Chapter 10
Nadia
Hours later, Chicago's bone-cutting cold and lingering gun smoke vanished, replaced by the Bahamas' suffocating humid sea breeze.
When the Russian Bratva Pakhan sitting next to you could make Central and North America's underground arms market tremble with a snap of his fingers, "travel" no longer meant standing in TSA lines or choking down economy-class airplane food.
The cabin door opened. Caribbean warmth rushed in, carrying sea salt and tropical blooms. Sunlight blazed, piercing. The sky stretched in that pure, impossible blue you'd never find in Chicago.
I stood at the top of the stairs, squinting against the sudden glare. Like stepping out of a cold black-and-white film into an oil painting with the saturation cranked to max.
"Watch your step."
Roman's hand found my waist, steadying me. He'd shed his suit jacket. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, three buttons undone at the collar. Hard chest visible. Black ink crawling up to his collarbones.
Sunglasses hid his eyes but couldn't mask the testosterone radiating from that chiseled face.
Damn. He looked like something off a resort magazine cover. Only more dangerous. More lethal.
"Stop staring." He bent to my ear, voice laced with amusement. "Move, or you'll turn into a lobster."
I glared at him. Shook off his hand. Descended the stairs in my heeled sandals.
A white Land Rover convertible waited on the tarmac. Driver standing at attention.
"Pakhan." A slight nod. "Mrs. Sokolova."
Roman nodded back. Opened the rear door. Gestured me inside.
"Where to?" I asked, sinking into buttery leather.
"Hotel first. Check-in, grab keys." He slid in beside me, long legs sprawling. "Then boat to the island."
"Hotel? I thought we were going straight to the island."
"Island's just the villa. No hotel amenities." He pulled off his sunglasses, looking at me. "So I booked the presidential suite in Nassau. In case you need anything."
"Oh."
The car pulled out. Left the airport. Hugged the coastline.
The view was unreal—palm trees swaying, white sand stretching forever, water shifting from pale jade to deep sapphire like one massive gem.
I couldn't help leaning forward for a better look.
"Like it?" Roman asked suddenly.
"Yeah." I nodded. Then caught myself being too obvious. "I mean, it's okay."
He laughed softly. Didn't call me out.
Half an hour later, we stopped at a premium resort—Atlantis Paradise Island Resort.
The most luxurious peninsula resort in the Bahamas—a private manor-style hotel open only to the ultra-wealthy and powerful. Pink and white buildings clustered by the turquoise bay like a fairy-tale castle.
Even after we checked in, the unreality clung to me.
"I need the restroom."
In the lobby's tropical open-air lounge, I grabbed my bag and fled toward the bathroom like a refugee.
I needed cold water. Needed to splash ice-cold liquid on my goddamn face that had been flushing the entire trip.
Standing at the marble sink, I stared at my reflection. My once-pale, exhausted face now wore a weird flush. My left hand—that massive emerald ring blazing under the bathroom spotlights, weighing down my ring finger with deep, expensive light.
My mind replayed this morning unbidden. Him in the bedroom, bending to kiss my hand. That burning touch still scorching my skin, racing through my bloodstream into every limb.
"Stop it, Nadia. You're just a convenient shield. Get a grip." I hissed at my reflection through gritted teeth. Drew a sharp breath. Reassembled my bulletproof mask of indifference. Turned and left the bathroom.
But when I walked back down the marble hallway to the open lounge, the scene before me shattered my carefully rebuilt defenses.
Roman stood by the bar. Sunglasses dangling from his chest pocket, revealing that razor-sharp handsome face. One hand in his suit pocket, the other holding rum over ice. Tall, solid build and dangerous testosterone pulling eyes even when he did nothing.
Had to admit—he had the equipment to drive women insane.
Clearly, I wasn't the only one who thought so.
A blonde in a leopard-print bikini with barely enough fabric to qualify as clothing, draped in an almost transparent beach cover-up, held a colorful cocktail and practically glued herself to Roman's side.
"...so I told my personal trainer, I prefer sports that challenge me." Her voice dripped syrup. She giggled, tracing circles on her smooth collarbone with red-lacquered nails, eyes locked on the exposed muscle at Roman's collar like she wanted to take a bite.
