Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
GEORGIA
The morning after vodka shots and illicit dance parties with Russian mobsters, I lie splayed out on my bed feeling like something the cat dragged in. Then chewed up and spit out.
At eight on the dot, the door opens, and Piper enters my room pushing a cart.
“Good morning,” she announces cheerily. “Natalia has other things to attend to, so she asked me to help today.” When she spies me flat out on the bed, she chuckles. “Rough night?”
“That obvious,” I say, pushing myself up to a sitting position. I warily eye the plate of eggs and toast that she places on the table. “I don’t think I can stomach solid food at the moment.”
“Hope you at least had fun,” she says with a teasing smile.
“I’m not sure fun is the word. It was something, though.”
Something, indeed.
My heart stumbles a beat when I think of Andrei, all menacing and growly, when he caught us wasted and dancing up a storm in the living room.
Was he jealous that I was dancing with Daniil?
His brother is a flirt, but it’s not like we were grinding all over each other.
At least I don't think that’s what we were doing, but it’s all a blur now.
Perhaps the Kozlov brothers had ulterior motives for getting me drunk.
I shouldn’t have let my guard down around them. Though if I hadn’t believed that Andrei was out on a date with another woman, I probably wouldn’t have needed those ten thousand shots to drown my sorrows.
His words from last night come back to me, flooding my insides with warmth.
He can’t stay away from me.
Did he really say that, or did I dream it in my drunken haze? In the cold reality of morning, his words mean nothing. Or at least they shouldn’t. No matter the heat that lies between us, Andrei’s made it clear he’s not interested.
Why I’m torturing myself, lusting after a man that I should run far away from, is beyond me. I must be a glutton for punishment.
Andrei is my enemy. My captor. I won’t forget that next time.
“The Russians have a great hangover cure,” Piper says, intruding into my spiraling thoughts.
“Come here and I’ll show you.” She beckons me to the small breakfast table.
As I take a seat, Piper offers me a glass of a suspicious-looking liquid.
I take a sniff and nearly lose my lunch, or more accurately, yesterday’s dinner.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t drink that.” I grimace and push the vinegary smelling substance to the far end of the table. She pushes it right back at me.
“It’s pickle juice,” she says. I give her a questioning look, expecting her to yell out that I’m being punked, but she doesn’t. She’s dead serious. “A few shots of this and you’ll feel good as new, trust me.”
“You’ve been working for these Russians for too long if you’ve already picked up their disgusting hangover remedies.”
“Must be,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
I'm sure the pickle brine shooter will have the opposite effect than Piper is promising, but what do I have to lose? Well, except the contents of my stomach. I plug my nose and down the shooter, much like those smooth vodka shots from last night.
“Ugh,” I roar, slamming my glass down as the vinegary brine stings my throat.
“Well done.” She pats my hand and hands me a pastry. “To wash the taste away.”
“Thanks.” I take a huge bite, grateful for the rich carby pastry. Just what the doctor ordered. Looking up, I watch as Piper tidies up the room, making my bed and picking up the dress I discarded on the floor at some point last night.
“I can do that.” I stand, chagrined that someone else would have to clean up after me.
She just smiles and shakes her head. “It’s my job. You need to worry about curing that hangover. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead of you.”
“Don’t remind me,” I whine, sipping my coffee.
She stops for a moment and sits on the bed, watching me closely. “What are you training for?”
Shifting in my seat, I recall Andrei’s warning to keep details of my mission quiet. “Nothing in particular. Andrei thinks I could be an asset at some point in the future.” I shrug. She nods, but intense eyes keep their focus on me.
Memories of the conversation we had yesterday come back to me.
She’s new here. Which means she may not be as loyal to the Kozlovs as Natalia, and maybe, just maybe, I can rely on her to help me escape.
During my time here it’s become abundantly clear that Andrei runs a tight ship, and that includes the armed guards, cameras and god knows what other security measures that I don’t know about.
Time is slipping and if I am going to escape and find my father, it has to be soon—before Oleg comes out of hiding and Andrei’s plan moves into overdrive.
The next chance I get, even if it means resorting to something out of character, I’ll take it.
I push back my half eaten breakfast and turn to face Piper. “You said you're new here, huh? How did you come to work for the Kozlovs?” I can’t imagine one of the most powerful bratva families hires through the usual household staffing agencies.
