Vengeful Embers (Vegas Bratva Kings #5)

1. Tara

1

TARA

Seventeen Months Ago

Early afternoon in Vegas means heat that makes the pavement shimmer and tourists in too little clothing snapping selfies under the Ember Club’s gilded sign.

Inside, the air conditioning hums like a sedative, soothing against the velvet heat pressing down outside.

The club’s mostly empty, the hush of late afternoon before the city wakes for sin.

I sit at my desk in the back office, notes from my thesis sprawled across the surface—highlighted textbooks, color-coded index cards, and a half-drunk cup of cold espresso perched precariously near the edge.

Quantum entanglement equations blur before my eyes as I rub my temple, my focus scattered like broken glass.

I don’t have a lot of time left until my dissertation defense, and less than zero time to waste.

My phone buzzes and vibrates in the middle of some papers on the desk.

Grabbing it, the caller ID flashes with my sister’s name, and I tap to answer it.

“Hey, Rina.”

“Don’t forget the china,” she blurts the second I pick up.

“Mom’s gonna lose her shit if it’s not there when she gets home.”

Fuck, is that tonight?

I press the heel of my hand into my forehead, then glance at the time—3:47 PM.

Shit .

“No, I didn’t forget. I was just about to head out. I’m totally on top of it.”

“Bullshit,” Sabrina calls me out on my lie.

“I bet you're in your office at the gangster den working on your dissertation defense and didn’t realize the time.”

“I was just about to pack up and head to the storage facility.”

“When you drop the china off, grab us a piece of cake and some of the food,” Sabrina orders. “I’m going to be super late tonight as I have to fill in for two extra dancers who have the flu.”

“Agh.” I suppress a shudder. “Don’t bring that shit home okay? I don’t have time to get the summer flu.”

“When did you ever get the flu?” Sabrina scoffs. “You're the healthiest person I know. It’s like the flu bug just bounces off you.”

“Did Mom give you any indication of where the plates are in the storage space?” I start getting ready to leave, grabbing my purse and keys from the desk drawer.

“She said the boxes are clearly marked,” Sabrina tells me. “I’ve gotta go. Don’t forget the food and cake. Tell them I said happy three-year relationship anniversary.”

“I’m hoping they won’t be and it’s just a drop-off and run.”

“Then get there before they get home,” Sabrina suggests. “Bye, love ya.”

The line goes dead rather abruptly.

I exhale, push back my chair, and shove my notes into a battered leather satchel. I reach for my phone again when a shadow cuts across the door.

Gavriil steps inside, tall and broad-shouldered, his ever-present scent of dark spice trailing him. His suit jacket is slung over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie loose like he’s been working since dawn. He probably has.

“Got a second?” he asks, his accent still thick despite two decades in the States.

I glance at the door. “Only if it’s fast. My mother’s gonna skin me alive if I don’t make it to storage before it closes.”

“Irina and I want to talk to you,” he says. “Nothing bad.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not firing me?”

“Never.” He chuckles. “Didn’t you hear me say it’s nothing bad?”

“Okay. After I make this emergency china run, I’ll swing by your office.”

“Good. It’s important.”

There’s a weight in his tone that settles somewhere in my chest. He gives me a tight nod, turns, and leaves.

I hurry, heart thudding like I’ve just been handed a test I forgot to study for. There is hardly anyone in the burlesque club at this time of day. Just a few afternoon drinkers nursing their drinks at a few of the tables that line the club floor, which will be packed with millionaires and mercenaries in a few hours. I wave to Sasha, one of our dancers, rehearsing on stage. She’s filling in as the headline dancer tonight in my mother’s absence. I push out into the sunlight.

Vegas hits me like a furnace as I step outside, leaving quantum theories to collapse on my desk while I try to map out my workload over the next few days to squash it all into a limited time frame. The hot Vegas sun is ruthless and blinding as I bolt across the street heading for the parking garage.

Then everything crashes back into terrifying focus as an SUV screeches to a halt, close enough to shatter my atoms. My bag slams against my hip. I freeze like a deer in a sniper’s scope.

My head lifts to the windshield, shock zinging through my nervous system, and I watch the driver's window slide down. A man leans out the window. He has a sculpted jaw, sleek black hair, and electric blue eyes—he’s fucking gorgeous. The words Greek God resound in my brain as I stare at him, and the way his eyes rake over me is like a caress, and even before he speaks, I can feel the raw masculinity and danger resonate like a warning beacon from his eyes.

“You really have to be more mindful,” he says, voice smooth, deep, and threaded with a faint Russian lilt. “It would be a shame for someone as beautiful as you to end up as a hood ornament.”

I stare, flushed, rattled, and my knees are starting to feel like jelly.

The stranger waits for a reaction, as my confused mind spins, and I realize I’m just standing there gawking.

“Sorry,” I breathe, dragging air back into my lungs and forcing my brain to reconnect with my limbs. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He studies me like he’s memorizing the slope of my jaw and the stutter in my breath. Then he smiles, it’s slow and sexy, making him even more gorgeous. My stomach does a barrel roll.

“Maybe use the crossing button,” he advises.

I nod, already backing away. “Will do.” What the hell, Tara! I sound like a stupid person. A horn honks, and jolts me from my zombie state, rebooting my brain and restoring control back to my limbs, allowing me to turn and flee.

Even though I can’t see it, I can feel him watching me as I dash into the cool parking garage. My body’s zinging and lit up like I stuck a fork in a socket. As I wobble on shaky legs towards my car, the man’s voice and insanely gorgeous face are playing over and over in my head.

