Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
VIKTOR
PRESENT DAY
I love the heat here in Las Vegas. When Grigory finally took power from his father, the base of operations was in Vegas, so we all moved to the States. Can’t say I miss the bitter cold of the Russian winters, especially not after all the time I spent on the streets.
I stretch out my neck, both sides tight from how I slept, as I take in the grounds Grigory’s compound sits on. Our compound. The place we have affectionately nicknamed the Kremlin.
It doesn’t feel like that long ago we were hiding on the streets and waiting out in the cold—kids just trying to survive in a world hell bent on taking us out.
From the streets of Moscow, we joined the military together and eventually went on to serve in the Russian special forces.
There, we learned everything we needed to know and developed valuable contacts before leaving to set up our own business.
And now, we’re practically running the city of Vegas.
In all that time, some things have remained the same.
Grigory is still in charge, analytical, and powerful.
Matvey still has his nose buried in his spreadsheets and numbers.
Nikolai still has that weird inclination for smelling like gasoline and gunpowder even after seven showers.
And I’m also just the same—I still love the quiet, and I still hate to be touched.
I shake the thoughts away as I pull on my black workout clothes and sling my gym bag over my shoulder.
There’s not a single inch of color in my closet. Every item of clothing I own is black—and black only. The plain, dark color keeps my mind calm and keeps my senses from being overstimulated.
It’s still very early as I pass the office and hear Matvey and Nikolai disagreeing about something—they’re both early risers like me.
“We should ask Viktor, he’ll know,” I hear Matvey say.
I pause, waiting to see if either Matvey or Nikolai will seek me out. One heart beat. Then another.
“Nah, he’ll be heading to the gym around now. Plus Grigory would know better than anyone else,” Nikolai replies.
“But Viktor is the best at—” Their words fade into white noise as I head toward the door. They might be like brothers, the closest to brothers I’ll ever get in life and the closest people to me period, but I can’t do it right now. I can’t end some stupid squabble when all I need is peace and quiet.
I grip my bag and head out the door past the line of SUVs.
Black, tinted, and unmarked. The fact that they blend into such a flashy town doesn’t even strike me as odd anymore like it once did.
There are lots of similar SUVs wherever we go—celebrities or high rollers who come through the town, looking for a vice to bury themselves in.
I pass the greenhouse and round the corner toward the gym on the far left of the property. The biggest luxury of living this far out from the strip is the quiet, although it comes at a hefty price tag that Matvey no doubt has written down to the seventh decimal.
Some of the other men might complain about the heat, but I like it. The move was necessary. I know that we all know that. And so far, things have been working out for us on the business side.
The gym creates a long stretch of shade over the shrubs that line the walkway. It’s nothing fancy. Plain bricks and large windows.
I’m heading toward the door when something makes me suddenly stop.
My fist tightens on the strap of my bag as I catch sight of something metallic glittering from beneath the green foliage of a bush.
My teeth grit.
It’s trash. It’s not fucking hard to use the trash can! I don’t understand why people do this in the goddamn first place.
Just walk past it like everyone else. I can do that.
I can just keep moving. I try to tell myself these things, but my feet remain planted on the sidewalk as I glare at the energy drinks and protein bar wrappers nestled into the bushes.
The trash can isn’t more than five steps to my left. Five. Fucking. Steps.
My hand tightens and loosens around my bag strap as I war with myself to do what others clearly don’t care to do.
On the fifth round of my hand clenching and unclenching, I storm toward the bushes, bag dropping to the ground with a thud so I can gather the trash.
It’s not a lot, but it’s irksome. Enough that I can feel the irritation pulsing behind my eyes.
Because I need everything to be in order and in its right place.
“How fucking hard is it?” I mutter as the trash flutters into the bin. “Idiots. All of them.”
Shoving open the doors to the gym, I freeze at the sight of a soldier working out.
Goddammit!
I come at this time because I’m always the only one here—and I need the calm and peace that only solitude can bring me.
“Good morning,” the soldier calls out to me in a cheery voice.
I can only manage a low growl in response. There’s nothing fucking good about this morning now.
