be Gennadiy. I’d stripped down to my panties to sleep, and I didn’t have anything else to put on, so I scrambled back into my vest top, then cracked the door open, hiding behind it.
She was about twenty-five, blonde and absurdly pretty, in a white blouse and black skirt.
“Mr. Aristov thought you might need these,” she told me in a heavy Russian accent, and passed me a dark green leather bag the size of a large purse.
“And these.” She passed me a bundle of clothes and then, when I’d put them down, handed me a stack of boxes.
“Breakfast will be served downstairs whenever you’re ready.
” And then she curtsied, graceful as a swan.
I managed to stutter out a thank you, then closed the door and leaned against it, dazed. Servants. He has servants.
I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the kiss.
Why had he suddenly pulled away? It hurt more than it should have, maybe because when I’d melted into the kiss, it had made me acknowledge all the feelings I’d been denying.
I’d been craving his touch for three months, and for thirty heart-stopping seconds, it had actually happened.
..and then he’d ripped it all away again.
My chest ached, remembering it. A mistake, he’d said, brutally crushing the excitement that had been rising inside me.
Had I been wrong, all the times he’d seemed to want me?
Had I just been imagining it? My insecurities about my body woke and uncoiled. Of course he doesn’t want you...
I took a deep breath and rammed the feelings down inside, then looked at the clothes.
God, he’d bought me an entire freakin’ wardrobe.
There were jeans, vest tops, blouses, sweaters, and underwear, and a cute, bottle-green denim jacket that I fell in love with immediately.
It was all high-end designer wear from achingly cool brands, so high quality that my own clothes suddenly felt scratchy and cheap.
Everything was fresh from the store...but there were no price tags.
Gennadiy’s maid had cut them off just to save me a few seconds, even though that meant they couldn’t be returned. Money really did mean nothing to him.
Wait...it was only eight in the morning.
How did he get these here so early? Either he had access to some personal shopper service for the ultra- rich that delivered within hours.
..or he’d called up the manager of some store downtown and scared them into opening early for him. Neither would have surprised me.
There were skirts and summer dresses, some of which were actually really pretty.
But nothing I could ever wear. I looked down at my ruined leg.
Not his fault. He’s only ever seen me in pants.
The boxes contained shoes in three different sizes.
The heels were far taller than I’d ever wear, but there were a pair of leather ankle boots that were badass.
I opened up the leather bag and found it was stuffed full of toiletries: everything from toothpaste to shampoo.
He’d even thrown in some tampons and pads.
I took a long, hot shower and dressed, choosing some black jeans, a white blouse, and the ankle boots, then went to investigate breakfast. I found my way back to the staircase and then downstairs.
The maid who’d brought me the clothes was polishing the banister, and I thanked her again and asked her name: Milena.
I followed the smell of food and found the dining room...and Gennadiy, sitting at the head of the table, sipping coffee. Both of us froze, unsure how to play things. “Thank you for the clothes,” I said at last.
“I’m glad they...fit.” His gaze traced over my hip, following the tight denim so closely it felt like a caress. I’m definitely not imagining that. But then he tore his eyes away guiltily. What’s going on?
I sat and, immediately, a man in chef’s whites appeared from the kitchen. “What can I bring you for breakfast?” He had the same heavy Russian accent as Milena.
“Umm…” How do you order when there’s no menu? “Anything. Whatever’s easiest.” The chef looked blank. “Uh...what do you have?”
He blinked at me, almost offended. “Everything! Pancakes? An omelet? Bread, cold meats, cheeses? Porridge with honey, or chia seeds, or goji berries? An English muffin? Poached eggs? Scrambled eggs? Eggs Benedict? Pastries, fruit? You’re American: waffles with maple syrup? Bacon and sausage? Steak?”
I gaped at him. “Um. Could I get half a grapefruit and some toast, please?”
“Right away.”
I looked at Gennadiy. “All your servants are Russian? Because you don’t trust outsiders?”
“Yes, they’re all Russian. And I don’t trust anybody.”
Just a few moments later, my breakfast arrived, and it was amazing, the grapefruit juicy and deliciously sour, the toast sliced thick and with just the right blend of crunchy outer layer and fluffy middle.
I was on my last mouthful when I heard voices in the hallway.
Male voices, and one sounded bad-tempered.
