Chapter 5
Alexei
Should have admitted I was lying when I told myself I could be normal about this. A week of following him everywhere, watching every moment of his day. I’ve memorized the face of every man who’s looked at him twice and just broke the nose of the one who touched his arm.
My version of interest looks a lot like stalking.
Semantics.
The second I saw him walk into the club my family owns, I couldn’t stop myself. Too easy to get him into the club, to get Mikhail to pull his girl off to the side so I had room to move in.
Now Kelly’s sitting in front of me, chewing his lip bloody, looking at me like I’m about to rip his throat out. Questioning me with his eyes. His sandy-blonde hair curls from the sweat on his forehead, green eyes locked on mine. He looks good in what he’s wearing tonight. Too good.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop thinking about it. Focus.
I need to know everything about him. Need the truth. To crack him open and figure out what he is involved in.
“If you’re not going to kill me, then what do you want?” he asks.
“What are you involved in? Your file doesn’t show you as an informant, so why didn’t you call the cops when I passed out?”
His brows pull tight, and he looks confused. “What? I’m not involved in anything. Why would you think that? And wait, file? What file?”
“Answer the question.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a vet. I work at a clinic. That’s it.”
“You are lying.”
“I’m not—” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat. “I’m not lying. I swear.”
I don’t buy it.
He sighs. “Oh my god. Is this a joke? Are cameras about to come out and tell me I’m being punked right now?” He laughs nervously, looks around, then freezes. “Right?”
I stare at the shape of his mouth, the way he moves.
“Tell me what you’re involved in.”
“This isn’t a joke?”
“No.” My voice stays flat. That seems to scare him more than yelling would.
“Well, if you want answers from me, then I want answers too.”
I rub my jaw. “Fine. Truth for truth.”
“Okay. Sure. I want to start.” He swallows, then locks those green eyes on me like he’s trying to be brave.
“What’s your full name?”
That’s the first thing he asks? Out of all the questions? I almost laugh. It’s fucking boring, and he could have asked me anything.
“Alexei Romanovich Avrorin.”
His nose scrunches. “That’s Russian, right? I tried to search the letters on your tattoo online.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s my turn.”
He closes his eyes for a second and nods.
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I honestly don’t know. I wanted to, but you were passed out, and I felt kind of bad calling them on you when you hadn’t really done anything. You know how animals sometimes do stuff when they’re scared, out of desperation? I kind of compared it to that.”
He felt bad? That’s why he didn’t call the cops? I pulled a gun on him, shoved him, and he’s sitting here telling me he pitied me like I was some cornered fucking dog.
I’m out of words, and that’s a rare thing.
Who actually feels bad about reporting an armed man who broke into their clinic? Kelly Mackey is not a human being. No chance. He’s some kind of robot someone forgot to program correctly.
“What happened to you that night? Why didn’t you go to a hospital?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Please.”
Fuck.
“What happened doesn’t matter. It’s being handled. And hospitals weren’t an option. I was losing too much blood. Needed the bullet out immediately.”
His eyes flick to me, then lower, scanning some of the Russian text on my arms, tracing over the patchwork ink. He stares too long at my hand tapping the table.
I’ve already given him two answers in one.
Something happened. I want it.
“Kelly.” My tongue drags across my lip.
His eyes snap to the movement, then meet my eyes.
I rub at my forehead, then just go for it. “What happened to you? Why the sudden record after a lifetime of staying out of trouble?”
His body turns rigid, and color drains from his face. “I’m not answering that. Please don’t make me answer that.”
“Thought we had a deal. Truth for truth.”
“Please take me home.”
So that’s off-limits. He won’t even look at me anymore. Irritation twists sharply in my gut. What happened to him?
I tap the table once. “Fine. You can ask me another question, then I’ll drive you home.”
His head jerks toward me, but he still won’t meet my eyes. “Are you mixed up in something? I mean, bad stuff. Crime. Because you got shot, and normal people don’t just get shot.” He frowns. “You’re not a cop, are you? Or like, I don’t know, a criminal or mafia or whatever. Like Capone.”
It takes everything in me not to react to that. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Like I’m some stupid cartoon character with a tommy gun and a fedora.
“No. I’m not a cop.”
“But the other thing?”
I lean back in my chair and study his face. He’s scared but trying not to show it, even though his hands are shaking. “What do you think, Kelly?”
How do you tell someone that your family built the Russian underworld? That the Avrorin name goes back generations, that we didn’t just join the vor v zakone; we helped create it.
My ancestors wrote the codes others still follow.
When my father moved us here, I was ten. He didn’t abandon what we had in Russia. He expanded it, took centuries of power, and planted it in American soil.
I don’t just solve problems for my family. I prevent them. People call me an enforcer, a cleaner, a spy. They think they understand what that means. They don’t.
I’ve done things that would make career killers lose sleep. Things that keep this empire running smooth and quiet, the way he wants it. The way it has to be.
“The truth is always worse than what you think. Now get up.”
I got what I needed, and this should end here. I should drop him off and never see him again.
“Wait—”
When I walk out, he scrambles after me, his shoes scuffing the hallway as he catches up just as I press the elevator button. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there glancing at me, then back to the floor. When the doors open, I step in and hit the button for the garage.
He hesitates again, then follows.
The second the doors open, he stops hard. “I’ve never seen cars like this. Not in real life. Only in movies. What is this place? Do you work here?”
I keep walking while he’s staring around the garage.
His gaze lands on my black Aston Martin Valiant parked in the corner.
“I don’t work here,” I say flatly. “My family owns this entire building and the club.”
“Oh. Right.”
