3. Ivan
3
IVAN
S he steps into my hotel room with that same sharp wariness she’s had since the moment I found her. Like a stray cat deciding whether or not to scratch my eyes out.
She’s spent too long in the cold. Too long learning not to trust. Nine years homeless and alone.
She’s a survivor though. Sharp claws help you survive.
She looks round the suite. I can tell what she’s thinking. Far too elegant for a man like me. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline. Everything is sleek, expensive, perfectly curated.
It doesn’t fit the blood drying under my nails. The fight still thrumming in my veins.
Her gaze flicks across the room. The vodka. The pressed suit hanging near the bed. The polished Beretta I set down on the table.
She’s piecing it together. I can see it in the flicker of her eyes, the way her lips press tight.
I wait.
Finally, she exhales. “You’re rich.”
I smirk. “Observant.”
“But not like Darren.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re different.”
She’s not wrong.
I am control. Ruthless. A scalpel where he’s a hammer. He sent ten men to the ambush. That’s why I got away. They tripped over each other in the chaos while I picked them off one by one.
I fucked up chasing her. Got distracted. Let one of them get a decent shot.
She had the bag. I should have killed her and taken it but I didn’t. Why?
And now I find out the bag’s a fucking hoax.
“Bathroom’s through there,” I say, nodding to the door. “Get cleaned up.”
She hesitates, then disappears inside, shutting the door behind her.
I sit, exhaling slowly, and pull the duffel toward me. I search it again.
Nothing but used notes.
It doesn’t make sense.
There’s got to be something else. Something I’m missing.
And I don’t like missing things.
From the bathroom I hear a sharp cry of pain.
I kick the door open, shattering the lock. My heart thunders in my ears as I rush over to the shower, where Cora stands naked under a cascade of water.
The sight of her takes my breath away.
“Get out,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”
“What happened?” I ask, my voice raw with a desire I haven’t felt in years.
She cowers beneath the torrent, her arms instinctively rising to shield her naked form. “It’s nothing,” she whispers, a strained edge in her tone. “It just hurts. Could you please stop looking at me like that?”
I realize I’m still staring. The water traces rivulets along her porcelain skin, highlighting every curve and contour. My gaze lingers on the delicate dip of her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts, and the gentle slope of her waist.
Every inch of her speaks to me. I see scars that tell stories of past torments yet overlaid by a raw, undeniable beauty. The curve of her hip, the way her water-slicked hair frames her face in a cascade of dark, damp strands—all of it ignites a fierce longing inside me.
“You’re still staring,” she says.
“You’re still bleeding,” I reply.
“I’m fine,” she says, turning her back to me. “Get out, will you?”
“Relax. If I was going to fuck you, I’d have done it already.” I move carefully. Not touching her, not forcing her. Just dampening a cloth, gently pressing it to the bruises on her back. “He did this to you?”
She stiffens at first, but after a moment, her muscles relax. A couple of days ago. He was drunk. Bought me the dress to say sorry, promised me a date night to make it up to me. Begged me not to leave him. Sobbed on my shoulder.”
I press the cloth to her shoulder. “Better?”
She studies me. “Who taught you to look after people?”
“My father,” I say. “When I was young.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Was he a doctor?”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. He was poor. We couldn’t afford doctors.”
A flicker of something in her gaze. Understanding.
I dampen the cloth again, slowly running it along her spine, tracing the bruises left by Darren’s fists. I move the cloth down, my eyes taking in the curve of her ass. My cock twitches.
I force my own breath to steady, like I’m getting ready to take a long distance rifle shot.
I’ve wanted to fuck women before. But I’ve never wanted to protect one.
I turn her my way, cupping her jaw gently, tilting her face toward me, brushing damp hair away from the cut on her cheek.
She looks at me. Eyes dark. Searching. If she’s looking for goodness, she won’t find it.
“Your hair needs washing,” I say at last.
“I can do it.”
“You can barely use your arms. Let me.”
“Your clothes are getting wet.”
