Chapter 20
Stella
The car ride to Frankie’s new apartment in the city is thick with awkward tension.
Her uncle Mikhail bought the place so she and Darius could live there instead of in the orphanage, and neither Kirill nor I say a word during the drive there.
We are both afraid that anything we say might upset her, especially after that clusterfuck that went down back at his club.
Not that the poor girl doesn’t already feel like she’s caught in the middle of a tug-of-war between our two families.
“Thanks for the lift, Uncle Kirill,” she says from the back seat, once we arrive at her building.
“Not a problem,” he replies softly back at her.
She leans between the seats and places a kiss on his cheek, then glances at me and frowns. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Frankie. Your uncle is the one I’m mad at, not you.”
She offers me another sheepish smile then gets out of the car, her shoulders dipping in quiet disappointment at how we can’t seem to get along. Kirill waits until she’s safely inside her building before pulling away.
And then we’re off to only God knows where.
“Stop the car, Kirill. Let me out. I’ll grab a taxi or an Uber from here.”
“That’s not happening.”
“If you think I’m going to tell you where I live, then you’ve officially lost your mind.”
“I’m not driving you home.”
“Then where are you driving me?”
“You’ll see.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, wanting to curse him out but knowing full well that none of my protests will work on him. I’m also a little bit curious where exactly he’s thinking of taking me.
But I don’t get the luxury of finding that out.
Marcello must be pissed. The way I let Kirill manhandle me out of the car and into his club?
I wouldn’t put it past my brother to be waiting at home for me this precise minute.
He’ll have a million questions about what my relationship with Kirill really is, and none of them are ones I care to answer.
“Where’s your phone?” Kirill asks once we’re out of the city.
“Why?”
“Because you should tell your parents you won’t be home tonight.”
“Are you insane? That’s not happening. Not after the little show you pulled back at your club. Marcello is probably sitting in our kitchen, just watching the door, waiting for me to get home.”
“He’s got more things to worry about than where you spend the night, I can assure you.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Kirill doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the road, pressing his foot on the gas pedal like getting wherever he’s going faster will solve everything.
“I’m not calling anyone. At the rate you’re driving, the only thing I’m dialing for is an ambulance after you drive us off the road.”
His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, but he slows down.
“I don’t care who you have to call, text, or send smoke signals to. You’re not going home tonight.”
“You can’t just boss me around, Kill!”
He smiles. “Funny, since I thought I just did. Make the call.”
I snarl at him but take my phone from my inner coat pocket and dial the one person who can actually cover for me without asking too many questions.
“Anna, I need a favor,” I say when she picks up.
“Is everything alright? You sound tense.”
“I’m fine. I just need you to cover for me with the parentals. I won’t be coming home tonight.”
“Okay, I can do that. I’ll tell them you’re pulling an all-nighter at the library for an exam.”
“Thank you.” I let out a relieved breath. “I’ll owe you one.”
“No, you don’t. Just tell me that you’re safe. That will be enough.”
I glance over at Kirill’s tense features but I know I couldn’t be in safer hands. I wish I didn’t know that, but I do.
“I promise you I’m alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Love you, Stella.”
“I love you too, Anna. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. Stay safe.”
I hang up and toss my phone onto the dashboard. “There. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he says sarcastically.
“God, you’re a piece of work.”
“Ditto, milaya.”
I cross my arms at him and pretend to focus on the road. When familiar dispersed houses and woods start to appear, I quickly figure out where he’s taking me.
Back to the first place we danced.
My shoulders tense, reevaluating this entire night, and how the hell I got myself in this situation in the first place.
Why didn’t I tell Frankie I couldn’t pick her up? Why didn’t I come up with an excuse not to go to Little Russia? And why didn’t I fight Kirill when he all but forcibly dragged me out of Marcello’s car?
Because I wanted to be with him too.
Because these past two months have been agony without him.
All these thoughts in my head are troubling enough on their own, but when we pass the familiar No Trespassing sign, my anxiety spikes.
Shit.
