Chapter One #2
It’s darker in here, and I don’t know what this place has in store for me until I see the bed. Red velvet curtains have been drawn, and light penetrates weakly through them, giving the room a sort of ambient-brothel feel.
Fabulous. Sophia is about to marry a Russian serial killer, and his friend is about to—
“Hands up?”
“Excuse me?”
“So I can fix it properly. Unless you want to keep flashing the entire Bratva.”
I roll my eyes and stick my arms in the air.
“Smart girl.”
He fiddles with the loose strap and starts tightening it.
I shudder. His hands are calloused and feel rough against my skin, but somehow, I like it.
They’re hot too, spiking my temperature even more than before.
Which is screwed up. It’s unlike me to enjoy a man’s touch.
Especially in a bizarre situation like this one.
Whenever Sophia and I used to hit the club, I’d peel their disgusting hands away and decline their affections.
Men can’t be trusted—simple as that. My body has always repelled the male species.
So, it doesn’t make sense that it’s warming to this stranger’s touch, especially that he’s the worst of his kind.
His hand brushes my shoulder blade.
A shiver runs up my spine.
Footsteps and distant chatter echoes from outside of the room, but it all dwindles away to the sounds of his breathing.
He inhales deeply, hot air blowing against my skin on the exhale.
He’s a nasal breather—of course he is. Probably wears mouth tape to bed or some shit to get his jawline that sharp.
He’s clearly a man that prides himself on his appearance, which means he very well knows his effect on women.
If there’s one thing guys that look as good as him lack, it’s modesty. And integrity.
But at the end of the day, I’m a woman born to reproduce, so of course I’m going be turned on by the opposite sex when they’re tall, dark, handsome, and have the most captivating eyes.
Why is it always the bad guys that are attractive?
“You were saying something about a monster.”
I shove his hands away. “The groom.”
“Timur?” The man narrows his eyes at me for a second, and then shakes his head. “No. Timur is not a monster. Not in the way you think.”
That’s the thing—we think very differently.
A psychopath’s brain doesn’t work the same as a normal human’s brain.
He’s Bratva. That means he’s been conditioned to think that killing is fine.
Murder and torture are work for them, and work is an everyday, mundane activity that employees don’t tend to question.
“It has nothing to do with what I think,” I say.
The man catches my eyes, awaiting elaboration.
“I lost somebody because of him.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His hands stop moving. He stares at me for longer than necessary, and I half expect him to offer his condolences.
“I don’t know who you lost, but I can tell you it wasn’t him.”
Convincing. If it wasn’t Timur Gusev, Sophia’s soon-to-be-husband, then who the hell was it? This guy maybe? I don’t know the logistics of organized crime, but I do know that they sign allegiance to their leader and kiss one another’s asses all the time.
I scowl at him. “Why would I believe you?”
“You are free to believe whatever you wish.”
I fold my arms over my chest. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide, given that he’s already seen one of two breasts.
“Look.” I stare up at him. “I’m not asking for much. Do whatever you want, but leave Sophia out of it. She’s innocent and doesn’t deserve—”
“Enough.”
Anger irritates my skin and makes it all itchy. This guy needs to take it down a notch. Punching his face is tempting, but I have a feeling it would only get me into trouble. I have enough on my plate already.
My skin feels cold now that his hands are no longer on me. I shouldn’t feel disappointed about that, but a small part of me does. As much as I hate the guy and everything he represents, it’s nice to be touched by a man who’s this good-looking.
But that isn’t number one priority today.
Taking advantage now that I’m no longer in his grip, I make a dash for it and beeline towards the door.
His hand appears out of nowhere, barring my path before I can exit the room.
Another shiver runs up my spine. What the hell is up with me today?
“I thought we were done here.”
“Silence.” He comes up behind me and pins a hand to my back. That hot, minty breath again… He exhales, and the nape of my neck explodes with tingles.
Seriously, girl?
For a moment, I forget why I came here in the first place. That’s the danger when it comes to guys like him. They make you forget important things.
He opens the door and guides me back out into the lobby, up to one of the security guards. “Escort her off the property.”
The guard cuffs me with his bare hands. “Yes, sir.”
Shit!
“No! Wait!” I wrestle out of the security guard’s grasp. “You don’t understand!”
This brings over another nearby security guard. He touches something in his earpiece, squinting to listen to the message atop my screaming.
Then, he turns to me. “Mr. Rogov doesn’t have time for this.”
Mr. Rogov?
As in Nikolai Rogov?
The name is like a slap in the face.
I turn and look at him, already walking away from the scene.
Of course, it’s him. Father has told me about him a few times—Atlanta’s most brutal crime lord.
He’s the leader of his own syndicate, and apparently the two of them have crossed paths already.
Father says it’s best to avoid him. That he’s possessed by the devil and doesn’t have a functioning brain.
I guess I didn’t expect him to be the guy standing next to me.
I also didn’t realize Bratva leaders could be so handsome, considering the high amounts of stress that they are put under.
I expected Mr. Rogov to have no hair, a beer belly, and a severe case of crow’s feet, but instead he looks like the cover model for the next Dior Sauvage cologne campaign with all his tattoos, bronzed skin and piercing blue eyes.
I’m thrown forward by the security guard and ushered outside down a long driveway. The thug unlocks the gate with something that isn’t a key, and then chucks me out the same way one tosses out trash.
This only angers me more.
“No, please!” I squirm out of his grasp. “You don’t understand. Sophia can’t marry that—”
BANG!
And that’s how the security guard feels about the situation, shutting the gate in my face.
I curl my hands around the bars like I’m serving time, and stick my nose through the small gap in the bars as he strides back inside.
Even the gates stink of money— made of chrome gold.
Father never had this kind of wealth. I always thought he had it all because investment bankers make bank when you know how to play the game.
But it appears I got it all wrong. The money isn’t in banking. It’s in organized crime.
I sigh and throw my head into the gate, feeling defeated.
This can’t be how it ends.
Four years ago, these guys shot a bullet straight through Mom’s heart. It’s only a matter of time before they do that to Sophia too.
I slam against the gate. Close my hands into fists and shake the thing with what little strength I have left. It’s useless, of course. The thing is as tough as its owner.
I turn around and see a white van pull up. The engine dies, and then people file out in catering uniform, aprons tied around their waists. The back opens up, a slope hits the ground, and caterers start wheeling things out. Trays. Spare uniforms. Cooking supplies.
The gate cranks open, and three security guards approach to welcome the caterers inside.
Maybe not all hope is lost.
I duck under a nearby parked car, my back pressed up against the metal.
Hearing distant chatter, I raise just enough to watch what’s going on through the car window.
Security guards, still wearing the same poker-faced expressions, check their badges, and then escort the caterers and their rattling trays inside.
Two trays have been left. One holds food preparation. The other, spare aprons.
That’s it!
I check to make sure the coast is clear, and then shoot up from behind the parked car to swoop a white apron around myself. I yank it over my head and tie a rushed knot around my waist.
Come on Lauren, you got this!
I don’t know how much time I have left before I’m caught again, but I don’t care.
I’m not leaving until I stop this wedding.