Chapter 5
SCORPION
It was a mistake allowing Ekaterina to shower, and for more than one reason.
Now I’ve seen every mouthwatering inch of her ballerina’s body without clothing. But there’s also the fact that afterward, she demanded a change of clothes. I didn’t have one, so she’s now wearing my shit, which is hanging off her slight frame like she’s a kid playing at being a grown-up.
And she fucking smells like me.
My white shirt on her full tits.
My dress pants on those sweet legs.
I’m not even going to think about her pussy, going bare in my Brioni, or I’ll lose my shit.
Good thing she’s locked in the bedroom where I can’t see her. Unfortunately, I can still hear her.
I’m chopping garlic while olive oil warms in a pan on the stove. Doing my best to ignore her as her endless complaints filter their way to me.
“I hope we aren’t having tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner.”
I chop the garlic harder, my knife hitting the cutting board with more force than necessary.
I wish I had a garlic press here, but no dice.
My guys weren’t thinking about kitchen gadgets when they grabbed me supplies.
Just cigarettes, food, and liquor. I only have the espresso machine because I requested it.
And unfortunately, I can’t drink the Macallan they sent along because when you’re guarding a hellcat like Ekaterina Sidorova, you need all your fucking wits about you.
“Seriously, Andriani. How much longer are you going to keep me locked in here?”
I ignore her. She’s lucky I didn’t cuff her to the bed again, and I only made that concession because I didn’t have to head to the clearing for texts.
Priest and Saint are negotiating with the Russians.
All I need to do for the moment is sit tight.
Plus, now that I’ve installed a camera in the bedroom she’s in, I can watch her if I need to.
Besides, she can’t do much damage with the window boarded up.
“Have I mentioned that I’m starving? I’d give anything for a beet salad right now.”
Beet salad? What the fuck does this woman eat?
I shake my head and walk to the fridge, scoping out the containers. Bless Zia Maria. She sent me meatballs. Nobody does meatballs like my zia. I’m going to feed my lunatic ballerina good old-fashioned spaghetti and meatballs. There’s even a hunk of fresh Parm.
Ekaterina bangs on the door. “Answer me, Andriani. I know you’re out there. I can hear your knife, and I know you’re cooking something.”
“Who says I’m cooking?” I retort before I can catch myself.
“What are you doing then, dismembering your latest victim?”
She’s a pain in the ass.
“Yup. Gotta feed you something for dinner,” I call back.
“Gross. One step too far, Andriani.”
“Duct tape.”
It’s a threat I like to keep making, but the truth is, I must be a little fucked in the head because some part of me is enjoying this back-and-forth we have going on.
I finish with the garlic and toss it into the heated oil. It sizzles. Giving it a few stirs, I wait for her next ridiculous words. She’s quiet for longer than I anticipated as I grab two cans of San Marzano tomatoes and start cranking them open.
“Have you heard from Misha?”
There she is.
I haven’t, but that’s because I destroyed the burner before he had a chance. The point wasn’t to communicate with the bastard. It was to show him that we have leverage and that if you fuck with the Andriani family, you’re going to pay the price.
“Yeah,” I lie, dumping the tomatoes into the sauce pot with the garlic. “He said you should mind your manners and hold your tongue so I don’t have to send it to him in a fucking box.”
She goes quiet. After stirring the sauce for a few minutes, I give in and glance at the screen to see what she’s up to now. Pacing the floor, looks like. Probably trying to plot a way she can kill me using a bedsheet.
Not going to work. I don’t die that easily, and especially not at the hands of a Russian ballerina.
I stir in some dried herbs and salt, then set the pot to simmer while I rescue Zia Maria’s meatballs from the fridge.
“You’ve got to let me out of here,” Ekaterina demands, sounding frustrated. “I have a life, you know. People who are going to notice I’m gone. What are you going to do if I get reported missing?”
“Who, a boyfriend?” The thought tightens a knot in my gut.
I don’t know why, but I don’t want to think about some nameless, faceless prick touching her, sharing her bed. My guys claimed she doesn’t have one, but there could always be a hookup they’re unaware of.
“Friends. Coworkers. I have class, rehearsals, choreography. I’ve been promoted to soloist for the summer season. I can’t just not show up.”
I know all that. I did my homework.
“It’s been taken care of,” I tell her.
“How?”