“I worked for a royal household in Luxembourg for the last year. Natalia found me through a connection there. Monarch royalty and mafia royalty aren’t so different. They demand the same thing from the people that work for them: complete discretion and absolute loyalty.”
Loyalty—that tricky word.
I take a last sip of coffee and rise from my seat to stretch my sore limbs.
The training over the last few days has finally caught up with me.
Soreness imbues every step. My thighs burn as I step into yoga pants, my arms so stiff that I abandon a sports bra, and choose to wear a tight fitting tank top instead.
With my hair pulled up in a messy bun, I slip my feet into trainers and wish Piper a good day, heading out the door for a punishing day of training.
As usual, Mikhail is my ever present guard shadowing me, accompanying me through my day, but rarely speaking. Today I joke with him it's like I’m enrolled in bad-ass spy school, but his face remains stony as he ushers me through the basement doors of the house to a small clearing in the woods.
“What’s going on?” I ask, but of course get no response. In the distance, I can see some makeshift target practice set up against a tree.
I’m not sure why they think being in the great outdoors might convince me to pick up a gun, but it won’t.
Probably not.
Ok, the thing is, I’ve reconsidered my no-gun stance.
I still think they are evil, but I have to be smart.
If I find a chance to escape, a gun might come in handy, but only if I know how to use it.
I’ve reluctantly come to the realization it’s time for me to suck-it-up buttercup and learn how to use a death ray.
I square my shoulders, ready to surprise Boris with my newfound willingness, but instead I am greeted by the wide shoulders and powerful muscles of a very familiar back.
Shit.
He turns and gives me a slow, seductive smile.
“Good morning, krasotka, I’ll be your firearms instructor today.”
ANDREI
Georgia stands frozen in place as if she’s just stumbled face first into the villain in a James Bond movie. Not a surprise considering I have more in common with a movie villain than Mr. Bond.
“Come closer. I won’t bite.” I may not make good on that promise, but I offer nonetheless. A Cheshire grin overtakes my face as she shuffles forward like a lamb towards slaughter.
Her gray eyes are chips of ice as she stares at me. “I’m not scared, just wasn’t expecting you this morning, that’s all. What happened to Boris?”
“I gave him the day off.” I flick my gaze up at her from the Glock that I’m polishing. “I thought it would be more effective if you had a more dominant instructor. You don’t seem inclined to follow Boris’s rules, but you’ll follow mine.”
Heat momentarily flares in her eyes, but just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone, replaced by an eye roll. “I’m surprised that a big, important mob boss like yourself has nothing better to do than to teach me how to hold a gun, oh, and to break up dance parties.”
Ah, she’s still sore about last night. I wondered how much she remembered. I guess this is my answer.
She remembers everything.
And so do I. The way she smelled, the way she looked, damn, the way she danced. How she swayed her hips to the rhythm of the music last night—lost to the beat, and looking so happy—it was nearly my undoing. Maybe that’s what crawled under my skin—she looked happy, and it wasn’t because of me.
This morning, Daniil earned himself a black eye in the boxing ring for the shit he pulled last night.
Not only getting Georgia drunk—though I’m pissed about that—but also scheming behind my back.
My brothers think my attraction to her clouds my head, and maybe that’s true, but fuck them. They’re not the boss, I am.
My gaze locks with Georgia’s, and something unreadable stirs in her remarkable eyes.
The edge of my lips curl up into a smile.
“I don’t make a habit of breaking up dance parties, no, but then again, it hasn’t really been an issue until you showed up.
” She huffs a small laugh, her eyes crinkling in the corners.
“And as for your training, I think my help is more than necessary.”
She purses her lips. “I was doing just fine with Boris.”
I grab the back of her neck and bring her face towards mine. “You weren’t. And I think you like it when I’m in charge. When I tell you what to do.”
“Maybe.” Her body quivers, but it’s not with fear. It’s with anticipation. The air hangs heavy between us, and once again, a zing of chemistry flies between us, becoming harder and harder to ignore.
“Are you feeling up to this today?”
“I’m fine,” she says, her spine straight, her chin high. “I was introduced to your Russian hangover cure. Pickle juice. Disgusting, but effective.”