Chapter 2
TWO
ava
Venom courses through me. It’s bitter, fiery.
I risked everything tonight, and for what? The Volkov crest’s gone. Goddammit, it belongs to me, not even my cousin Stanislav or his father had it. The crest was promised to me.
And yet Romanov took it.
He had to have. It was missing before Dad died. And finally, tonight, I had it in my hands.
I had it for mere minutes…
Now it’s gone. It must’ve dropped outside on the grounds.
I stop walking and put a hand on the laundry room door, closing my eyes for a moment as I force myself to breathe.
My wrists hurt from pulling off the loose ties, something I tested when I kissed him.
Then something crazy happens.
A wave of sensation hits, and it stuns me.
Fucking Christ.
No. I am not attracted to that man. I felt nothing when he was on top of me… touching me…
My pussy throbs, and I know I’m wet, my clit sensitive as it rubs against the Lycra, from the spot he touched.
My lips tingle, and closing my eyes does nothing more than flood me with his taste and that amber and smoky scent, one that reminds me of spices and tobacco.
It’s on my skin, my clothes, bewitching in its darkness.
It’s a hypnotic and unconventional scent.
And he had an Irish accent.
Lyrical, seductive, and something I should utterly despise.
So why didn’t I? Why…?
Do it.
My words haunt, the meaning clear as glass and still throbbing inside me because when he touched—
“Get it together, Ava,” I whisper, rubbing my wrist as I strip off the grass and dirt-stained dress followed by the Lycra.
I touch my neck, the spot where the knife punctured my skin sticky with blood.
The fucker cut me. And I shiver at the memory.
Right, I need to get my plan in order. I’m allowed to be here. Technically.
I had an unofficial invite, but I never responded.
I almost never respond to an invite to an event or dinner, or anything else, really.
Romanov never has parties, at least any I’m invited to attend, and any of the times I’m here, I’m always downstairs. But I remember this place, the layout from when Dad married Elena.
Back then I didn’t care about the dynamics between Elena, Dad, and Iosif. Mama was dead. Gone. And nothing I did would, or could, bring her back. All I knew was Iosif and Elena had a connection, and it was like family.
For them.
A chance photo of Romanov in his office, for Interior by Design magazine, a glossy publication of the rich and famous in their abodes, made me plan this evening.
One chance I figured, when I caught sight of the crest on his desk, to snag it. The opportunity was right there in black and white. A marriage being celebrated between two titans of industry. Or, for those in the know, two powerful crime families.
It would be my one chance to take it. My family crest. And according to my father’s bedtime stories, it belongs to the true Pakhan.
Which should be me.
But when he died… my spoiled, rich, and reckless cousin, Stanislav, was to be named as Pakhan when he came of age.
I take another breath, grateful I prepared. When I arrived, I hid a second dress in the industrial dryer just in case I needed it when I got back inside. I pull the dress on and trudge up the back stairs.
The pull to go and find Tatiana is almost more than I can bear and my eyes blur. But I blink hard. My goal was to take the crest and whatever else I could steal, cause a distraction, and then walk out the back door.
At least I’ll complete part of the mission.
Tatiana’s safe.
And now I need to find that crest. It means something to be named Pakhan, I know it. When my uncle died last week, instead of eyes on me, his second assumed the position of interim Pakhan and is now searching for a full Russian relative to take the role.
A man.
Fucking sexist assholes, all of them.
The Volkov Bratva’s small, but it’s something that could do great things with me in charge. And I would be, if Stan were still alive.
But Seamus Murphy killed him three years ago, and with Stan’s passing went his promise of my taking over at twenty-five. Even if Seamus didn’t kill him, he was there. And Paddy told me the Murphys always want what isn’t theirs.
Like my bratva.
Seamus Murphy’s the one he pointed to in the photo. I saw him in that church last year, St. Jane’s. He left me dead inside, unlike his man skulking around the grounds tonight. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll have my revenge on him and the rest of the Murphy clan.
When I’m Pakhan.
Downstairs, the party continues, my bomb nothing but a fucking dud. As I head to Romanov’s smoking room where I know his safe is, I almost keep walking up to the next floor.
Where Tatiana is. My younger half sister.
Not that she knows it.