My stomach dropped. I trusted Gennadiy—mostly. But his brothers were something else. I was about to be outnumbered, behind closed doors, on their turf, and I didn’t have the protection of being an FBI agent anymore. “Do we have to involve them?” I asked quickly.
“Radimir is my Pakhan,” Gennadiy told me firmly. “I’ll try to convince him to help you. But if I can’t…” He shook his head, worried.
The door flew open, and suddenly I was staring up into the cold gray eyes of Radimir Aristov.
He was even taller than Gennadiy, and the family resemblance was obvious: the same sharp cheekbones and hard jaw.
But where Gennadiy was all fire and anger, Radimir was pure ice.
A man who’d built his billion-dollar property empire through ruthless deals and broken fingers.
In his tailored three-piece suit, he looked like a Wall Street banker, and he was meant to be the legitimate face of the family, letting the others do the dirty work.
But I had no doubt that he was capable of snapping my neck himself if he chose to.
Radimir stopped in the doorway, blocking everyone behind him. “What’s going on?”
Gennadiy took a deep breath. “This is Alison Brooks. She’s an FBI agent. She’s...the FBI agent.”
“The agent who’s been on you,” said Radimir coldly.
“Yes,” said Gennadiy.
Radimir’s eyes bored into me. “The one who confiscated two hundred thousand dollars of our money?”
I prayed for my chair to sink through the floor. It didn’t.
“Yes,” said Gennadiy, head bowed.
“The one who impounded four million dollars' worth of supercars, and ended one of our most profitable businesses?”
“Yes,” breathed Gennadiy.
“Then I only have one question,” said Radimir. He tugged his waistcoat straight. “What the fuck is she doing at your breakfast table?”
“Please, brother…” Gennadiy’s voice was gentle. He used his foot to push out one of the chairs. “Take a seat. Hear what she has to say.”
“Sit down with one of them?” Radimir looked genuinely concerned. “Gennadiy, what’s the matter with you?” His eyes went to me, then Gennadiy, then flicked upwards, towards the bedrooms upstairs. His eyes widened. “Are you—”
“No!” said Gennadiy and I simultaneously, both of us flushing.
A soft mane of copper hair appeared under Radimir’s arm, and then a woman squeezed through underneath it.
She was gorgeous, with big blue eyes and curves I’d kill for.
Bronwyn. Radimir’s wife, as of six months ago.
“Darling?” she said gently, “Gennadiy wouldn’t invite her here without a good reason.
” She poured coffee from the pot into a mug.
“Maybe it’s worth giving her a chance…” —she added milk—” .
..to explain?” She pressed the mug into Radimir’s hands.
Radimir looked suspiciously at me, then longingly at the coffee. Apparently, he wasn’t a morning person. At last, he scowled and took the mug from his wife, stepping into the room at last.
Behind him was Gennadiy’s other brother, Valentin.
With his longer hair and hauntingly beautiful face, I’d always thought he looked like an actor, or maybe the lead singer of a band.
But he was the deadliest of all of them, the family’s hitman, with a body count at least in double figures.
He skirted the table and took up residence in the corner, watching me closely.
There was the clinking of chains and the patter of many feet, and then Mikhail, the brothers’ uncle, arrived, together with his four dogs.
Mikhail was older, with a little silver in his hair, but he still had the Aristov good looks, and he seemed to be the only member of the family who smiled.
His dogs were beautiful: enormous Malamutes with white faces, gray and white coats, and big, fluffy tails.
One of them cocked its head and blinked at me. Who this?
Mikhail sat down at the table, and his dogs planted themselves two on each side of his chair, alert and watchful.
Bronwyn sat across from me and gave me a warm, encouraging smile.
Valentin sidled over to the table and slid into a chair, silent as a cat.
Only Radimir was left standing, glowering at me over the top of his coffee mug.
His wife turned and gave him a pleading look, and, as soon as he locked eyes with her, he just..
.melted. It was like the cold mask he wore slipped, and he was suddenly vulnerable.
Bronwyn held out a hand, and he laced fingers with her, then sighed and sat down next to her, throwing little, loving looks at her.
I’d never seen a man so besotted, and even though it was beautiful to watch, it made my chest ache a little.
I’d never had anyone feel that way about me.
“Thank you,” Gennadiy told his brother solemnly. Then he turned to me. “Tell them.”
