Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
ALYONA
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
I meet Marcel’s gaze, his words a sucker punch to my gut.
Is this guy for real!? He’s using the most overused line in the history of breakups on me.
And to add insult to injury, he can’t even look me in the eye.
He keeps fidgeting with his cell phone on the tabletop, his eyes pinging around the dimly lit Parisian bar.
He clears his throat. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together,” he mumbles, “but I think it’s better if we part ways here.”
Leaning back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, I don’t bother to hide my sarcasm when I ask, “Aren’t you going to suggest we stay friends?” Since he’s clearly a fan of clichés, I thought he might want to use the second-most overused line in the breakup handbook.
Marcel looks aghast, as if I’ve suggested we rob a bank together.
What is this guy’s problem? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months, I thought it was going well enough.
He’s a French painter that I met at a fashion industry party on the Rue de Turenne.
He pursued me in the beginning, doing all the legwork.
Showered me with compliments and flowers.
It was pleasant enough, the sex was … satisfactory, and I enjoyed his company, but I wouldn’t say this is a major heartbreak.
It’s not like I was looking for love with him, or any of the men I’ve met in my seven years in Paris.
No, I already lived through love once before and barely survived. Never again.
Still, I crave companionship, and a girl’s gotta get laid now and then.
But I’m getting mighty sick of the it’s-not-you-it’s-me line.
Maybe French guys are commitment-phobes?
Then again, the last guy I dated was Italian, and before that a Brit, and they both fed me the same bullshit line. So maybe it is in fact me.
“No.” Marcel’s mouth sets into a grim line. “I don’t think we should remain friends. It’s just … too complicated.”
Ouch.
I reach for my martini and polish it off in two large gulps, reveling in the liquid burn.
“In that case, it’s been a slice. I’ll leave you to pay the bill.
” Snatching up my purse from the seat beside me, I rise to my full height of five nine, allowing him to appreciate the length of my legs, accentuated by four-inch Louboutins, and my little black Prada dress.
I don’t work in the fashion industry for nothing.
I know how to use my assets, and judging by the wistful sigh Marcel releases, he seems to agree.
Just not enough to keep me around.
“Au revoir, Marcel. Good luck working through your mommy issues in therapy.”
“Alyona,” he says, apologetically.
But when I glance back at him over my shoulder his eyes widen with alarm. “There’s nothing else to say,” I assure him.
The look of relief on Marcel’s face is palpable. He closes his eyes, exhales a sharp breath, and then hurries off to find our waiter.
Like all my breakups, this one comes out of the fucking blue, right as things were settling into a comfortable rhythm. Dump Me Debbie, that’s me. I usually make it a few months before they inexplicably find something wrong with me. Just like Leo had.
I step out of the brasserie onto the sidewalk.
It’s a gorgeous spring night, and Paris is bursting with energy—tourists crowd the streets and young lovers stroll arm in arm.
Well, isn’t that just perfect? A walk would do me good, help me blow off some steam.
I choose a route along the Seine, heading towards the seventh arrondissement, the chic neighborhood where my flat is located.
I’ve had my place since I first moved here at eighteen.
Well, fled might be the correct word. At the time, my only thought was to escape New York and the man who had nearly destroyed me, but I’ve slowly built a life here.
I learned French. Made friends. Now I have a fulfilling career as a buyer for a luxury fashion brand, and I live in the city with the world’s best pastries. What else do I need?
Yes, I miss my brother and friends in New York, but the ocean separating me from Leo Kozlov makes it all worthwhile.
As I cross over the Pont des Arts bridge, a handsome man with sparkling green eyes and an olive complexion flashes me an interested smile. In the past, I might have returned that smile, but not tonight. Maybe not ever again. There’s only so much rejection a lady can take.
Jolting me from my bleak thoughts, “What is Love” blares from my phone—the world’s most ridiculous ringtone, which is assigned to my sister-in-law, Rowan—finally giving me a reason to smile. “Why are you calling me from your vacation? Shouldn’t you be making a baby?” I say by way of greeting.
“Welp, since you asked, I wore Yulian out last night, so he’s still sleeping. It’s six in the morning here.”
