Chapter 12
SONYA
Matvei can dance. He leads me around the dance floor, every movement confident with the same predator-like grace he exhibits in everything else.
We dance until I’m too tired to continue.
“I shouldn’t have worked so late last night,” I confess, sheepish as I smother yet another yawn.
“Not a creature of the night?” he asks playfully.
“Yes, just not on three hours of sleep in a twenty-four-hour-plus period. I left that behind in law school,” I reply as we weave through the half-drunk crowd and down a grand staircase.
“I find that hard to believe.” Matvei glances at me, an odd warmth in his eyes. “You can’t tell me you don’t pull all-nighters for cases. I don’t see you as the kind of lawyer who clocks out at five and leaves everything behind.”
“Well, okay, that’s true.” I can’t deny it, and from the way his lips quirk into a small smile, he already knew it too.
“Wait here, and I’ll get Evgeny to pull the car around.”
“Sonya!”
I jerk around at the sound of feet pounding down the staircase, invading the hush of the lobby.
“What do you want, Samson?”
I don’t know how I was ever attracted to him, especially now that I see who he really is behind the good-looking mask.
“Hey—” He stops just before he gets to me to take a long breath. “Look, I know why you’re here.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot.” There isn’t any trace of the earlier anger in his eyes. He’s replaced it with his mask of easy-going friendliness, the kind that made me think he was the guy next-door when we first met. “I know you wanted to try to win me back.”
“I—” The words drop off as if from a cliff. I have no idea how to respond to the suggestion that just came out of my ex’s mouth.
“But you don’t have to do it through Matvei. Didn’t you hear me talk about him enough? He’s bad news, Sonya. Terrible news.” Samson moves to grip my arm, but I jerk away before he can touch me.
“What I do and don’t do is none of your business anymore, Samson.”
My words come out sharper than I intended, but I realize I’m still angry at him.
Not for breaking up with me—I’m actually glad that happened and I wasn’t stuck with him as a husband.
I’m angry at the way Samson treated me, for humiliating me, for treating me like trash, for telling me I wasn’t good enough or beautiful enough for him, for cheating on me and discarding me when he didn’t find me useful anymore.
That still hurts.
“Look, I’m sorry for what I did.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But you have to stay away from Matvei. Seriously. He’s dangerous.”
That one word draws me up short, my mind going back to the moment on the sidewalk, when I watched Matvei take aim and shoot, the guy hitting the pavement, instantly dead with part of his skull missing.
Samson’s look is knowing, and I hate it. I hate how right he is. I hate that the moment is still playing in my head and even in my dreams, the vision of the guy in the hoodie being replaced with my face.
The teenager behind the coat check desk has one earbud out and is trying not to appear as though she’s listening to our conversation. I drop my voice as I turn my back to her. “Leave me alone, Samson. I’m done with you and you’re done with me. You made that very clear.”
“Come on, Sonya. Promise me you’ll be careful. Promise you won’t continue hanging around Matvei.” Samson reaches for my wrist again and I jerk it away.
From the corner of my eye, I see the teenager has given up all pretense of not listening and is now actively eavesdropping. I almost snap at her to stop but turn my anger to Samson instead.
“Mind your own business, Samson,” I hiss.
My ex reaches for me a third time and wraps his fingers around my wrist, his brows furrowed in visible frustration. “Did you miss the part where he’s the pakhan of the most powerful Russian Bratva in Chicago? Do you really want to get mixed up in all that?”
“Oh, so now you care about me?” My short bark of laughter is derisive and lacking humor. “Just walk away, Samson. You obviously know how to do that.”
“Sonya, this is ridiculous. You don’t need to put yourself in danger just to get my attention—”
Movement out of the corner of my eye becomes a rush of darkness.
Samson’s hand disappears from my wrist with a painful wrench.
I don’t even have time to understand what’s happening before Matvei has his brother up against the wall, one hand fisted in Samson’s shirt, the other tightly gripping his neck.
Fear banishes any other expression on Samson’s face as he struggles to get back the breath that was knocked out of him when he hit the wall. Then a wash of rage replaces the fear.
“Get the fuck off of me, you fucking bastard!” he manages to say, struggling as he tries to pry his brother’s hand from around his throat.
“I think you know that out of the two of us, I’m not the bastard.”
There is such cold menace in Matvei’s words, I swear ice spiders across the floor and engulfs my feet, because I can’t move. This man, no, this hunter in genteel clothing, killed a man the other day. He’s the ruthless, cold, deadly pakhan of the Volkov Bratva.
This is the killer Samson warned me about. And I hate that he’s right.
“Do you know who’s upstairs?” The tone of Samson’s voice is obstructed by Matvei’s hands around his throat. “Do you know who my father-in-law is now?”
“You think I’m afraid of the Mancinis?” Matvei’s voice drops half an octave, venom dripping from every word. “They’re afraid of me, just like you should be.”
“Fuck you,” Samson spits. His fingers dig into his brother’s wrist, but it doesn’t loosen his grip.
“You never were good at learning lessons. Maybe I should finally teach you to mind your own business before you get yourself into more trouble than you can handle, bratishka.”
Everything about Matvei screams violence, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.
“Don’t use that word with me.” Samson squirms, but it’s no use. “We might share the same blood, but we were never brothers.”
Matvei leans close to Samson, his hand tightening so much that Samson’s breath is shallow and grating. “Your words, not mine.”
I’m afraid he’s going to kill Samson right here. At his own wedding.
I finally find my voice and step in, my hand hovering over the pakhan’s arm. “Matvei, don’t.”
Time slows, the world around us grinding to a halt. I hold my breath as I wait to see what Matvei will do next.
Samson nearly collapses as Matvei releases him. His hand goes instinctively to his neck, where the red, angry outline of fingers will no doubt leave a bruise.
“Fuck you, Matvei,” he growls, his voice hoarse.
“Stay away from what’s mine.” It’s Matvei’s last warning, the growl of a predator, before his arm wraps around my waist again to lead me out.
The last image I see is of Samson leaning on the wall for support, gasping for breath, his face red with anger. The coat check girl is crouched behind the counter, trembling, her face white as a sheet.
The cool night air, the hum of the city, and the sound of traffic are jarring after the last few minutes. Evgeny is waiting at the curb by the black sedan’s open door, his expression tense.
“Everything is fine,” Matvei calls out, his voice tight and controlled as he leads me down the steps.
Evgeny asks something in Russian to which Matvei replies coolly. An odd expression crosses the big bear’s face, and he says something else I don’t understand. I wait by the high wall at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the two men to finish their conversation.
I need to learn Russian.
I don’t want to think about what’s circling my brain, that I didn’t stop Matvei because I wanted to save Samson.
I stopped Matvei because I wanted to save him.
No matter how violent, or how frightening, I don’t want this man to suffer.
Even if our contract does end tonight and he’s out of my life once he drops me off at my apartment, I cared more about him than anything else in that moment.
A car with its high beams on moves down the street, causing me to squint and cover my eyes with my hand.
I barely see the bright flash before I hear the explosion coming from the car.
And then, everything is darkness and pain.