We hacked her phone and texted that she was sick and would need to be out for a few days. But like the rest of what I’m keeping from her, that’s none of her business, so I don’t respond.
Instead, I give the sauce another stir and then slowly add in Zia Maria’s famous meatballs to warm them through.
“Tell me, does your employer know about your Bratva ties?” I ask, my eyes flicking to the monitor.
She stops dead in the middle of the floor. Caught her there. I know all there is to know about Ekaterina Sidorova.
She’s been training in ballet for years.
Her other brother, Dmitri, was responsible for paying for all the best programs and schools.
I have to hand it to him. He was damn good at keeping her a secret.
I didn’t even know she existed until Mikhail Sidorov showed up in the city, crowned as the new Pakhan.
And there’s no doubt about it. If her company had an inkling she’s got blood ties to one of the deadliest criminal empires in the city, they’d cut her loose so fast she wouldn’t know what hit her.
“All it takes is one text to the press,” I tell her.
“I’ve been working my ass off for years,” she grinds out, back at the door, slapping her hand on it in anger.
“Join the club.”
Her fury doesn’t affect me.
I shrug as I start boiling water for spaghetti. Regretfully, it’s not Zia Maria’s and it came out of a box, but it’ll have to do.
I’ve been doing the same fucking thing. And now her stronzo brother is putting everything my brothers and I have been building in jeopardy.
I don’t give a shit if she’s been training to be a ballerina her whole life.
I don’t care if she gets fired. What I care about is protecting my family.
Preserving what’s ours and doing whatever it takes to make sure the Bratva doesn’t try to steal it.
“Ballet is nothing like the Mafia,” she snaps, her tone going snooty. “Training as an athlete and shooting people for a living are two different things.”
Now I’m annoyed. Who the hell does she think she is to look down on me?
I’ve almost given my life for everything I have.
What my brothers and I have built came from blood, sweat, and bullets.
Our old man may have been the don, and we may have been born to wealth and power, but that doesn’t mean it was ours to keep.
We’ve waged fucking war in the streets. Struck fear into the hearts of our enemies. Did what we had to, no matter the cost.
“You’re right,” I call back to her. “Going around on tiptoe in a leotard is way more important than owning the streets of the biggest city on the East Coast.”
“You may think you own the streets now, but wait until Misha is finished with you,” she spits out. “The gutters will be running red with Andriani blood, and you’ll be begging him to surrender.”
There’s the hellcat I’ve come to know, hissing and spitting again. If she weren’t pissing me off so much, I’d probably be impressed. I like that she’s not afraid of me, even if I want her to be.
I go back to stirring my sauce and Zia Maria’s meatballs. It’s no good if you burn the fucking sauce. Then I give the spaghetti a swirl. I bite my tongue for a few seconds more, but then I can’t resist.
“If anyone is going to be begging for surrender, it’s your prick of a brother.”
She doesn’t respond. I glance back at the monitor and see that she’s shooting me the finger. She’s got teeth, this one. What I’d give to feel her sinking them into me.
But that’s not going to happen, so I finish up making dinner.
Katya
When I wake up, I’m disoriented. My head aches, and my mouth is dry. I run my tongue over my lips, wondering where I left my natural lip balm. Then urgency hits me. I’ve got things to do.
It’s dark. What time is it? I have to be at yoga by eight a.m., and then I’ll have class before afternoon rehearsals. If any of the pieces of my day get skipped, I feel off and it affects my performance. And being newly promoted, I can’t afford to falter.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time and realize it’s not my nightstand next to the bed I’m in, which also isn’t my bed, and I haven’t seen my phone since I was taken off the street on my way home, shoved into an SUV, and driven out of the city at gunpoint.
Reality falls on me like an imploding skyscraper.
I’ve been kidnapped. Two nights have passed since I was torn out of my carefully curated world. I desperately need to get out of here. Every day that passes is one too many that I’m being kept from everything that’s important to me.
That same, recurring sense of anxiety is wound tight inside me again as I get out of bed. I’m not handcuffed or chained, thanks to the window being blocked up and the camera Scorpion added to spy on me.
A camera I’m all too aware of as I pad across the cold, rough floor in nothing but one of his shirts to flip on the light switch. Is he watching me now? It’s quiet out in the main living area. I haven’t heard so much as a footstep since I woke up.
The lone ceiling bulb floods the small room with unnatural light, and I face the camera, feeling defiant.
“When are you going to let me out of here?” I demand.