Chapter 7
Nadia
Mrs. Petrova pulled open the dressing room door while I stared at the stranger in the mirror.
A stranger, packaged and polished. The crimson dress clung like a second skin. Red satin straps crisscrossed my bare back, stringing me tight as a drawn bow. My hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, lips painted the same deep red as the dress.
Footsteps behind me. Steady. Controlled.
Roman Sokolov appeared in the mirror. Sharp black tuxedo tonight, a gemstone pin at his collar matching my dress. His gaze landed on me—swept from the crown of my head down my exposed neck, settling on the satin-wrapped spine.
"Perfect." His voice scraped like sandpaper.
He moved closer, custom leather soles silent on the thick Persian rug. Mrs. Petrova kept her head down and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
The lock clicked. The sound filled the cramped space.
In the mirror, Roman's reflection swallowed mine. His scent—burnt Cuban cigar, dry vodka, a trace of gunpowder—wrapped around me like a net, choking off my breath.
"You're shaking, sweetheart." He came up behind me, a thin layer of air between us. I felt the dangerous heat rolling off him. His fingertip traced my bare nape, the rough texture of his black leather glove scraping sensitive skin. I shivered.
"Just cold, Mr. Sokolov." I forced myself to meet his predatory stare in the mirror, chin up. "Or maybe someone's hands are like ice."
He laughed low, the rumble traveling through silk into my back. "Better be the cold. Because tonight at Eden, that old bastard Maxim Morozov won't give a damn if you're cold. He'll look at you like a piece of bleeding meat."
"Charming." I turned to face him. Too close—my nose nearly brushed the red gem at his collar. "So tonight I'm a prop? I thought bait needed to at least talk."
"You talk. That's the problem." His eyes darkened, but his mouth curved dangerously.
"Should've said so earlier." I tilted my head. "I can practice playing mute. How long? All night? Just when Morozov's around?"
He grabbed my waist and yanked me against him. The crimson satin protested in his grip. My chest slammed into his.
"Listen to me." He bent down, hot breath against my lips, voice laced with reluctant amusement. "Tonight, you hold my arm and smile when appropriate. That mouth of yours—save it for champagne."
"Waste," I muttered. "I could do so much more. Like tell incredibly inappropriate jokes until Morozov laughs himself into cardiac arrest. More efficient, right?"
He stared at me for two seconds. Then actually laughed.
"If you could pull it off."
"Tactical option. You're welcome."
Only after the words left my mouth did I realize I'd just made a joke with the most dangerous man in Chicago.
My way of handling fear, I guess—pretend the terror threatening to spill over doesn't exist.
Strange thing was, he didn't get angry. He laughed. Brief as lightning, but it sparked something strange in my chest.
Roman released my waist and pulled a black velvet box from inside his jacket.
He flipped it open one-handed.
A massive, perfectly cut emerald ring lay inside. Deep, glossy—like a viper's eye. Expensive, beautiful, suffocating.
"Wow." I stared at it. "So this is the bribe to keep me quiet?"
"You could say that." He grabbed my left hand and pushed the ring onto my finger. No argument. Perfect fit.
I looked down at it, nearly blinded by its brilliance. "How'd you know my size? Don't tell me you secretly measured my finger."
"I have my methods." His thumb brushed across my deep red lips. "Remember, while you wear this ring, you're mine. Tonight, anyone who disrespects you—"
"You'll personally execute them, right?" I cut in. "I've heard this line in mob movies. Which one was it? The Godfather? Scarface?"
His look turned dangerous, but the smile stayed. "Seems you know your stuff."
"No, I'm just managing my anxiety," I said. "If I'm bait tonight, at least let me stay loose. Tense bait doesn't look natural, you know."
He watched me for several seconds. Then sighed.
Why the hell did he look like someone dealing with a puppy that peed on the carpet?
"What if Morozov shoots me? I don't want to die young in an accident that's got nothing to do with me." I changed subjects awkwardly.
"Then he'll have made an extremely stupid decision." Roman's voice went cold, but his hand gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "And he'll discover there are many things worse than death."
"Sounds terrifying." I paused. "But thanks."
"Let's go." A real smile touched his lips. "Show's about to start."
We walked through the dark-patterned carpet corridor. Danny and Victor waited by the elevator. When Victor saw Roman, he bowed slightly. Danny's gaze caught on the diamond on my finger.
"Nice rock." Danny whistled. "You planning to blind all of Chicago?"
"Shut up, Danny," Roman said without real irritation.
"Car's ready, Pakhan." Victor's voice was low and flat.
Roman didn't answer, just curved his arm slightly.
I took a deep breath and slipped my hand through his elbow. Through the tailored fabric, I felt the coiled tension in his muscles.
