Chapter 15 #2
“No,” he says forcefully, clearly done with my bullshit as his fingers grip my chin and tilt my face up, giving me no choice but to meet his eyes.
“It’s not a flesh wound. It’s a bullet wound.
I know because I fished the bullet out of your body myself.
And that type of injury is not to be taken lightly. ”
My blood heats at the intensity in his eyes. “What I take seriously is the fact that I got shot because of your order.”
“I never told my men to shoot you, milaya,” he says, as if I’ve deeply offended him.
“No, you just told them to kidnap Frankie by any means necessary. If I got shot, then that’s on you.”
Kirill outscowls at me before finally releasing my chin and shifting his attention to Lucky.
“Frankie was looking for you downstairs. You should go to her.”
My brother hesitates to take orders from Kirill, mostly because he hates the idea of leaving me alone with the man who got me shot.
“Go.” I wave him off. “I can deal with this asshole on my own just fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say.
“She’s sure,” Kirill says in perfect, stupid chorus with me.
Lucky shoots us both a suspicious look before stepping out. Just like that, I’m alone again with the storm that is Kirill. Even though I try to look calm, steady, unbothered, my pulse is already pounding.
The silence that follows is so intense, I swear I could slice it with a butter knife. His gaze lingers, heavy enough to press against my skin, heating me in places that ache to be touched. When it becomes too much to withstand, I finally break the suffocating quiet between us.
“So, when is the good doctor coming?”
“He should be here in an hour or so.”
“Good. I’m eager for him to give me the all clear. It would be a shame if my first trip to Russia ended up being spent in bed instead of getting the lay of the land.”
“First time?” he asks, confused. “That would imply there will be a second. And we both know there won’t be.”
The way he says it—so final, so matter-of-fact—sends a little pang through my chest. Still, he’s right. I have no reason to return. No reason at all to pay his home a second visit. This… is all I’ll have.
“More reason to be annoyed, then, for being stuck in this bed the whole time.”
“You were sho—”
“I swear to God, Kill, if you say I was shot one more time, I’ll find a gun somewhere in this house and shoot you myself, just so you can be as fed up as I am when people keep repeating the same thing to you.”
Kirill’s laugh melts my irritation a little. He settles on the edge of the bed behind me, his hand drifting toward a strand of my hair before he stops himself and pulls back.
“If Dr. Sokolov says it’s alright, then I’ll personally give you the grand tour. How does that sound?”
“Shockingly, not awful,” I reply, turning toward him, my heart sinking when I notice the dark circles under his eyes.
How long has he been sleeping outside my door? Every night? Slouched on the floor just to make sure I was safe? What does that say about his family if he feels the need to take such precautions?
Maybe my father was right. Perhaps he should send a jet and pick us up tomorrow. The Pakhan will probably be offended, but maybe that’s what needs to happen anyway. I mean, how safe are Lucky and I here? Frankie might be fine, but the two of us? Who the hell knows?
“Call the doctor and ask him what’s taking so long,” I say, anxiety starting to creep in.
“Always so eager,” he says, the Kirill I know slipping through for a moment. It loosens the knot in my chest, though I refuse to let him notice.
He picks up his phone and starts speaking in Russian, and I have never wanted to learn another language more than I do now.
God, the man is sexy. Russian shouldn’t sound this sexy. It’s a language designed for threats and arguments. But on his tongue… it becomes something rich and molten, deep and controlled and sinfully masculine. It does all kinds of unfortunate things to me.
“You’ll be happy to hear that Dr. Sokolov is on his way,” he says once he hangs up. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes now.”
“Well, thank God for small miracles.”
Kirill’s black eyes soften as they settle on me, and I can’t help returning a small smile of my own.
The tender moment shatters when Dr. Sokolov finally appears, sweaty and out of breath, as if he’d just sprinted up a million stairs.
I wouldn’t put it past Kirill to have threatened the poor man into getting here sooner rather than later.
It’s… kind of sweet.
No, Stella. NOT sweet.
Ugh.
A man threatening another man’s life should not be misconstrued as a romantic gesture.
Jesus, woman!
And yet, for me, this is the closest thing to a romantic gesture I’ve ever gotten.
“There. Happy now?” Kirill asks an hour later, after the good doctor confirmed I no longer needed any bed rest.
“Ecstatic,” I say, unable to stop smiling, my arm hooked through his as we walk through the vast grounds of his estate.
