Chapter 18
LILA
The shower water runs cold before I notice. I've been standing here letting it beat against my shoulders for—how long? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Time blurs when you're locked in a luxury prison.
I twist the tap closed and reach for the towel.
The suite is empty and eerily quiet. It has been since Ivan left yesterday, after…
My face heats remembering. The sheets still smell like him. Like us.
He hasn't checked on me once since the note.
The ensuite bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures.
I wipe steam off the mirror and stare at my reflection.
Wet hair plastered to my head. My skin is pale and washed out.
There's a mark on my collarbone—his mark—fading now to a yellow-purple that looks more like I walked into a wall than got thoroughly claimed by a Russian mobster.
What if he doesn't want to check on me anymore?
What if he's done?
But then—why do I care? That's the real question. I should want him to be done. Should want to go back to my normal life, my studio apartment, my night shifts at the diner, where the most dangerous thing was Mick's cocaine habit and truckers who stared too long.
Fuck.
I care. That's the problem. I care so much it's terrifying.
I pull on one of the new shirts he gave me.
Moving quietly, I press my ear to the door to the hall. There’s nothing at first. Then—voices.
Male voices.
Russian. Low, tense. Multiple.
Probably Pyotr and the other two thick-necks. Probably.
But why would all three be here? At the same time?
Is this… a meeting? Like that kind of meeting? The “Bratva men deciding who lives and who vanishes” kind?
I should stay here and wait for Ivan like a good girl in her tower.
But then, clear as day, I hear it: "Lila." It’s spoken with such venom, my stomach clenches.
They're talking about me.
Oh shit.
This happens in my books. Bratva politics. The woman who doesn't belong, who causes problems by existing. The men consider her a weakness, a liability. There’s always pressure to get rid of her.
Pyotr said Ivan doesn't bring women here. Ever. And now there's a meeting happening, and my name is being thrown around like an accusation.
I can't stay in here while they discuss my fate. What if they're trying to convince Ivan to send me away?
What if I lose him without even getting to fight for it?
I knock on the door. Softly at first, then harder.
The voices continue, unbothered. Great.
"Pyotr?" I call out, keeping my voice low.
"Stay inside." His hushed voice is close. "Not concern you."
"What's going on?"
"Bratva business. Ivan commands you stay."
I press my forehead against the door, scheming. There has to be a way. "Please. They’re talking about me. At least let me defend myself. Ivan would want—"
"He gives order. You stay. Or late lunch today."
Oh, so now I'm being punished with meal delays? Very mature, bud.
Fuck.
I need to do act. Break the door? Right, with what, my devastating personality? These aren't the cheap hollow doors from my apartment building. This is proper rich-people architecture, solid and unyielding.
I look around the room. Bed. Nightstand. Dresser. Windows that don't open more than three inches. A closet full of clothes I didn't buy. Bathroom with—
Bathroom. Perfect.
I go into the bathroom and start shoving tissues into the sink drain, then I turn the cold tap on full blast. Water gushes out, filling the basin. I wait until it reaches the rim, then—overflow. Water spills onto the marble floor, spreading slowly but steadily.
This is either brilliant or the stupidest thing I've ever done. Probably stupid. Definitely stupid. But I'm committed now.
I grab towels and shove them against the door frame, creating a dam that redirects the water toward the bedroom. Then I climb onto the bed and wait. The water creeps across marble, then carpet, darkening the expensive fabric as it spreads.
It takes longer than expected. Of course it does. But eventually—finally—the water reaches the bedroom door and seeps underneath into the hallway.
I hop off the bed and crouch by the door. "Pyotr? Pyotr, please, the bathroom—it's flooding. There’s water everywhere. Please, I need help!"
He’s quiet for a moment before cursing in Russian.
The door swings open, and Pyotr's face appears, furious and concerned. He sees the water spreading across the floor. "What the fuck—"
I dart past him while he’s distracted.
"Lying woman!" He lunges, but I'm already moving, running down the hallway in bare feet, wet footprints marking my escape route. "Shouldn't be out there!"
"Watch me!"
The hallway opens into the main living area, where I skid to a stop.
Holy shit.
