Chapter 10
AbrAM
An hour later, I’m sitting alone in the booth, the low thrum of bass vibrating through the velvet walls around me, eyes fixed on the drink I’ve barely touched. The glass is sweating, condensation pooling beneath it, but I don’t move.
I’d been awake the whole time. I could feel the way she was looking at me—curious, hesitant—like maybe she’d been seconds away from lifting the mask and revealing my secret. I couldn’t let that happen.
I’d already slipped. I’d forgotten the damn accent. Let my Russian bleed through. I remember her eyes fluttering shut, lips parted, the soft little gasp she made when I whispered malyshka against her skin.
Beautiful but dangerous.
Because if she hadn’t been dizzy with orgasm, if she’d been thinking clearly, she might have recognized my voice. Might have put it all together.
And then what?
Then I’d be the man who fucked his assistant in a club he’s about to purchase while masked, anonymous, and completely goddamn addicted to the way she tastes.
I drag a hand down my face.
Jenna Ridley.
Jesus Christ.
She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever had in my life—period. And that includes Paris. That includes Kiev. That includes the goddamn model in Mykonos whose name I never learned. Jenna tops all of them.
She’s fire and defiance; tight, wet heat that clamped around me like her body was made for mine. That mouth, those curves, the way her hips rolled beneath my hands like she wanted me to wreck her.
Watching her get dressed was its own kind of torture. Her back arched as she leaned down to pick up her dress, that lush ass high in the air, dim light sliding over smooth, milk-white skin. Her thighs were trembling faintly, the aftermath of what we’d done.
My cock—fucking traitor—hardened again at the sight of her. She had no idea I was watching.
I almost pulled her back into the bed. Almost grabbed her by the waist, flipped her over, and taken her one more time—hard and messy, no slow buildup this time. Just possession. Just the need to feel her shatter around me again, her voice raw from moaning my name.
But she didn’t want a conversation. Didn’t want a reveal. She wanted to leave clean, walk out with the memory intact.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Because if she’d stayed, if she’d unmasked me, if she’d looked me in the eye and said my name...
I would’ve been lost.
Goddamn it.
I shift in my seat, trying to adjust the tight pressure in my slacks. It’s no use. She’s gone, but her fucking ghost is still here—on my hands, on my tongue, in the ache still throbbing at the base of my spine.
I have to see her on Monday, sit across from her at the conference table, pass her reports, and assign her tasks. Act like I didn’t spend an hour with my cock buried in her while she begged for more.
I’m fucked.
The next day…
The morning sun over the Vegas suburbs is clean and gold, the kind of morning that makes the desert look like it’s been freshly painted.
I pull up to the gate of my sister Tatiana and her husband Denis’s house a few minutes before ten, mimosas-in-the-making tucked in a canvas bag on the passenger seat.
The Popov house sits on a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac where the lawns are trimmed within an inch of their lives and the stone facades pretend not to belong to Vegas. It’s tasteful, expensive, secure. Bratva money done right.
Tatiana’s always been the classiest of the three of us. She could’ve married into any crime family in the western hemisphere and still made them look like royalty.
Denis is already waiting, swinging the door open with the easy grin he reserves for Saturday mornings and soccer matches. He’s been married to my sister almost ten years, and in that time, I’ve come to trust him like blood.
“Mimosas?” he asks, eyeing the bag.
“As promised,” I say, handing it off. “Where are the gremlins?”
“In the kitchen,” he says. “Tatiana’s letting them destroy her clean floor.”
As soon as I step inside, the smell hits me—warm maple, butter, pancakes. I follow it to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.
My twin nieces, Sofia and Lilia, Tatiana and Denis’s girls, are parked in matching highchairs, cheeks flushed and hair sticking up in wild brown curls. One of them—I still can’t tell them apart—is gleefully banging a spoon on her tray while the other laughs with food smeared all over her mouth.
My other sister Anya’s son, Charles, four years old and already plotting global domination, sits at the table in a Paw Patrol T-shirt.
He’s got a tiny bite of syrup-drenched pancake poised in his fingers.
Just as I enter, he leans over and sneaks it into Lilia’s mouth like he’s feeding a pet kitten.
“Uncle Abram!” he calls the second he sees me.
I crouch beside him and ruffle his curls. “You bribing your cousins for loyalty again?”
He shrugs, syrup on his chin. “They like pancakes.”
I reach for a napkin and swipe it off his face. “Smart man.”
The girls both babble nonsense at me, arms waving, and I make a show of inspecting them. “You two behaving?”
They giggle in unison, and I feel the same deep, anchoring warmth I feel every Saturday. These three little people are the lights of my life. Not the businesses. Not the power. This. Sticky fingers and pancakes.
Tatiana’s voice floats in from the hallway, asking Denis if he remembered to put on music. He didn’t. He never does.
I don’t care. The soundtrack of this house is already perfect.
Denis pops the champagne cork with practiced ease, catching my eye with the kind of teasing, older-brother smirk he’s perfected over the years.
“You keep showing up with booze, Abram, but still no babies. When exactly are you planning to catch up to the rest of us?”