When I finally get to storage, I almost forget what I had come for as my thoughts are filled with my near-death experience and wondering if I’d only imagined what he’d looked like in my state of shock. But I can hear his voice and still see his face as his smile transforms his features from gorgeous to sinfully gorgeous, and my stomach knots as my nether parts heat thinking about him.

“Get a grip!” I admonish myself as I unlock and slide the storage unit open, sighing as I see the neatly packed garage.

Each box is numbered, labeled, and stacked in an order that only makes sense to my mother. Stepping into the cool space, my eyes scan the room until I find the box I’m looking for.

“China, glassware, and tea cups.”

The box is at the top of a pile next to the table. My mother put it in the locker for sorting. The boxes aren’t stacked too high, so my mother has easy access to them. As I walk toward the box, I notice there is a box on the sorting table, and it’s new—box number seventy-seven.

Last time I was here, there were only seventy-six boxes, and I’m here quite often now that my mother has moved the contents of the loft here. Contents that included a lot of my old papers and things I need for school.

I’m tempted to take a closer look, but a glance at my wristwatch tells me I don’t have the time. I find the china plates, and while I’m closing the box the china was in, I notice the name on top of the new box on the sorting table— Sol’s treasures.

Placing the china plates carefully on the table, I move toward the box that holds my late father’s treasures. The familiar pain slices through me, and my heart grows heavy at the thought of him. It’s been nearly twelve years since he was killed, but I still miss him so much.

It’s almost as if I’m compelled to open it and look inside. There's an odd assortment of old items—slide rules, military medals, a watch that hasn't ticked in thirty years. Tears sting the back of my eyes as I can picture my father telling me stories about a lot of the items in the box. Then my fingers run across a small wooden box, intricately carved and worn with age. I've never seen it before. I lift it from the crate and curiously examine it. It’s a puzzle box, a faint memory from physics club sparking in the back of my brain, and as I turn it over, the lid shifts and pops open.

It’s empty.

A pang of disappointment cuts through me. I tilt the box to the side and listen to the hollow clunk. I tap my nails in a soft rhythm across the surface. It’s not called a puzzle box for nothing; there is a trick to it. The top part came open far too easily. It must be a false top. I run my fingers along the edges of the box until they stop on a tiny groove. Flick the hidden latch. Another compartment springs open.

A folded sheet of paper and a faded photo lie inside. A rush of blood makes a whooshing sound in my ears as I stare at the unfamiliar face of the woman in the photo.

I flip it over and find a date, the last digit smudged or faded: 196…

My fingers fumble in my purse for my mini flashlight. I switch it on and shine it across the date. The beam bounces until I switch it to black light mode. The missing number reveals nothing, but below it, is another message: My darling. This is not much, but may it help you remember who you are and where you come from. That I love you more than life itself. Stay safe. I hope we will meet again in a world filled with love.

A shockwave of emotion ricochets through me, squeezing my lungs. I can almost feel the tenderness with which the words were written, the desperation and ache. I can’t process it. This is crazy. I shove the photo and note back into the box, a step away from hyperventilating as my brain spirals with the implications.

I clench my hands in my hair and inhale deeply. My thoughts are like a blizzard, wild and consuming. Could the woman be my mother?

No. My grandmother, maybe. That makes more sense as my father and mother were born in the sixties.

But why would it be hidden?

I sidle up to the wooden box and take the folded paper. I unroll the sheet of paper and freeze. A cold weight settles in my chest.

It’s a birth certificate, and I don’t think it’s a full one as the parents aren’t listed on it.

It is also Russian.

I recognize the Cyrillic immediately—thanks to my mom insisting we speak it fluently. “ Because of who your father and I work for ,” she always said when my sister and I complained.

I’d rolled my eyes as a teenager, but at this moment, I’m grateful for it.

Actually being able to speak Russian now that I work at the Ember Club has come in handy most days.

My eyes scan the document.

Name of child: Lidiya Zorin

Date of birth: 1 June 1998

My birthdate.

My heartbeat stumbles.

Place of birth: Sokolov Medical Center, Moscow.

My knees nearly buckle, and I grip the side of the table to steady myself.

I’ve never been to Russia.

I was born in Nevada.

That’s what my records say.

That’s what my parents always told me.

So why is there a birth certificate—official, stamped and signed—saying someone with my birthday was born in Moscow?

Someone named Lidiya Zorin, and why would it be in my father’s box of treasures?

The paper shakes in my grip.

Either my father kept this for a reason.

.

.

or my whole life is built on a lie.

I’m about to crack under the weight of questions and emotions I barely understand.

The woman in the picture.

The name on the birth certificate.

The words on the back of the photo.

The world pitches and steadies as I clutch the piece of paper in my hand.

“I wonder if I can get a full copy of this birth certificate?” I mumble to the empty unit.

The jarring trill of my phone jerks me back to reality.

It’s my mother.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, sweetheart, do you have the plates?” she asks, her voice calm while I feel like a soda that’s been shaken one too many times, and I’m about to blow, erupting like a soda volcano.

“Yes. I’ve got them. I’m leaving now.” I can’t believe how calm I managed to sound.

“I should be home in about fifteen minutes.” I have an urge to demand answers, but I take a deep breath instead.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Tara.

Stay calm.

Think this through.

“See you in fifteen, sweetheart,” she says.

“Drive safe.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at the objects before shoving them back in the box, grabbing the plates, and heading to my mother's, trying to decide the best way to get answers. My mother has always been a master of vague answers.