There are at least eight men in the dining space. All clad in expensive suits. They sit around Ivan's massive table, tumblers of whiskey and scattered papers in front of them. Their eyes track my entrance like predators sizing up prey.
Ivan sits at the head of the table, and for a second, his expression lightens when he sees me.
It fades when an older man with silver hair and a face like granite points at me and shouts in Russian. The words are clearly harsh, even if I can’t understand them.
"English," Ivan commands. "Show respect to my woman."
The silver-haired man switches to English, his accent thick but clear. "You see?" He gestures at me like I'm evidence in a trial. "This is what he chooses! This is what he risks everything for!"
Every eye in the room is on me, scrutinizing the baggy shirt, messy hair, and, more importantly, my barefooted, frenzied entrance.
I take a step back. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed in my bedroom.
Another man speaks up, younger but equally cold. "My sister is much more fitting. She has skills a Pakhan needs, Petrov. Intelligence. Knows how to keep her mouth shut. Speaks Russian, for God's sake." He pauses to look at me with disdain. "Not just making coffee."
Making coffee. Right. Because that's all I am in their eyes. The waitress. A nobody who serves drinks and looks decorative.
I glance at Ivan, who’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, like he wants to be literally anywhere else.
Does he regret everything—the protection, the claiming, the choice to keep me when any sane man would have sent me away? Does he wish I had skills beyond pouring drinks and drawing pictures he'll never see?
But in the meantime, coffee? I can do that. I can prove I'm useful and charming. Years of schmoozing for tips have taught me a thing or two about winning over a tough crowd.
I turn and head for the kitchen before I can overthink it more, only stopping to dip behind a closet door and hide from Pyotr when I hear him thudding down the hall in a frantic search for me. I doubt he’ll go to Ivan first—he’d get in too much trouble. If I’m careful, I’ll have just enough time.
When he’s out of sight again, I continue on. The kitchen is pristine, filled with stainless steel and expensive appliances I don't know how to use. But a coffee maker is a coffee maker, right? Even rich Russian mobsters need caffeine.
I find the machine and start the motions, figuring it out as I go along.
Beans in the grinder.
Water in the reservoir.
Press this button?
Nope, not that one. Fuck.
Christ, I’m a terrible barista. Why can’t he own a simple coffeepot?
With a few more frustrating taps, the machine hisses and spits, and I realize I've overfilled something. Coffee grounds spill across the pristine counter. I grab a towel and wipe frantically.
It’s okay. I can do this. I've made thousands of cups of coffee. This is my thing. My one marketable skill, apparently.
After a pep talk and trial and error, I fill a tray with cups—eight of them, steam rising, none of them spilled, which is a miracle in itself—and carry it back to the dining area.
The men are still arguing, voices raised, mixing Russian and English in ways I can't follow. I approach the table, my serving mask in place. Polite. Efficient. Here to please.
I set a cup in front of the first man, who doesn't look at me. Good.
Next man. Also ignoring me. Better.
I work my way around the table. My hands are steadier now. I can do this. Just serve the coffee and disappear back to my room.
The silver-haired man is last. I approach him carefully, the cup hot in my hands, focusing on not spilling, not messing up, not proving everyone right about me being useless.
Of course his chair is too close to the table, so I have to reach over him at an awkward angle. He shifts unexpectedly, and the cup tilts.
Hot coffee splashes over his lap, soaking into his expensive white suit. He roars, jumping up, Russian curses pouring out. The liquid bleeds across the pristine fabric.
Oh my God.
"See?" he shouts. "She can't even serve coffee properly! This is who you protect? Who you choose?"
"She doesn't belong here!"
"Your father would be disgusted!"
The words hit me like a punch. I snatch napkins, pressing them desperately against the stain, as if that could erase the accident. “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I… I didn’t mean—please, I’m so sorry—”
The silver-haired man pushes my hands away, face purple with rage. The room erupts around me, men shouting in Russian and English, all of it directed at me, about me, because of me.
I keep apologizing, keep trying to clean up the mess, but I'm only making it worse, spreading the stain, proving their point with every frantic movement.
This is it. This is the moment I prove them all right. The moment Ivan realizes they're right, that I'm more trouble than I'm worth, that keeping me means risking everything for someone who can't even serve coffee without fucking it up.
And the worst part? They're not wrong.