Chapter 13
Stella
I shift to my side and grimace as a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder.
“Don’t move,” a soft voice says in the dark.
However, I don’t listen to the warning and keep trying to pull myself up from the bed, only to hiss out in pain.
“You are a stubborn woman, Stella Romano. I said don’t move,” Kirill’s voice rings out louder now as he approaches the bed and sits down beside me, brushing the wet hair from my temple.
That’s when it hits me. Kirill is here, in my room, sitting on my bed.
Wait…
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I realize this isn’t my room at all. And this definitely isn’t my bed.
“Where the hell am I?” I grumble, trying to get up again.
“Stay the fuck still, Stella, or God help me, I’ll tie you to this bed and make it so.”
Normally, I’d have a witty comeback for a threat like that, but there’s a fearful edge on his voice that shuts me up.
“You didn’t answer my question, Kill. Where am I?”
He leans his head back against the headboard and exhales heavily. “You don’t remember,” he says, almost relieved that whatever happened has slipped from my memory.
The fact that he remembers what I can’t leaves a cold weight in my chest. I reach for the scattered pieces of my memory, and without warning, they slam back into place.
Rushing out of Sacred Heart after Marcello went ballistic and killed a priest, right in front of Frankie.
All of us going home so my parents could launch into major damage-control mode.
Me offering Frankie a ride back to the orphanage when it became painfully clear she was too overwhelmed after learning her boyfriend and his entire family were tied to the Chicago syndicate.
Frankie and I being run off the road, gunfire tearing through the air, and the all-too-familiar sound of Russian being shouted nearby.
Yes. It all comes back to me at once. And I’m fucking livid.
“Kirill,” I grit out through my teeth, fighting to keep my rage in check. “Did your men fucking shoot me?” When he doesn’t answer, I use my good arm to slap his chest. “You asshole!”
I hit him again, and again, until pain flares through my side, my head spins, and nausea twists my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anxiously.
“Aside from you trying to kill me,” I groan, bile rising up my throat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Kirill’s up in an instant, grabs a nearby wastebasket, and helps me lean forward, holding my hair back while I throw up.
I’m surprised by how little actually comes out. I’m even more surprised when Kirill goes to the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth, and gently wipes the corners of my mouth.
Then he helps me lie back on the bed, easing me down and tucking another pillow behind my head with slow, deliberate care, as if I were something fragile he’s afraid to break.
Once I’m settled, he sits beside me, arm slung over the headboard, not close enough to press me to his shoulder, but near enough to twine his fingers through the strands of my hair.
“Do you feel better? Do you need me to get you anything?”
“What I need are answers, Kirill, and you’re fucking evading them.”
“What do you want to know?” he says after a long pause.
“For one, where the hell am I?”
“You’re at my place.”
One glance around the room tells me he’s lying. It has a woman’s touch, and none of his signature black tones show up anywhere.
“Fine. If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll find out myself.” I start to sit up, but pain tears through my side, and my throat tightens with another strong wave of nausea.
This time, Kirill wastes no time on theatrics. He slides into the bed and wraps an arm around my waist, preventing me from getting away. Usually, I’d dismantle his hold in a heartbeat, but my body feels lethargic and too weak to fight him off.
I fix him with a murderous stare, and he meets it with a look of helplessness, unsure how to handle me.
It’s unsettling. Kirill is always confident, always so self-assured it borders on irritating. But right now, he looks off balance. Rattled. Almost like he’s afraid. Afraid of me.
“I wasn’t lying,” he finally says after a tense pause. “You’re back at my place. Just not in the same city. Or even the same country, for that matter.”
“Kirill, don’t say it.” I close my eyes, already imagining the worst.
“We’re a few hours from Moscow,” he confesses at last.
“I told you not to say it!” I let out a scoff. I can’t believe this! The gall of him! “So not only did your men run me off the road and shoot me, but you also kidnapped me? Jesus Christ, Kill! That’s a whole other level of stalkery. What were you thinking? Oh, that’s right. You weren’t!”
“It was never my intention for you to get hurt.”
“Well, you sure have a pretty fucked-up way of showing it.”
“Stella—”
“What? I’m not supposed to be pissed that you brought me to a different country, Russia no less, without my knowledge or consent?”
“It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. I was supposed to be dead in a ditch somewhere.” My statement sets him off.
