Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
KIRILL
“Twenty days.” Matvey stops pacing long enough to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You made a deal with Ruslan to find and eliminate the Ghost by the end of the month? Are you fucking crazy?”
I shrug, reaching for the vodka on the side table. Pouring myself a double shot, I knock back two fingers before setting it down. “What was I supposed to do? Let him marry Katya off to Elio fucking Valenti?”
Matvey stops in front of the one-way glass overlooking Velour’s main floor. He has our mother’s features. Sharp cheekbones and brown eyes that give away more than he’d like. We share the same dark hair, but he wears his longer, shoved back from his face like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago.
Jeans and a leather jacket instead of a suit because he’s not the future pakhan and never lets me forget how much he enjoys that freedom.
From the corner, our youngest brother, Demyan—Dem to everyone who knows him—finally speaks up. “Does Katya know about your deal with the devil?”
In his late twenties, he’s got a boyish face that makes people underestimate his brutality. It’s a mistake most people only make once.
We make a good team. I handle strategy and negotiations. Matvey manages our soldiers and keeps operations running, while Dem tracks down anyone stupid enough to cross us.
I spin a pen in my hand, thinking of Katya in her room after she left the old man’s study. She was curled up on her window seat, knees pulled to her chest, bracing for the worst.
When I told her I had a plan to get her out of this arrangement, she jumped up and threw her arms around my neck. But I don’t deserve her gratitude. At least not yet.
“I told her the marriage isn’t happening, but I didn’t tell her everything. If we fail, Katya marries Elio. And…” I take another pull of vodka, letting the burn settle in my chest. “Ruslan picks a wife for me.”
Matvey goes still. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I wasn’t letting Katya marry the same piece of shit who killed his pregnant girlfriend. But if either of you has a better option, I’m open to suggestions.”
Dem crosses his arms, his expression dark. “Since when is our father focused on marrying us off? He’s always cared more about selling Katya to the highest bidder.”
“Fuck if I know, but he’s getting older. Closer to stepping back. Maybe he’s thinking about legacy. Making sure the next pakhan produces heirs. You know how it goes.”
A familiar bitterness crawls up the back of my throat, the same taste I’ve been swallowing since leaving Ruslan’s study this morning.
Matvey snorts. “More like he wants to make sure you’re properly shackled before he hands over the crown.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t plan on fucking this up.” It’s not only Katya’s future on the line, but mine.
I’ve got plenty of reasons to want the Ghost dead, considering they’re actively dismantling the empire I’m supposed to inherit.
“So what’s your brilliant plan?” Matvey leans forward, elbows on his knees. “The Ghost seems to know our routes, schedules, even our security protocols. I bet we have a mole.”
“We interrogate every soldier until someone breaks.” Dem cracks his knuckles, eager to start the bloodletting.
I hold up a hand. “That’ll take longer than twenty days, and torturing half our men won’t win us any loyalty. No. We need to be smarter. Draw them out. And I think Elio Valenti is just the person to help us.”
Dem’s lips twist in disgust. “And why would we partner with that, mudak?”
I push back from the desk and cross to the window. “Ruslan was right about one thing. The Italians are powerful. We need their help—a short-term alliance—to draw the Ghost out. Set up a trap together, and when they strike, we strike harder.”
“And this is the mudak you’d trust?” Matvey asks.
“Not as far as I can throw him. But I trust he wants the Ghost gone as much as we do. And I bet he doesn’t want an arranged marriage to make it happen. Our fathers want the alliance, but we can handle what needs handling without a wedding ring.”
Dem pushes off the wall, rolling his neck until it cracks. “So we offer him a short-term deal that gets him out of an arranged marriage and eliminates the Ghost? It’s a win-win.”
Matvey drains his vodka and sets the glass down. “In that case, it’s Saturday night—we know where to find him.”
Elio Valenti runs his empire from Apollon, his family’s sprawling nightclub on the Lower East Side.
“Give it a few hours. Let’s wait until our boy is nice and sloppy before we pay him a visit.” I wave them off. “I’ve got some shit to handle here first.”
They file out, Matvey clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. Then I’m alone.