I take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. And I start on the machine furthest away from him.
I try to tune him out, but every noise he makes is deafening.
The soldier clinking the weights bar back onto the metal stand is as loud as cymbals clashing right next to my ears.
His running on the treadmill sounds like a herd of elephants stampeding.
Then the fucker switches on the radio, and although it’s probably on a low volume, it makes me feel like I’m in a hectic nightclub with deafening, thumping music.
I try to calm my rising stress. Autism causes my sensory system to amplify sounds to my brain, making small sounds appear extremely loud to me.
I hate it, but it’s a common issue for people like me. It’s called sensory processing disorder, and it’s caused by the way autism wires my brain differently.
I pull the notebook from my pocket, taking out the small pencil tucked into the spine.
Six. No, seven. That’s how busy my mind is right now.
My eyes flicker with hostility to the man who’s ruined my quiet before I even fucking start the day.
Yeah, it’s definitely a seven. Everything is just too loud and too overstimulating.
I close my eyes and fish around for my headphones.
Anything to block him out so I can focus on something else.
My eyes close, and I rub at my temples, trying to just get back to whatever passes as normal for me now.
Eventually the soldier leaves. The treadmill is still, the weights are back in place, and it’s quiet once more. Thank the fucking Lord.
By the time sweat drips down my back, I feel at least relatively ready to face everything outside the doors. The constant bombardment of black and white thoughts is still there inside my mind, tumbling over and over, but it’s manageable. Or as manageable as it’ll ever be.
The cool towel wrapped around my neck keeps the dry heat of Nevada off as I exit the building. Freezing mid-step, I exhale as yet another shiny can catches my eye.
Irritation bubbles up the back of my throat until a rustling in the bush makes me pause. Another rustle. A bird maybe?
As I reach for the discarded can, a flash of movement has me pulling my hand back quickly.
A soft meow sounds.
And I sigh as I realize it’s a small cat. She’s hiding beneath the shrub. “You’re…not supposed to be here,” I tell her in what I hope sounds like a stern voice. “And you’re making the place look untidy.”
She ignores me.
“Look, you’re messing up my nice, orderly world,” I say with a small huff.
No response.
“Aw, man. C’mon, shoo!”
But my voice comes out much softer than I intend, and she still doesn’t leave.
I try a—very gentle—stamp of my foot.
Doesn’t work.
I try making a scary face at her. But not too scary—because she is only little.
She still does nothing.
I scowl. “Do I look like a charity or your personal pet shelter?”
But nothing happens. Well, something does happen. Because she creeps out of the bush, one cautious paw at a time, sits down in front of me, and meows at me.
Now that I can see her properly, I notice her coloring of white with black and marmalade patches, meaning she must be a calico cat.
I remember reading once that a male calico cat is extremely rare, so I know I’m right in thinking that this cat is a female.
But the main thing I notice is how awfully thin she is.
By the size of her, she looks like she’s still a kitten, although she’ll probably be a full-sized adult cat soon.
Tossing the metal can away, I let out a terse breath through my nostrils before jerking my head toward the house. “Fine. Come on,” I mutter.
She trots beside me, giving a soft purr as she looks up at me.
Shaking my head at her, I march back toward the house. “It’s for one night only. So, don’t get comfortable.”
This isn’t out of the goodness of my heart—because I don’t have a heart. And it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that the cat is homeless and looks much too thin. I’m incapable of that sort of compassion.
“This is just to get you out of the bushes and away from the gym,” I say to the animal as she trots by my side.
“Because everything needs to be tidy, clean, and in perfect order. That’s how I need it to be.
Not littered with wrappers and cans and stray cats who don’t know better.
That’s the only reason. So, don’t get any ideas. ”
Reaching my room, she sits on the rug in front of me, and I notice the trembling in her body, like she’s suddenly not sure if this is a good idea.
I soften my expression. I must seem huge as I tower in front of her, so I crouch down to the floor. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “No one is going to hurt you here.”
After a few long seconds of staring at me, the cat carefully jumps onto my pristinely made bed, keeping one eye on me at all times.