My parents’ home is large, but it’s quaint compared to the old Salvatore mansion where we hold most of our family’s obligatory parties and dinners. But the Petrov mansion? It needs its own zip code, with how massive it is.
“The Bratva must be doing very well for themselves if this is home.”
“It’s not my home. It’s my brother’s.”
“Mikhail, you mean?” He nods. “So, where is your home? In Moscow?”
Kirill’s brows lift. “My home is in Chicago.”
The way he looks at me when he says it—with those piercing eyes digging into my soul—nearly knocks the breath out of me.
“What a coincidence. So is mine,” I joke, or at least try to.
Kirill lets out a small chuckle as he keeps leading me along the path, and I take in the beautiful garden as we go.
“Let me guess, aside from your brother being Pakhan, he has a green thumb too?”
“Far from it.” Kirill laughs. “This is all Elena’s doing. She likes spending time here in the summer and planting whatever seeds she can convince Misha to buy for her.”
“ doesn’t deliver out here?”
Another laugh. God, how the sound seeps under my skin.
“Even if they did,” Kirill replies, completely unaware of his effect on me, “Misha would never allow anyone to know where we live.”
“I get it. My dad is the same way.” I shrug.
“I’m very aware.”
I look up at him and giggle. “Please don’t tell me you tried to find out where I live?”
“Fine. I won’t tell you.” He smiles almost timidly.
There’s a softness in his expression that’s disarming. I’m used to his smirks, those wolfish grins he shows the world to say he’s the shit. But this smile… it’s genuine. Sincere. Earnest, even. It makes him look softer somehow, as if all his hard, sharp edges were polished smooth just for me.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” He chuckles, placing a finger gently under my chin.
“I thought you liked it when I look at you,” I taunt, but there’s little heat behind my words.
“I do like it. Very much,” he says softly, running his fingers through my hair. “Especially when you’re like this.”
“Like this?” My brow tilts upward.
“Not biting my head off for something I said or did,” he coos, his long eyelashes hiding the shy tint in his eyes.
“Stop doing stupid shit, and I won’t have to bite your head off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies, leaning in and pressing a tender kiss on my temple.
I close my eyes and let his smoky clover scent envelop me. It takes real effort to pretend to hate him. An almost inhuman effort to act as if he didn’t affect me in any way.
But like this, I don’t have to put up any pretenses for a few seconds. I can just enjoy his tender kiss and let myself bask in it.
Of course, when he pulls away, I school my features, not letting on that I’m starting to get addicted to his sweet kisses. His passionate ones even more. And suddenly the memory of us in my dad’s club flashes through my mind, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Are you cold, dusha moya?” he asks, vivid concern in his voice. “Let’s get you back inside and warm you up.”
I don’t have it in me to admit I’m not the slightest bit cold, not when the memory of Kirill’s mouth on me still coils low in my stomach, scorching me from within.
I let him lead me back into the main house, as he offers to make me a hot cup of tea to warm me up.
However, as we step into the large kitchen, I’m disappointed to see we won’t be alone.
“Ah, Mikhail, I didn’t know you were back,” Kirill says, glancing at his brother and then at me, his hand on the small of my back dropping fast.
Mikhail doesn’t respond. Instead, he rises from his seat and walks straight toward me.
So this is the famous Bratva Pakhan.
Where Kirill is all dark temptation, Mikhail is the opposite. Almost as if he’s meant to be the other side of the same coin. Graced with wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes, the only thing linking the two brothers is the same hard jaw and soldier’s build that marks them both as dangerous.
“I’m glad to see you’re finally feeling well enough to be on your feet,” he says, taking my hand and brushing his lips over my knuckles. I feel Kirill tense beside me, but if he has any issues with his brother kissing my hand, he doesn’t voice them.
“Yes, I’m feeling much better now, all things considered,” I reply, a bit curtly, which the Pakhan picks up on instantly.
“I must apologize for that incident. It was never our intent for any of Vincent’s children to be harmed. My profound apologies.”
“Then I guess we’re good, right? You said sorry, and that’s the end of that?”
Unlike Kirill’s dark gaze, Mikhail’s icy blue stare freezes a person from the inside. It’s not just the look of an efficient killer, but that of a merciless king—one who doesn’t suffer fools easily.
“You’re right,” he says after a long beat, surprising me. “It will take more than an apology to mend the fracture my organization has with your family. It will take time for me to decide how to repair such a crack, but I hope to restore that trust one day.”