18. Vasiliy
The entire room freezes in the wake of Siderov’s words.
They’re relatively inconsequential to me, but my neck heats from the attention of every head in the room turned our way.
Threat, a voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Seven bodies, trained and honed by the looks of their posture.
Siderov is still stationed a few steps away, but his hand twitches as it hangs loose, as if he wants to wander closer to the girl in my arms.
I suspected Octavia’s lineage days ago, when our captors questioned me on her adoption records.
They were willing to take her on a busy street the moment they saw her in league with me—obviously, they must’ve had some compelling evidence behind the risk.
From the unnaturally still form pressed between my ribs and my palms, it’s evident that Octavia didn’t believe a word our captors said. Denial, perhaps. Trauma, likely.
It didn’t escape me that, no matter how many times that asshole called her Annika Siderov, she rarely asked me what the last name meant. At first, I’d assumed it was because she was hiding something. Now, I wonder if some part of her resisted the concept on a deeper level.
The room is so damn bright, my head pulses from the shock to my senses.
She’s here. She’s okay.
I have to recite the words in my mind over and over to calm the raging torrent in my gut. I take advantage of the shocked silence, pulling up the small bandaged limb that was dripping blood the last time I saw her. Those screams…
I’ll never forget it.
You wouldn’t last a day in that chair. Weren’t those my words from our first day in the cage? Something hateful crawls between my ribs, settling around my heart like a judgmental vise.
Trapped behind bars, helpless to do anything but witness that asshole hurt her using some of my own techniques, I felt like I was fucking drowning.
Each piece of metal flashes in my memory, lodged under perfect nails, coated in red.
My chest still aches from how hard my heart smacked into my ribcage as they chained her to that chair.
When Siderov’s men stormed the room, bullets flying free around her tied, limp body, I screamed louder than I ever had before.
My arms press her tighter to my ribs, as though I can absorb her body into mine and keep her safe inside me.
The sentiment makes no sense, especially since she’s apparently an heir to one of the most powerful Bratvas in America.
She probably doesn’t even need my protection anymore. I’m no good at it, anyway.
I’m good at killing, not defending.
I couldn’t even protect my little sister adequately before getting shipped out of the country. Of course, Octavia doesn’t need me anymore.
One of her arms threads up beneath mine, reaching to pet my arm. The soft gesture settles some of my rising panic, returning my focus to the revelation at hand.
If looks could kill, her new dad’s gaze would’ve burnt me to a crisp pile of ashes minutes ago.
I’ve never seen Siderov in person before, but he has the same look that infects every man in our business.
Vengeance wrapped in a sleek suit. Hand instinctively hanging near his belted gun, ready to grip the trigger at the flip of a coin.
It’s uncanny how similar his cool, green gaze is to the one worn by the woman in my arms. The only difference is that his eyes don’t inspire me to smack face-first into a cloudy puddle of city water just so she doesn’t have to dampen her shoes.
“I don’t have a father.”
The room’s temperature plummets, and Siderov visibly flinches back. I almost snort out loud. My girl just made a renowned Bratva boss flinch with a single, muttered sentence.
No, Vasiliy, the voice in my head immediately corrects. Not your girl.
Siderov shakes his head, seeming to collect himself before responding. “I’m so sorry, Octavia, truly. It’s a long story, but I’ve been looking for years. We’d lost hope…”
I’ve never heard a made man plead before.
My chin perks up as I take in the scene with growing interest. Hovering a few steps away, hands tucked into the pockets of his sleek, dark pants, Siderov doesn’t seem like a volatile cocktail of aggression waiting to explode.
I don’t place too much stock in exteriors, though.
His daughter looked small and delicate enough to pass out from a single cut, and look how wrong I was with that assessment.
I edge a step backward, tugging along the girl nestled in my arms. The bed hits the back of my knees. We’re cornered.
“What do you mean, looking for me? I haven’t so much as moved boroughs since I was dropped off in a Manhattan orphanage at a few months old!”
Good point, zlaya. Flay his ass.
I dive back into her soft, wine hair, subtly marking the exit points in my mind in case things go south. One of the soldiers, a brawny blond stationed in front of the window, narrows his eyes my way. Unfortunately, that might be our fastest way out.