I should get back to work, but instinct pulls me toward the one-way glass overlooking the main floor.
Velour just opened and already the crowd is growing, the music pulsing through the space. Servers weave through the chaos with practiced steps, trays balanced on one hand.
I spot Evelina as she moves through the space, blonde ponytail swinging as she delivers drinks to a booth near the bar.
Even from up here I notice men track her every move, their stares trailing that perfect ass in the tight black dress. A dark and possessive heat coils in my gut.
Every time I close my eyes she’s on my lap, moving against me, making those needy little sounds.
I don’t fuck my staff as a general rule.
It’s way too messy and now, I don’t have time for distractions with a twenty-day deadline hanging over my head.
But watching her now, resistance feels like a losing game.
I force myself to turn away from the window and head back to the desk. A stack of papers waits—invoices, liquor orders, the usual administrative crap. Normally I wouldn’t touch this, but with Danny gone, someone has to sign off on the red tape.
My hand stills on the document on top. Employment paperwork for the new hire.
There’s a bright yellow sticky note on top in Matvey’s handwriting:
You hired her. YOU fucking fill out the forms.
A laugh spills from my lips. The asshole.
The irony is that Velour is one of the few legitimate businesses we run, so we process the paperwork like anyone else.
Well, mostly legitimate. We launder millions through here every month, another reason we can’t have the IRS crawling up our asses over unpaid taxes or off-the-books employees.
I should have someone else deal with it, except that’s not what I do. I pick up the phone and dial.
“Main bar, this is Oksana.”
“Send Evelina up to my office.”
“Oh.” A short pause. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just some paperwork to handle. Send her up now.”
“Understood.”
I drum my fingers, waiting. I try to focus on the invoices in front of me, but the numbers blur together.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my office door. “Come in,” I call out.
She steps inside, pausing past the threshold. Chin raised, shoulders squared, projecting confidence she doesn’t quite own. She’s wearing the standard black uniform dress, but on her it’s sex personified.
Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck, all that smooth skin I need to taste again.
I told myself she was a moment of weakness. That I was wound tight and she provided release at the right time. But now she’s standing in front of me, all legs and attitude and that mouth I can’t stop thinking about, and I know it’s a lie. She’s been under my skin since I first saw her.
She closes the door behind her and crosses the room, stopping a few feet away from me.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I do.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk.
She hesitates, then lowers herself into the chair. Her knees pressed together, and her hands folded in her lap. Picture-perfect composure except for the way her fingers knit together.
“How’s your first shift going?”
“It hasn’t started. Just the training, and I guess it’s going okay. It’s a lot to keep in mind, but I’m doing my best.”
I pull her paperwork toward me. “We have some business to take care of. I need to fill out your employment forms so you’re legal to work here.”
She arches a skeptical eyebrow. “And you’re the guy who does the employment paperwork?”
A chuckle escapes as I run a knuckle along my jaw. “Sometimes. I like to be thorough in everything I do.”
Amusement flickers across her face. “I’m sure you have better things to do, Mr. Baronov. And I’d be happy to fill out the forms myself if you’d pass them over.”
The formal way she addresses me shoots lust straight to my dick.
“No need. I like learning about my employees. This process is rather … illuminating. Full legal name?” I pick up a pen, twirling it between my fingers before clicking it.
“Evelina Dmitrievna Panova.”
I write it down, distracted by the way her lips shape each syllable. There’s music to her English, a rhythm I could listen to for hours.
“Need me to spell that out for you?”
“Not at all. Current address, Ms. Panova?”
She rattles off an address in a rougher area of Brooklyn. I pull out my phone and drop it into Street View. Graffiti-tagged brick, bars on the ground-floor windows, garbage piled on the curb. The neighborhood’s a shithole after dark.
“What floor?”
Her brows pinch. “What does it matter?”
“It matters.”
She huffs a laugh. “The third floor.”
At least it’s not ground level, but still. “Not a great area, especially for a single woman.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Who said I’m single?”
Heat flickers under my skin. “You’re right. I assumed. Are you single?”
She leans forward, chin tipped up. “I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to ask employees that.”