I shake my head, leaning back in my chair. “Careful, Denis. I might start bringing cheaper champagne.”
He chuckles, pouring smoothly into the waiting glasses. “I’ll risk it. You really need someone to take care of you.”
Tatiana laughs softly, sliding a plate of perfectly arranged fruit toward her twin girls. She glances at me warmly, eyes sparkling with gentle mischief. “For someone who claims to hate people, you’re unnaturally good with children, Abram.”
I shrug off the compliment, feeling an unexpected pang hitting inside.
My mind drifts to Jenna before I can stop it.
For a split second, I don’t want to sit here pretending I’m untouchable.
Pretending softness, family, and warmth hold no appeal.
Jenna’s face, smiling sleepily beside me, haunts the edges of my thoughts.
I push it down fast, forcing my trademark smirk back onto my lips.
“Well,” I say, tipping my champagne flute toward Denis, “if you’re really interested, maybe I should tell you about what happened at my new club last night?”
Tatiana throws a dish towel at me without even looking up from the eggs she’s plating, her aim surprisingly accurate. “Absolutely not. Not in front of my pancakes.”
Denis snorts, leans back, and shakes his head. “Come on, Abram, have some respect for the sanctity of breakfast.”
Anya’s husband Mikail, pouring coffee beside Denis, joins in with an easy grin. “Again with the club? At this point, you must be angling for a loyalty card.”
Charles bursts into giggles, his syrup-coated fingers pointing at me gleefully. He may not understand the joke, but his laughter is infectious. Even Tatiana can’t help but chuckle, rolling her eyes playfully.
“Uncle Abram, you’re silly,” Charles announces, slipping from his chair and scrambling into my lap without hesitation.
I catch him easily, steadying him as he nestles comfortably against my chest, tiny fingers gripping my shirt.
Sofia leans forward from her highchair, holding out a sticky hand covered in mashed strawberries.
I reach over, wiping it clean with the napkin Mikail passes my way.
Lilia watches intently, her small, round face fascinated by the action.
“No need for loyalty cards,” I say. “In a few weeks, I’ll be the official owner.”
Tatiana arches an elegant brow, exchanging a glance with Denis. “Seeing you with these kids? Maybe you should open a day care instead, and not a… whatever sort of business this club happens to be.”
“I have my moments,” I concede, gently bouncing Charles in my lap until he squeals with delight.
The door swings open and Anya sweeps into the kitchen, a stylish hurricane balancing a designer diaper bag and a large bakery box filled with pastries.
She pauses beside me, dropping a quick, affectionate kiss onto my cheek. “There’s our mysterious bachelor prince,” she teases, eyes twinkling. “Good morning, Abram.”
“Morning, Anya.”
The kitchen settles into a comfortable hum filled with familiar chaos: Tatiana plating food, Anya managing the kids with practiced ease, Denis and Mikail exchanging amused glances, the children’s laughter filling every corner of the space.
Eventually, as plates are cleared and coffee refilled, Tatiana and Anya rise together, murmuring something about diaper changes and baths. They drift out of the kitchen, leaving the men alone.
The atmosphere shifts instantly, warmth replaced by an ominous tension. Denis sets his coffee cup down carefully and meets my gaze. “We have a problem. The Agostis were at Sorella last night, asking questions about protection fees. Bold, public.”
The rule against talking shop at breakfast never lasts for long.
Mikail leans forward, his expression darkening. “Word on the street is that Nico is making his move. Trying to flex muscle while his father’s too sick to object. He thinks it’s his time.”
My posture shifts. I’m no longer Uncle Abram, no longer playing nice over champagne and syrup-covered toddlers. My voice drops, hard-edged with authority.
“They think we’ve gone soft. We’ll show them we haven’t. Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp, my office. We’ll discuss this further then.”
Denis and Mikail nod. The understanding between us is immediate, unspoken. Family time may be sacred, but come Monday, we’ll remind the Agostis precisely who runs Vegas.
Moments later, the tension breaks as Anya and Tatiana return, arms filled with freshly washed children, their laughter softening the edges of my mood.
I stand up, gently lifting Charles and placing him back in his chair.
Turning, I drop tender kisses onto each of my nieces’ heads, inhaling their clean, powdery scent.
Charles wraps his small arms around my waist, holding on tight. “Bye, Uncle Abram. Come back soon, okay?”
“I will, buddy.” I glance around at my sisters, their husbands, these children who’ve somehow managed to become the best part of my week. A flicker of something bittersweet curls in my chest.
This is supposed to be what I want. Family. Stability.
Again, Jenna’s face flashes in my mind—soft and vulnerable beside me, a curl of fiery hair tracing her cheek.
I shut it down quickly, pulling on the familiar mask of cool detachment. “Next time, I’ll bring more champagne.”
Denis laughs warmly, clapping me on the shoulder as I head for the door. “See you Monday.”
I step outside into the bright Nevada sunshine, breathing deeply.
Family man or Bratva kingpin.
I can’t be both.
And as long as Jenna Ridley’s in the picture, I’m starting to fear I might not be either.