Iosif keeps her from me. We don’t even have a relationship. She’s four, he’s had her since Dad and Elena died, and now he hides her. I’ve seen her a handful of times, but I’m just Ava, no one special to her and she’s… just flesh and blood that I love in that way I know I’m meant to.
She’s safe here, I tell myself. Safe.
If I barge in, if I take her, then who knows what will happen?
It’s like knives under my skin, not following pure, unadulterated instinct.
“Besides,” I whisper. “You can’t even provide for her.”
No, I can’t. And I can’t guarantee her safety. Right now, she’s protected by the clout of Romanov. If I take her away from all of this…
“Do your fucking job, Ava,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
I need to take something to make some fast cash.
My uncle’s death has sent things into a tailspin, which was my plan before I got distracted by actually getting the crest and wanting to put it somewhere safe before I stole anything else.
Because I can deal with being caught and having stolen goods stripped from me.
I just didn’t want to lose access to the crest.
Except, I think, I did.
I’ll find it. Outside.
With that in mind, I duck into the smoking room, the thick scent of cigar smoke in the air, soaked into the leather.
The smell’s so familiar in that long-lost way that it slams me hard, my stomach roiling.
Dad used to smoke cigars with his colleagues. He used to joke that the only reason he got away with marrying an Italian nobody instead of a Russian princess was he provided a service no one else did and he never stepped on toes in the process.
I can still hear his laughter, and the black mark of near future death it contained for anyone who laughed a little too long and with too much sincerity.
Because I saw how he looked at Mama. His eyes softened. Shone, actually. And the one time she took me to that church when I was nine wasn’t out of fear for her life or to get away from Dad, but for my safety. She was scared for me.
Someone wanted Dad to open up his smuggling routes to them and threatened me.
One week later, they were found in the Hudson River with pieces missing.
I never set foot in that church again until one year ago.
Shit, I can’t go digging up past memories that make things too soft inside. I don’t need that. I don’t need anything but my promised legacy. But this room reminds me of Dad. And even of Mama when she’d sit on his lap and they’d kiss.
I clench my fists at my sides and take a deep breath. “Right. Back to business.” I look around at the familiar surroundings. I’ve been in this room before.
Dad and Elena would have drinks with Romanov inside these very walls. Iosif was comfortable enough to open the safe in front of them, which said a lot.
And I want that safe.
The room’s set up for later tonight, and with a thumping heart, I bypass the decanters of booze on display and the glasses of heavy plain crystal.
I slide behind the big leather sofa and move the painting on the wall behind it.
A safe sits in a cutout of the wall. It’s an old-fashioned one with a dial.
But I approach with confidence, the combination no match to any safecracking skills I possess.
Mainly because I know the numbers. Romanov’s birthday, backward. I heard him joke about it. I even watched him turn that dial to each number. And when I do it, the door pops open.
I ignore the stacks of cash because it’s too crisp and I don’t like dealing in new money.
Instead, I take some of the diamond necklaces, rings, and bracelets, stuffing them into my pocket.
I need to pay a low-life motherfucker named Ruslan for some information later tonight, so my plan is to sell these to a fencer in exchange for the cash I need.
A Russian voice outside the room makes me freeze. No, two voices. One laughs.
There’s something about… fireworks?
My Russian’s as good as is my Italian, but the thick walls and door make it hard to hear clearly.
With a stilted breath, I twirl the dial, locking the safe. I slip the painting back into place and hurry to the booze, pouring a glass from the nearest decanter just as the door opens.
A man with graying hair and a condescending expression stares at me.
“Ava. Maybe we’ll make a real Russian out of you yet,” Iosif Romanov says with a heavy sigh. He waves a ringed hand at me. “Clean up, you have dirt on your face, you’re bleeding, and your lipstick is smeared.”
I’m not fooled by his amenable tone. Or his lack of curiosity. The man’s brutal, and one word could end my life. Not by death, but not all ends mean death. Marriage arranged by him would be an end. Never seeing Tatiana again would be an even worse end.
My head pounds as I march to the bathroom attached to the room and take a gulp of the liquor. I almost spit it out.
Vodka.
I despise vodka.
I put down the glass and wet a hand towel, cleaning up the bit of blood caked on my neck.
There’s not much, as it was more of a nick than a cut, but a wave of anger rocks me as I wipe off my lipstick, smeared by that kiss.
Then I clean the dirt off. Fury breathes with each beat inside my head, pushing at my skull, making it ache and scream.