A laugh rumbles from my chest. “Don’t you think we’re past that, solnyshko? You were grinding on my cock a few days ago. Pretty sure HR went out the window when you came all over my lap.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Points for that. “I was hoping we could forget it ever happened.”
“Not a chance in hell.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I don’t give her time. “Answer the question. Are you single?”
Even if there is a boyfriend, he won’t be around much longer.
Her chin lifts. “I’m single, but I don’t need a man to take care of me. I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“Does your building have a doorman?”
She blinks at the subject change. “No. Why are you asking me this?”
“Security cameras?”
“I don’t think…” She stops herself, eyes narrowing. “Seriously, this is weird. You don’t need to know any of this.”
“Your apartment door? Decent lock? Deadbolt?”
Exasperated, she crosses her arms. “I… yes? I mean, it locks. Are we done with the interrogation or do you need my blood type too?”
My molars grind together. No security in that neighborhood. She might as well paint a target on her back.
“How do you plan on getting home after your shifts?”
“The same way everyone else does. The subway.”
My grip tightens on the pen. “No.”
Her eyebrows rise. “How your employees get home isn’t your concern.”
She’s right. It’s not. Before tonight, I couldn’t have cared less how our staff got home.
But the thought of her alone on the subway, walking darkened streets at two in the morning, makes a violent urge twist behind my ribs.
“Here’s how it’s going to work. One of my drivers will take you home after every shift. He’ll wait until you’re inside the building before leaving.”
She opens her mouth to protest, I’m sure, but I cut her off. “It’s non-negotiable.”
Jaw tight, she bites back an argument. Finally she exhales through her nose. “Okay. Thank you, I guess.”
I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over the back of my chair. Roll my sleeves to my elbows, one at a time, revealing the tattoos covering both forearms. Her gaze drops to the ink, lingering on my forearms and the veins running beneath. I know what she’s thinking about.
The same thing I’ve been replaying for three days. Her straddling my lap, my hands on her hips, the way she felt grinding against me. Her perfect tits pressed against my chest while she rode me through our clothes.
I clear my throat and her attention snaps to my face. A flush creeps up her neck.
“I’ll need a copy of your working visa. You have one, right?”
She nods. “I have a student visa.”
“Right, you moved to New York for school. Let me guess…” I tap the pen against the desk, my gaze drifting over her. “Are you studying performing arts? Dance? Maybe design. You seem like the creative type.”
Her mouth twitches. “Hate to disappoint you, but I’m studying boring computer stuff.”
A computer nerd? With the tattoos and the attitude and the way she moves, I expected creative, not coding and algorithms.
But the contradiction appeals to me. Beauty and brains, wrapped in a woman who can hold her own in every way that counts.
“I’m not sure I could find anything about you boring,” I admit.
“Oh, trust me, you’d be surprised.”
“Columbia or NYU?”
“Neither.” Her teeth catch her bottom lip. “MTI.”
My head snaps up. Manhattan Tech Institute doesn’t accept just anyone. You have to be fucking brilliant to get through the door, let alone land one of the coveted international spots.
I set down the pen and give her my full attention. “You intrigue me, Ms. Panova.”
And I want to know far more than these questions will give me.
She glances at the clock behind me. “If that’s all, I should get back downstairs. I’m on my training shift.”
I scrawl my signature across the bottom of the form. “We’re good … for now.”
Once she leaves, I reach for my phone and call Miron. He’s a former counterintelligence officer I pulled from the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service, three years ago to work for me directly.
He doesn’t do small talk, doesn’t kiss ass, and he’s never once complained a job is impossible.
“What do you need?” he asks by way of greeting.
“I need you to find everything you can on one of my employees. Evelina Dmitrievna Panova. I’ll send over her info.”
“Done,” he says, before hanging up. Like I said, no small talk.
First, I’ve got a Ghost to hunt. Once he’s handled, once Ruslan’s off my back and Katya’s future is secure, I can deal with this maddening attraction.
I’ll fuck her until the hunger burns out, then we go our separate ways.
I don’t do relationships. I know better. Because every man in our world eventually breaks the woman he claims to love or gets her killed.
Better not to get involved at all.