Without uttering a word in my direction, Kirill gets out of the car and pulls the gate open. He drives through, gets out again, and closes it behind him. But instead of going straight toward the lake like I thought he would, he turns left at the makeshift fork in the road.
That’s when it hits me. We’re not going to the lake. We’re going to his lake house.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck
That means we’re spending the whole night alone together in his lake house.
No interruptions.
No outside world interference.
Just me and Kirill.
Alone.
The entire fucking night…
Kill me the fuck now please!
The road narrows the deeper we go, the tires crunching over a thin crust of snow as the trees crowd closer on both sides.
Tall pines rise like dark sentries, their branches bowed under winter’s weight, letting only slivers of moonlight slip through.
For a moment, it feels like we’re driving into nothing but forest and shadows.
Then the trees break.
And there it is.
The lake house sits at the edge of a clearing like something carved straight out of the landscape—dark timber walls, clean lines, and wide angles that make it look both modern and quietly feral.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the structure, catching the moonlight and reflecting the icy surface of the lake beyond it, so that the whole house seems to glow from within.
When we pull into the driveway, it takes me a minute to take in the scenery in front of me.
From here, Kirill’s home doesn’t look big, just a sturdy two-bedroom cabin with too much glass and too much silence around it.
But there’s a power to it, a kind of intentional solitude.
A place built for disappearing. For hiding things. For hiding yourself.
A perfect home for a Bratva underboss to spend his time in and just be.
I stay in my seat as Kirill walks over to my side, opens the door, and extends his hand for me to take.
“What? You’re not going to throw me over your shoulder and drag me inside like some caveman?”
“I think you’ll walk inside just fine on your own two legs,” he says with that lazy smirk that always makes my knees weak. “But if that’s what you’re into, who am I to deny you anything?”
“Don’t you even think about it!” I point a menacing finger at him before finally placing my hand in his. He helps me out of the car, his arm wrapping around my waist as he shuts the door behind us.
We stroll toward the entrance of his home, the porch still wet from the snow, the side swing swaying gently, endearing in a way I wish it wasn’t.
Images of Kirill sitting there at night, smoking his cigarette, playing with his lighter as he stares out over the lake, immediately come to mind.
And how I wish I didn’t find the imagery of it all so devastatingly beautiful.
Kirill unlocks the door and pushes it open, a sweep of warm air and cedar-scented darkness brushing past us. He steps in first, pressing a few buttons on the discreet wall console, and in an instant, the entire house comes alive.
Soft, golden light spills across the open space, revealing everything at once.
The clean lines, the dark woods, the steel accents.
It’s masculine in a way that feels deliberate, every piece of furniture solid and unapologetically heavy.
Yet there’s a quiet sophistication woven through it all, a kind of refined restraint that surprises me.
With the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across most of its walls, it ends up turning the frozen lake just beyond into part of the room.
The reflection of the interior light on the glass makes the forest behind us seem darker, the lake brighter, like we’ve stepped into some liminal space between the two.
Kirill shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door, watching me with a faint smirk as I take it all in.
I move slowly, afraid to break the stillness.
The stone fireplace anchors the room, its smooth river-rock structure both rough and elegant.
A thick charcoal sofa faces it, casually draped with a furlike blanket, like he tossed it there without thinking, even though every inch of the house feels intentional.
I walk further into his home and trail my fingers over the edge of the kitchen counter, its matte-black surface cool under my touch. Even the way his knives are lined up, all sharpened and spaced evenly, feels like him.
Minimalist. Controlled. Beautiful in a dangerous way.
“Do you like it?” Kirill asks, his voice low and tight, as if my answer might decide the fate of the entire house.
I don’t answer at first. I’m too busy being captivated by the quiet power of the place. By how much of him is in it. By how impossible it is not to feel him everywhere, even where he isn’t standing.
“It’s…” I breathe out, still turning slowly, letting the lake, the woods, the heat of the fireplace wrap around me.
“It’s very you.”
His smile deepens.
“Good,” he says, locking the door behind us. “Because tonight, it’s yours too.”
I don’t dare add one word to that loaded remark.
This is not my home.
Oh, but what if it could be?