I laid it all out. How I’d been leading an FBI team tasked with bringing down Gennadiy. How someone had tried to kill me and frame him. How, when that failed, they’d ruined my career and forced me to go on the run.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Agent Brooks,” Radimir told me. “But I don’t see why we should help you. You’ve been trying to put my brother in jail. You hurt our business.” He leaned forward. “You’re FBI.”
“She was FBI,” Gennadiy told him. “Now they’re chasing her. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. She saved my life. And she stopped me going to jail.”
Hearing him defend me made something inside me lift, and I had to work to not let it show on my face.
“I don’t like it,” said Radimir. “You forget what we are, brother.” He tugged the collar of his shirt away from his neck, exposing his Bratva tattoos. “We swore we’d never help the cops.”
“We’re not helping the cops, we’re helping her!” Gennadiy snapped. His brothers stared at him, and I thought I saw his ears redden.
Mikhail frowned, his easy smile fading. He began watching me the way you’d watch a scorpion.
“Look,” Gennadiy continued, “whoever’s behind this is one of our rivals.
That’s why they framed me; they want me out of the way.
They have someone inside the FBI: that makes them dangerous.
Forget trying to help her: we need to find who this is and take them out, for our own sakes!
” He looked at me, then at his brothers. “We’re all in this together.”
Radimir drew in a long, slow breath, considering. Then he nodded. Relief sluiced through me.
“It must be someone who wants you out of the way as well as us,” Mikhail told me, scratching the head of one of his dogs. His eyes hadn’t left me for a second. “Who—other than us—were you investigating?”
I hesitated for a second. Spilling who the FBI was looking into broke all the rules. But they were trusting me: I had to trust them. “Two families,” I told them. “The Cantellis and the O'Donnells.”
Gennadiy slammed a fist down on the table hard enough to make everyone jump. “Blyat’! The fucking Irish!”
Radimir planted his elbows on the table and cupped one fist in his hand. “It’s not the Irish,” he said firmly.
“Of course it’s the Irish!” snapped Gennadiy. “We played nice with them, and now they think they can take over!”
“Finn O'Donnell has a lot of men,” said Valentin quietly, “and he doesn’t do half measures. If we accuse him of this, it’ll mean a fight.”
Gennadiy scowled. “Fine by me!”
“We have a deal with the Irish,” Radimir said tightly. “It isn’t them.”
“We should never have made that deal!” Gennadiy yelled.
The room went silent. The two men glared at each other for three, four seconds before Gennadiy dropped his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry, brother.”
I could feel the depth of the love between the two of them, but I could feel the hierarchy in the family, too, and I tried to learn from it. Never forget who the boss is. Got it.
“Given that we know accusing the Irish won’t end well, maybe it makes sense to eliminate the other possibility first?” Bronwyn’s voice was like a gentle summer breeze, and the tension at the table eased. Radimir and Valentin both nodded.
“That makes sense,” said Mikhail. But he was still studying me.
Gennadiy shook his head sulkily. “Deal with Emanuela?” He sighed and rubbed at his stubble. “I—Alright. Yes. It’s a good suggestion. We’ll go see the Italians first.”
The meeting broke up. Gennadiy hurried off to make arrangements for the Cantelli meet, already talking into his phone.
Radimir and Bronwyn strolled out to the gardens, his arm around her waist. Valentin slipped away before I was aware of it.
That left Mikhail watching me from across the table.
His four dogs mimicked him, and it would have been funny if I didn’t know how many people he’d killed over the years.
I swallowed and sat up straight, refusing to be intimidated. “Something on your mind?”
“I am concerned for my nephew.” Where the other Aristov’s voices were silver and ice, Mikhail’s Russian accent reminded me of smooth, warming whiskey. “Gennadiy has a particular hatred of your kind. Police. The FBI. The system.”
A particular hatred? Why is that, I wondered.
“For him to overcome that hatred,” said Mikhail, “I think something even more powerful must be at work.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “There’s nothing between us.” I looked away. “He’s made that painfully clear.”
Mikhail gave a long-suffering sigh and rose from the table. “That,” he said, “is even more concerning.”
He started walking away, his dogs falling in beside him.
I frowned. “You’re worried because he doesn’t like me?”
“No,” Mikhail said without looking back. “Because he cares enough about you to lie to you.”