"You're shaking again." He said quietly.
"Still cold."
"Liar."
"Fine," I admitted. "Maybe seventy percent nerves, thirty percent cold."
"Honesty's a good quality."
"Then can you honestly tell me how dangerous tonight is?"
The elevator doors slid open.
"On a scale of one to ten?" He led me inside. "About an eight."
"Eight?"
"If you don't run your mouth, maybe a six."
"What if I tell a bunch of inappropriate jokes?"
"Straight to ten." He looked at me, eyes laughing. "Then I spend all night cleaning up."
"Got it." I nodded. "Keep my mouth shut."
"You can't." He said with strange certainty.
"You know me that well?"
"Better than you think."
The doors closed, dropping us toward the bottomless night.
The car stopped smoothly at Eden's VIP entrance.
The door opened. Deafening bass punched through the night air like a manic heartbeat. The city's most notorious money pit—where the powerful and the criminal laundered cash, moved drugs, traded flesh.
I walked in on Roman's arm. We crossed the dance floor. Scantily-clad women and thuggish men parted like the Red Sea when they saw Roman. Fear, awe, greed—their stares wove a net that stuck to us.
"Smile." Roman bent to my ear, warm breath grazing it, voice soft but commanding. "Your prey's here."
I followed his gaze. Center of the VIP section—a gray-haired, bulky old man sank into a burgundy leather couch. Morozov, had to be. Cuban cigar in hand, curves of girls around him, but his vulture eyes locked on Roman and me.
"Well, well, well. Look who's here." Morozov didn't stand. Just spread his arms, smile wide, voice gravelly with a thick Russian accent. "Roman Sokolov. Thought those golden feet of yours were too good for my carpet."
"Maxim." Roman led me to the booth, looking down at him, lips curved in a cold smile. "I'm just here to make sure your teeth are still sharp enough to sink into that tough old bone on the West Coast."
Morozov laughed—a sound like old bellows wheezing. His gaze slithered off Roman, landing on me.
"And this enchanting lady is..." Morozov exhaled thick cigar smoke, eyes pausing on my emerald, smiling knowingly. "A stunning work of 'art.' Roman, I never knew you had such... soft taste."
My heart hammered. But I remembered Roman's warning. I tightened my grip on his arm, forced my spine to relax, curved my lips into the right kind of smile—proud, devoted.
"She's not for you to evaluate, Maxim." Roman's arm wrapped around my waist. I leaned into him—blocking Morozov's disgusting stare. He glanced down at me. "She's my wife."
Morozov's eyes narrowed. "Of course. But in this business, everyone, everything—has a price. Doesn't it?"
Holy shit. The air turned lethal. Behind us, Victor and the others reached inside their jackets simultaneously.
I pressed closer to Roman instinctively. He seemed to sense my fear. His rough thumb rubbed my waist through the silk—dangerous yet oddly reassuring.
Roman laughed quietly. Pure violence in it. "Try naming a price, old bastard. Just be ready to bury your whole family."
Gunpowder thick in the air. One spark and Eden would explode. Danny and Victor's fingers hovered over their guns. Morozov's men showed metal at their backs.
I was trapped in the eye of the storm, throat too dry to swallow.
Would they shoot it out here? I realized the crowd had melted away. Everyone keeping distance.
Damn it. Maybe I shouldn't have come. Should've brought a weapon at least.
Too late now. I was center stage. Any movement drew eyes. Running wasn't realistic.
I clutched Roman's sleeve, discreetly searching for emergency exits.
If shooting started, I'd have to pray no one noticed me—then slip away.
In the suffocating silence, Morozov's face twitched. His murky eyes locked on Roman, measuring how crazy this young boss really was.
Seconds later, the old fox burst into raspy laughter, shattering the frozen moment. He waved his cigar, signaling his dogs to stand down.
"Relax, Roman. Don't be so defensive." Morozov spread his hands in surrender. "Just a joke. I don't want to turn a million-dollar deal into a bloodbath. Bottom line, we're businessmen, aren't we?"
He rose slowly from the leather couch, massive body like an oppressive mountain, blocking half the light.
"Since you're so protective, let's talk business." Morozov pointed to the second floor—an exclusive area wrapped in one-way glass. "I've got premium vodka upstairs. Men's business gets done better without perfume in the air. Agreed?"
Roman stared coldly. Didn't answer right away. His arm around my waist was iron. Through the thin dress, I felt his scorching palm, the killing instinct still coiled in him.
After a brief standoff, Roman let out a cold snort. Accepting the invitation.
Roman was summoned upstairs to the sealed private room under the pretext of "private business." By mafia rules, companions and bodyguards stayed outside in the VIP lounge.