“Yeah, didn’t need to know that,” I add with a laugh, dodging the tables of a crowded sidewalk cafe. “So what’s Fiji like? Everything you dreamed of and more?”
“It’s pretty awesome,” she confirms. “And the best part of it is that I get Yulian all to myself for the next two weeks. In an hour, we head to a more remote island for the full off-the-grid experience. No cell service!”
My eyes widen in surprise. My brother is not the type to step away from his work. I mean, bratva leaders don’t exactly work a nine-to-five. And my brother runs security for the Kozlov Bratva, the Russian mafia that controls the East Coast of the US.
The bratva that we grew up in.
Except I turned my back on the brotherhood long ago. After it took both my father and mother from me much too early, I swore I’d never be part of that underworld.
“Damn, girl, he must really be serious about making a baby.” Yulian and Rowan definitely need a few weeks of no distractions, no work emergencies, nothing but lube and an ocean view.
She snorts. “He is. Anyhow, I just wanted to say goodbye before we sign off. Is everything good with you?”
I conceal my sigh as I round the corner of my block. “Yeah, everything is great.” This is not the time to share my latest breakup sob story. It just gets Rowan all worked up.
Turns out I’m a great catch on paper, but that’s where it ends.
God knows Marcel is just the last guy in a long list of bailers.
Not that any of them mattered—none except for Leo.
My brother’s best friend and one of the only people who truly knew me, the real me. But even that wasn’t enough apparently.
“Well, I won’t keep you. Have an amazing time. Relax. And don’t worry about a thing,” I say, digging in my purse for my keys. “Just enjoy and make me a little niece or nephew.”
“On it!” she squeals.
I smile to myself as I push the key into my front door. In nine months there could be a baby. A baby I’ll love like my own. Maybe there is something to look forward to.
Once inside, I go to disengage the alarm, but there’s no red light flashing on the wall. Shit, I must have forgotten to turn it on this morning. It’s something that happens more regularly than not.
Truthfully, I never wanted this damn alarm system in the first place.
Yulian had this place wired like Fort Knox one day while I was at work, that stubborn mudak.
No prior discussion, no warning. I came home, and there it was, a brand-new alarm system with the code sent to me through an encrypted server.
It’s just another example of my brother’s over-the-top protective tendencies. Shortly after I bought this flat with my inheritance money, he purchased the other three units in the building to prevent anyone else from moving in. Multimillion dollar units just sitting empty. It’s insane, really.
Not that Yulian and I ever talk about it. Nah. I let him do what he needs to for his peace of mind with me living halfway across the world.
On one hand, I get it. Being eight years older, Yulian has always looked out for me, and before Rowan, we were each other’s only family, having lost our father when we were teens, and our mother in our twenties.
But his worry is misplaced. The most dangerous thing that’s happened to me in months is tripping over a wayward cobblestone in my stilettos.
Exhausted, I kick off my heels and make my way to the kitchen. The familiar creaks of the wooden floorboards underfoot are comforting. Everything in Paris is old. Worn. It has history, something else I adore about this city.
My only goal tonight is a cup of tea, pajamas, and trashy reality TV.
Maybe I’ll treat myself to a bubble bath.
I pour water into the kettle, and turn it on, leaning against the counter.
That’s when the door to my bedroom catches my attention.
It’s open an inch. Barely anything noticeable, but I always shut my bedroom door.
It was part of Leo’s training, a security measure he said.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Something feels off.
The shrill whistle of the kettle only adds to my growing anxiety.
I make my way to the kitchen drawer, searching for a weapon.
You don’t grow up in a bratva household without learning self-defense.
My hand wraps around a small paring knife.
Pausing, I also reach for a compact pocketknife that I keep in my junk drawer beside the fridge.
Just in case, I tuck it into the waistband of my skirt.
Creeping towards my bedroom, I push the door open and turn on the light, ready to face an intruder.
But there’s no one here. No open window, no furniture out of place, not even a stirring of the air.
Releasing a sigh of relief, I chuckle to myself, feeling foolish for letting my imagination run wild.
I blame Marcel. That asshole threw me off my game.
Switching off the light, I’m about to head back towards the kitchen when a gloved hand materializes out of the dark, covering my mouth as a large body pins me against the wall from behind. A chill of terror sends my pulse into overdrive.