“Do you really think so poorly of me? Do you think I’d ever be capable of hurting a hair on your head, much less causing you actual physical pain? Do you think I’d want to live in a world where you weren’t in it?”
Kirill’s words tumble out with a raw intensity that I hadn’t been prepared for. I open my mouth and shut it again, the confession in his black eyes knocking whatever snarky retort I had loose.
“What am I supposed to think?” I say softly. “I mean… I’m pretty sure I have a bullet wound in my shoulder. That’s real, right? That’s why it hurts like a son of a bitch whenever I try to move, right?”
“Yes,” he says, looking completely guilt-ridden.
“Thought so. Tell whoever shot me to count his days. When I get back to Chicago, the first thing on my list is to give him a visit and make sure he pays for the little gift he gave me.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Why? Are you going to tuck him away somewhere to keep him safe from me?”
“No. Because I killed him myself.”
Surprise pins every word to my throat. Kirill killed one of his men. For me. For an enemy.
I want to ask him why, but I’m too afraid of what his answer will be. “Does my father know I’m here?” I ask instead, feeling that this is a safer line of questioning.
“He knows.”
“That must’ve been a fun conversation.” I scoff sarcastically, but Kirill just looks at me like I might disappear at any second. Like he can’t take his eyes off of me even for a minute, too afraid something will happen to me if he looks away.
“I wouldn’t know. It was my brother who talked to him,” he says quietly.
I swallow hard as another realization hits. If I’m in Moscow, that means I’m deep in Bratva territory.
Shit. Shit. Shit. My parents must be losing their minds, not to mention Marcello and Annamaria.
“I need to make a phone call.”
“That can wait. You need your rest.”
“Kirill, give me a fucking phone. Now.”
He grumbles something Russian under his breath, gets up from the bed, and grabs his phone from a chair in the corner. That’s when I notice the pillow and blanket there.
Has he been sleeping in this room? Watching over me? How long have I even been out? I reluctantly shove those questions aside when he hands me his phone. I dial Annamaria’s number first. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, Anna.”
“Oh, my God, Stella! Are you alright?”
“I am. I promise you that I am. Please don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Just the sound of my voice seems to make her breathe easier. “Thank God. Mom and our dads have been losing their minds—especially Father. I’ve never heard him yell so much since… Well, since ever. The house is in shambles since you guys were kidnapped. Are you sure you’re alright?”
You guys? Wait… who else is in Russia with me? Still, I don’t ask her. Not now. It’ll only make her panic more.
“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I lie smoothly. “Listen, I can’t stay on the phone long, but I want you to tell Marcello not to do anything stupid. I’ve got this handled. Can you do that for me, sis?”
“Of course,” she says with conviction. “Just please come home safe. I’ve been so worried.”
“I know you have. But don’t worry. The Petrovs are treating me very well. It’s all good. I’ll be home soon enough.”
“Okay… I love you.”
“I love you too.” My voice cracks at the end, hating that my family is suffering because of me. Because of him.
When I hand the phone back to Kirill, his eyes stay fixed on me.
“Who else is here with me?” I ask point-blank.
“Luciano.”
“Lucky? Why?”
“Because he wouldn’t leave Kira behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind.”
“Kira? Who the hell are you talking about?” I ask, irritated and confused.
“Kira is my niece,” Kirill explains patiently. “But you know her as Frankie.”
And just like that, the pieces start falling into place, like a puzzle I’d been too close to see clearly until now.
The bracelet. When we went to Little Russia with that picture of the bracelet, we led them straight to Frankie. I led them right to Frankie. Kirill was working me all this time. What a fool I’ve been.
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know,” he says, his tone almost reassuring.
“I want to talk to my brother,” I cut in coldly.
“Stella—”
“I want to talk to Lucky. I want to make sure he and Frankie are alright.”
“We would never hurt Kira,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I don’t doubt that after the lengths you went to get her. Get me my brother. Now, Kirill!” The venom in my voice finally gets him moving.
“I never wanted any of this,” he says quietly, the words heavy with regret.
“Just get me my brother,” I mutter coldly, not meeting his eyes.
Kirill leaves the room without another word, and I sit there, piecing it all together.
He played me.
All this time, he was using me to get intel on Frankie. Or Kira. Or whatever the fuck name the Petrovs want to give her.