“I don’t care.” My fingers work the shampoo through her hair, slow and careful. She shivers—but doesn’t pull away. I take my time. Blood swirls down the drain, turning the water pink.
She sighs, eyes fluttering closed.
I rinse and repeat, washing away the night, the filth, the fear.
Her shoulders relax, just a little.
“Why are you helping me?” she murmurs.
I rinse the last of the soap from her hair, gently wringing out the water.
“Because you need it.” My cellphone buzzes in my pocket. “Take your time,” I tell her. “I’ll order us some food for when you’re done.”
I leave her to it, ignoring my cell and picking up the suite phone. I press the button to call downstairs. After a few rings, a familiar voice answers.
“Good evening, Mr. Stepanov. This is Marcus.” His tone is as smooth as always. I know Marcus well—he’s been manager at the hotel for years. “What can I get for you?”
“First, I need you to order food,” I say. “One of everything.”
Marcus chuckles lightly. “One of everything, huh? Hungry tonight?”
I pause, imagining Cora’s smile. “I have a guest and I’m not sure of her preferences.”
“Understood. I’ll have our chef prepare a little feast for her—appetizers, mains, sides, desserts… the works. “There’s a brief pause, then he adds, “Might I suggest a freshening of her wardrobe? Size ten, I believe?”
The words carry a lot of weight. He saw her when we arrived. Wouldn’t normally let someone like that in a hotel like this. But he knows me, knows he can’t overrule me. So he’s trying to compromise, as best he can.
I shift my weight, thinking carefully. “Nothing too constricting. Soft fabrics, cozy layers.
“How about a couple of sweaters, some leggings, perhaps a nice jacket that isn’t too heavy.”
“Perfect.”
He responds with his usual brisk efficiency. “I’ll contact the boutique and see what they can arrange.”
Before I can reply further, his tone shifts slightly. “By the way, sir, Maxim’s been calling repeatedly down here to speak with you. I know you said you were not to be disturbed but he says it’s urgent. Says you’re not picking up your cell. Should I pass on a message?”
“Thank you, Marcus,” I say. “I’ll handle Maxim.” I hang up the phone and move toward the balcony, the heavy door creaking softly as I step out into the cool night. The city sprawls out beneath me—all twinkling lights and insignificant people. The only person who matters is in my bathroom.
Leaning on the stone balustrade, I take a deep breath and pull my phone from my pocket. I know I can’t ignore Maxim’s calls forever. I switch it on again and dial his number.
After two rings, he answers. “Thought you might be dead,” he says down the line. “Who’s the woman?”
“Marcus told you, I see.”
“Answer the question.”
“She had the bag.”
“The job was to get the bag. Not the courier.”
“He killed Vlad, then took it back to his place. I went after it and found her running with it.”
“So you thought you’d keep her, like a pet?”
“She could be useful.”
“How?”
“She knows Darren. I’m going to question her. See what I can find out.”
“Where’s the bag now?”
“Here, but it’s empty.”
“Shit. You sure?”
“Twenty in cash and nothing else inside. Darren killed Vlad and set me a trap. His men killed Tony and Igor.”
“Peter?”
“Ran off somewhere. Fuck knows where he is. But listen, no one gets that defensive about twenty thousand. I’m missing something, I just can’t work out what.”
“Guess Lombardi’s empire isn’t as dead as we thought.”He grunts. “Come back to New York. Bring the bag, lose the girl. We need to regroup.”
“Got a few loose ends to tie up first.”
“Don’t take too long.”
I hang up.
She’s still a question mark.
She could be working with Darren. She knows my name. Knows about the bag. Knows too much.
But she’s also hurt. Alone. Running.
And for some goddamn reason, I want to help.
I find her sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a dressing gown, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. In front of her, two hotel lackeys are laying out trays of food.
The spread is excessive—steaming bowls of soup, crisp slices of dark bread, small plates with pickled vegetables, and a platter of pelmeni, their golden skins glistening with melted butter.
While they’re laying everything out, a third man enters, passing me a heavy bag. “Compliments of the house, Mr. Stepanov.”