Roman looked cold, unreadable. Brown eyes showing nothing, just idly swirling the ice in his glass. But to her, apparently, this was encouragement. She actually stepped closer, chest nearly brushing his arm.
Fuck.
Fury shot straight to my skull.
We're married.
His words echoed like a spell in my head.
So he was mine now, right?
No hesitation. I marched over in my stilettos like a warrior heading into battle.
Three steps away, Roman's sharp gaze lifted. Our eyes locked mid-air. I saw his boredom instantly replaced by wicked, predatory amusement.
"Trouble, darling?" I reached him, casually placing my hand on his solid arm, chin tilted up, giving the blonde a cold smile.
The blonde's smile froze. She looked me up and down, assessing this unexpected threat.
Roman didn't even glance at her. He turned, set his glass on the bar, and did something that stopped my heart.
He grabbed my left hand from his arm. His fingers forced their way between mine, interlocking, palms pressed tight.
In this blatantly possessive move, he slowly raised our joined hands.
Caribbean noon sun poured down without mercy. The absurdly large emerald on my ring finger caught the light alongside a matching men's band he'd somehow acquired, the two rings blazing together, bright enough to blind.
"I was just about to tell this lady," Roman bent slightly, hot breath grazing my ear, voice low and seductive but loud enough for her to hear clearly, "my wife has a terrible temper. Extremely possessive. And she's a germaphobe—absolutely cannot tolerate anyone touching what belongs to her."
The blonde's face went from flushed to ghost-white. She looked at the rings, then at Roman's eyes turning cold. Finally realized she'd messed with the wrong man.
"I-I'm sorry... I didn't know you were married." She stammered, spilling her drink, then fled in her beach sandals like she'd seen a ghost.
Watching her scramble away, I fought to suppress the grin trying to split my face.
Had to admit—seeing another woman crash and burn in front of him, seeing him claim me so brutally in front of everyone without hesitation—felt incredible. That secret thrill fizzed in my chest like soda bubbles, expanding, exploding.
But I absolutely couldn't let him see that.
I yanked at the hand he still held captive, trying to escape that heart-racing heat.
"Using me as a shield, Mr. Sokolov?" I side-eyed him. "I thought the great Bratva Pakhan only needed one look to incinerate the vultures. What, hiding behind a woman's skirts now?"
"I thought that was part of your contractual duties as Mrs. Sokolova." Roman not only didn't let go—he pulled our locked hands closer, thumb stroking my knuckles. "Swatting away the flies too stupid to live."
"Next time just tell her you're a murdering thug with meat scraps still in your basement." I shot back. "I guarantee that works better than flashing this damn rock."
Roman laughed low. The sound rumbled through his chest with a certainty that he'd seen straight through me.
He pulled suddenly, drawing me fully against him. Hard chest hit my nose. His scent surrounded me completely.
"But honestly, Nadia," he lowered his head, lips nearly touching my ear, voice dripping with spine-tingling sex appeal and pleasure, "watching you charge over like a jealous cat protecting her food, claiming your territory... way more entertaining than threatening them directly."
"I—I wasn't jealous!"
I shoved his chest hard. My face instantly burned like fire.
"I was just professionally playing a wife 'hopelessly infatuated' with you! Which you demanded! If Miller's spies saw you flirting with other women on day one of our honeymoon, our whole deal would blow up!"
I rushed the words, trying to cover my hammering heart.
"Of course. For the deal." Roman nodded along, but that thick, undissolvable amusement in his eyes hung there plain as day, like he was watching a terrible actor stubbornly deny the obvious.
He took my ringed hand again, pulling me toward the private villas.
"Come on, Mrs. Sokolova. Time to see our 'absolutely secure zone.'"
I bit my lip hard, letting him lead me through the palm-lined luxury corridor. His palm—wide, rough, brutally dominant—locked my hand in his, giving me zero room to retreat.
Warm sea breeze brushed my face but couldn't dispel that increasingly uncontrollable flutter in my chest.
Damn.
I looked at our joined hands and closed my eyes in something like despair.