I walk to my car and open the door for him. “Wait. Wait, did you get us through the line? I came here with someone. I forgot all about her.”
So many questions.
I glance at him. “She’s fine. Text or call her.”
He fumbles for his phone and walks a few steps away, putting it to his ear. I stay by the door, still holding it open. He comes back a minute later, looking guilty.
“She said it’s fine. She met some guy who wants to take her home.”
Fucking Mikhail. I told him to distract her for five minutes, not take her home.
“Get in,” I say, nodding toward the car.
He climbs in slowly. I shut the door, circle around, slide behind the wheel. His fingers are already on the dash inside the car, tracing across it wide-eyed. The engine kicks on, the sound slamming around the concrete walls.
He jumps, doesn’t even buckle. I lean across the console and grab the belt.
He smells like coconut-lime soap, the same scent that clings to his pillows. I snap the buckle in and pull back fast, jaw tight. Men are forbidden. My family’s made that clear. I buried that want so deep I stopped noticing it was there. But I’m noticing now.
Each time I press the gas, he grips the door handle tighter, knuckles white. “Christ,” he says, voice strained. “Please don’t drive so fast.”
I push harder on the gas just to hear him gasp a little more.
He finally looks at me, frowning. “Wait, I never told you where I live.”
No. He didn’t.
I’ve been inside his apartment every time he’s left for work and know the spices he never uses sit in the left cabinet in the kitchen.
Towels on the second shelf in the bathroom.
Living room window on the fire escape doesn’t lock properly.
Three pairs of scrubs in rotation. He leaves at the same time every morning since switching off night shifts, green backpack over his shoulder, riding that bike that’s one flat tire from the junkyard.
I’m past the point of normal when it comes to him. Way past.
I hit play on “Kosandra” by Miyagi and Andy Panda and let the music drown out the quiet.
I keep one hand on the wheel and take the turns faster before I can think too much about it.
He doesn’t ask again and stays quiet most of the ride, watching the road, holding his breath every time I cut across lanes.
He really isn’t street-smart. He got in the car with me after I pulled a gun on him the first time we met. Has no idea what kind of man he just trapped himself in a car with. What kind of person does that?
Someone who sees the best in people even when they shouldn’t. Someone who’s going to get himself killed if I’m not watching.
I can’t make sense of him. Can’t decide if it’s naivety or something worse. Maybe he has a death wish. Maybe he’s running from something and doesn’t care what catches him.
Doesn’t matter. This really should be the last time I see him. Drop him off, drive away, let him disappear into his normal life while I go back to mine.
I turn onto his block and pull into the same spot I’ve used every night for the past week. The one with the clear sight line to his window. The one where I can see when his lights go off at night.
“Yeah, not creepy or anything that you know where I live or whatever, but um, thanks for driving me home.”
He has no clue.
I nod, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
He waits like he thinks I’m going to say something else, but when I don’t, he sighs and reaches for the door handle.
I grab his wrist. He flinches, confused, a little scared.
“Give me your phone.”
“What? Why?”
“So I can put in my number.”
He hesitates, then pulls out his phone. I take it and add my number, sending myself a text so I have his contact. Even though I already do. I’ve had his number saved for a week. Pulled it from the clinic records the day after I met him.
“If you ever need anything or get into trouble, call me.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then his hand covers mine on the console, and my gaze snaps to his mouth, catches on his lip between his teeth, then drops to his hand covering mine.
His thumb shifts against my fingers, brushing over my tattoos.
Wrong. So wrong. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My chest feels clogged. I hate the way it sparks through me, hate that I don’t rip my hand back, hate that a touch this soft can hold me completely still.
I’m terrified of how much I want more. I’ve been stabbed, shot, beaten half to death. None scared me like this does. Because those wounds close eventually. This one just keeps getting deeper.
He opens his mouth and then closes it. My eyes snap up to his.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you lived. I was wondering—I mean, there was so much blood, and I thought that maybe you died after you left.”
His voice does something to me. Soft, genuine concern I don’t know what to do with.
“I didn’t.”
He bites his lip, and I track the movement. “Yeah, I can see that now.” He pauses. “Did you at least get checked out?”
I shake my head.
“Oh.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. A strand of hair falls across his forehead. “Let me guess, you just went home and hoped for the best?”
I don’t answer. That’s exactly what I did. The silence stretches. His hand is still covering mine, warm and solid. I should pull away.
“But you are okay though, right? I mean, that was a lot of blood for one person to lose. You could’ve gone into shock or had organ damage.”
“I’m fine, Kelly.”
He gives me a sad look, and I don’t know what to do with it. Why does he give a shit if I lived or died? We’re strangers. He should want me dead after what I did, not sitting here relieved I survived.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and the spell shatters. I tear my hand back so fast it nearly slams into the steering wheel.
“I need to take this.” I glance at the screen, and Daniil’s name lights up.
I don’t look at him when I speak. “Keep your mouth shut about tonight.”
Then I glance at him anyway. He nods and leaves the car.
I press the phone against my forehead while it’s still vibrating and tap it there once, twice.
I answer just before it stops ringing. “This better be fucking important, Daniil.”
He struggles to get the words out, stuttering through whatever he’s trying to tell me.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have snapped at him.
If he’s calling instead of texting, something’s really wrong. Or he screwed up tonight, and I’m going to lose what’s left of my patience.
I soften my voice. “Text me what you want to say, and I’ll respond here.”
The line goes quiet except for his breathing. I can hear him moving around, probably typing on his phone. My phone buzzes with a text a few seconds later.
“I got it,” I say into the phone. “Let me read this, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”