I could take him.
“I didn’t know you were in New York! We’ve been looking all over the world since you were taken—can we have this talk in private?” Siderov cuts off, leveling me a withering glare like I just took a piss in his Cheerios.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not leaving her for a second, old man,” I burst out.
“Excuse me?” Octavia shouts at the same time in shocked outrage.
“Oh, leave them, brother. They’re clearly a packaged deal,” says a guy hovering by the door with a smirk.
“I will do no such thing, Alex! He’s practically wrapped around my daughter like a fucking koala!” Siderov throws up his arms.
“Tough shit, father of the year,” I mutter, earning an even deadlier look.
“Wait. I have an uncle, too?”
The soft voice below me is so delicate and endearing that all of us seem taken aback. Some of the growing tension dissipates.
She’s still wearing the same dress as before, and it’s covering way too little for the amount of wandering eyes in the room.
They can’t all be related to her. My arms shift up, covering her breasts as she twists to face the grinning man at the door.
Her hair is still woven into the princess braid, despite the knotted pieces and tangled ends, and the length of it brushes my fingers in the softest caress.
“Da, kroshka,” the man who must be her uncle confirms happily. “Plus an aunt and four cousins. They’re all assholes, and they’re going to love you.”
He seems less trigger-happy than the other men, but I’ve met enough killers to know when one’s lingering close by. He just hides it better than the rest.
Octavia doesn’t respond as she takes in the new information.
I glance around again, sorting through all the players holding down the room.
They wrapped her wounds, I reason, brushing my hand mindlessly over her bandaged cheek.
They’re not going to eliminate her on the spot. No, there’s a bigger plan at play.
“That’s enough for one day, I think,” Siderov says carefully, face angled towards his daughter.
“The fuck that’s enough!” Octavia explodes, hair whipping across my face as she twists her head. “I’d say we’ve just barely scraped the top of the shit bucket.”
I take my time to truly enjoy the widening eyes of every made man in the room.
No matter which country you’re in, women in the Bratva are all generally expected to act a certain way.
Quiet. Demure. Submissive. The psychotic firecracker I’m currently squeezing between my arms like my own personal teddy bear doesn’t have a single one of those qualities.
It’s equal parts amusing and concerning, given our current situation.
“Well, she certainly has a way with words, brother,” her uncle laughs from the doorway.
“Indeed,” he responds, the edge of his lips tilting up. “Alright, love. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. But we also need to ask a few questions of our own about the men who took you. You up for that?”
“Okay,” she says with a decisive nod. Even that is fucking adorable.
“Wonderful. In the meantime,” he says, turning his gaze onto me. “Surely we can locate a shower for the boy. His insufferable reek is burning my eyes.”
I lift a brow at the Bratva titan.
Must have missed the bathroom in the four-by-four holding cell you’ve been keeping me in for the past day. My bad.
I was still in the cage when they knocked me out.
When I came to, I was in a fresh, new cell—different floors, smaller bars, and worst of all, no Octavia.
All I knew was panic for twenty-four hours as I waited in the glorified closet without any idea where she was.
It felt like I was a child again, thrown into solitary confinement for days after mouthing off to my uncle at the dinner table.
At least back then, I could enjoy being alone without the vexing, itchy panic of imagining my former cellmate hurt and vulnerable.
Instead of rising to the obvious bait, I level Octavia with a questioning gaze. Those intense, green orbs hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but I tighten my core, unwilling to topple over or back away.
She doesn’t need you anymore. She has them.
The voice slithers through my mind, reminding me of every time I failed her. Letting her get kidnapped off the street. Allowing those assholes to pull her away from my arms and lock her into that chair. Getting separated after the rescue…
“Go ahead,” she nods, climbing back into the bed beside us. I’m expecting the words, but my heart still sinks. “You’d better return him in one piece, though, or my previous threat stands,” she says sternly, making eye contact with every single scary motherfucker in the room.
She thinks she owes me something. A favor, perhaps.
“Of course,” her dad agrees. “Alex, please do us all a service and find the Morozov kid a room with a working faucet.”
The man at the door nods, gesturing for me to follow. My legs resist the cue. I search Octavia’s gaze one last time, scouring it for some minuscule alteration, before finally turning and exiting the room.