I nod in response. Then I glance at her—and feel it. Same as I did when I saw her naked in the shower.
The slow, dangerous pull of heat.
She’s beautiful. Not just the delicate bone structure, or the deep, dark eyes that hold too much grief for someone so young. It’s the fight in her. The sharpness.
The way she looks at me, like she can’t decide if she wants to stab me or ask me to hold her.
Smart girl. I like smart girls. I tip the men as they leave before locking the door. “You shouldn’t have opened it,” I tell her. “Could have been anyone.”
“You were on a call. Looked like you didn’t want to be disturbed.”
I toss her the bag. “Clothes. Take your pick.”
“For me?”
“They sure as hell won’t fit me.”
She disappears back into the bathroom while I pour myself a drink. When she returns, she’s in a soft cashmere sweater, thick socks, and a pair of loose joggers.
She looks comfortable.
Her eyes flick from the food to me, suspicious.
I lean forward. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I got one of everything. Sit. Eat.”
She hesitates before taking a first bite, as if expecting a trick. I watch the way she lifts the fork, cautious, deliberate, the way her fingers tremble ever so slightly before she shoves the food into her mouth.
Then her eyes flutter shut.
A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips. She grabs a bread roll and crams it in, cheeks bulging.
I pick up my own fork, slicing into the pelmeni. "Try this. Russian dumplings. My mother made them by hand when I was a kid."
She watches me carefully, but she takes the bite I offer her. The moment it hits her tongue, she smiles. The sight warms my cold dead heart.
"What’s in it?" she asks.
"Meat. Usually pork or beef, sometimes lamb. The dough is simple but it takes hours to make right. My mother would roll it thin, cut each perfect little circle, fold them one by one around the filling."
I take another bite, the taste pulling up memories I haven’t visited in a long time. "We ate them in the winter, mostly. They freeze well. Never seen them before?”
She stares at her plate. "Only through restaurant windows." She stares into the distance. "I’d be out in the cold," she continues, voice soft, almost lost in the quiet of the suite. "My stomach so empty it felt like it was eating itself. I’d watch them leave plates full of food, laughing like they didn’t even care about the waste. When people sat outside, I’d wait for them to leave, then grab what I could before the waiters cleared the tables."
She looks up at me, as if waiting for judgment.
"Smart," I say.
She blinks.
"You steal to survive." I take a sip of my drink. "A man in a suit does the same thing on Wall Street, and they call it business. You get no judgment from me."
Her lips twitch. "You sound like you speak from experience."
I grin. "Crime is always in the eye of the beholder."
She scoffs, but she picks up her fork again.
"Did you always work alone?" I ask. “No friends?”
She shakes her head, chewing. "Sometimes I’d steal more than I needed. Pass out extra food to the others who were struggling."
She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her fingers tighten around her fork. "Kids. Old folks. People worse off than me. Lot of us on the streets. Unseen by people like you."
I lean forward. "So you had nothing, but you still gave away what little you had?"
“What’s the point of surviving if you can’t help someone else do the same?”
The words hit me harder than they should. “You look like you learned to rely only on yourself. Yet you helped others, why?”
“Why’d you bring me here?”
“Good point.”
For a while, we eat in silence. The tension in her shoulders loosens further, the wariness fading with each bite. She might not realize it, but she’s eating faster now, shoveling food in like her body is afraid it won’t last.
“Take it easy. You’ll get a stomachache.”
She grunts at me but I notice her slowing down a little.
"Thought about where you’re going to go?" I ask.
She frowns, swallowing her food. "Not yet?"
"I recommend a big city. Easier to hide."
She studies me for a long moment, as if trying to peel back the layers, find the truth beneath. "So if I wanted to leave here, you’d just let me?"
“You think I’m holding you prisoner?”
“I don’t remember having a choice. You pointed a gun at me, told me to come with you.”
“Only because you were too stubborn to see I was trying to help you.”
“Is that right?”
I look at her and I see what’s happening. I’ve seen that look before.
She’s afraid.
Not of me. Not of the meal. Or of my guns.
She’s afraid she might start to hope.