Chapter 3 #2
His smile falls as his features harden. Ilya doesn’t like me far from him for long; I like it even less. He stalks back to his desk, rifling through papers before pulling out a manila envelope.
“How do you feel about Seattle?” he asks, unhappy about the distance.
“I like New York better.” I take the file from him, already knowing there are only two reasons I would be sent back to the rain-soaked city.
Dante Alessi or the Devils of Seattle, his ruthless heirs.
I quickly open it, and my heart bangs against my sternum, the black and gray photos of Rafael and Enzo Alessi staring at me like ghosts from my past. I’ve given little thought to the twins over the last three years, not because I haven’t wanted to.
But because I’ve trained my mind to block them out.
My mind’s already a fucked-up place, no need to add crippling guilt to the mix.
Oops. Too late.
It hurts too much knowing what I’ve done to them—what I took from them.
Thumbing through the photos of the infamous brothers, an unfamiliar emotion runs through me—a potent mix of remorse, curiosity, and longing.
Rafael’s stern features, the jovial smirk Enzo gives the camera as he winks and waves, taunting the photographer—they’re two sides of the same coin and untouchable.
Their reputation evokes as much fear as mine does, maybe more because there are two of them.
“Surely, you don’t want me to kill them. That would be next to impossible, Ilya,” I growl, slamming the folder on the desk.
“I couldn’t care less if the Alessi twins live or die, but Father…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to collect himself as he lets out a deep exhale. “Sestra, you know how deep Victoria’s betrayal runs.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I throw my hands up and then cross my arms, glaring at my brother. “He’s trying to get me killed. Even if I manage to get close enough to get one, the other will strangle me faster than I could blink.”
Ilya steps closer to me now, his nearness a comfort which dispels my burning thoughts. “My hands are tied. The opportunity has come, there’s no better time.”
“Why them? Dante would be a much easier target.”
“What would hurt the Don more? Dante’s day will come. But Father clearly wants him to suffer first.”
My bottom lip pouts, my last attempt to convince Ilya this is a royally fucked plan. “But I just got home. What about my duty to you?”
Ilya tilts his head, quirking a brow at me and calling my bluff, “My little Aster, stop that. You don’t pout.”
A huff leaves my lips at the nickname. When I was ten, he found me in the garden, picking asters to keep in a vase for my room.
He plucked them from my grasp and took a deep inhale.
You’re my little aster, he had said. But was quick to remind me it wasn’t because I was delicate and beautiful like the small flower with purple petals, but because I was like the Aster Missile, a lethal weapon sent to intercept and destroy potential threats from high-profile targets.
I despised the nickname as a child because I wanted to be the flower.
But now, I’m grateful I’m not, a missile is much more difficult to squash beneath your shoe and if one was to try, well…it might backfire.
Wiping away the pitiful look, I concede. Not like I had much choice. “Fine. But my point is still valid.”
He lets out a long sigh. “I’ll be fine. Boris will take your place while you’re gone.”
My head falls back as I groan. “Great! You’ll be dead in two days tops. Boris is a fuckwit with two brain cells to rub together on a good day!”
As much as I despise Alexey, I adore Ilya.
His moral compass isn’t as fucked as his father’s, and I know if allowed to run the empire his way, he would make better choices.
Ilya is as disgusted with the skin trade as I am.
He specializes in the weapons trade, which is where he will take the Romanova name as soon as I take Alexey out and he becomes Pakhan.
But Ilya’s loyalty is to the Romanovs above all else. Once I kill his father, he can’t let me live. Not if he wants to keep the respect of the Romanova empire.
His hand wraps around the back of my neck, and he bends at the knees, lowering to my eye level, his face only an inch from mine. “I’ll be fine, Katya. Remember who trained by your side. I’m not useless.”
I lift a brow, the bratty little sister inside me leaking out through my practically involuntary facial expressions.
“Don’t even respond to that,” he warns. “Just come home to me.”
He places a single kiss on my forehead and then returns to his desk.
“Why now?”
He pauses a moment before spinning toward me again, a malevolent glint in his icy irises. “The house physician has suddenly become ill, cancer or something. They need a new doctor, and you came highly recommended by the cheap fuck.”
He collects his belongings and makes for the door. I spin, keeping my eye on him. “I’m not a fucking doctor, Ilya.”
“You are now, Doctor Lucy Sinclair.” He smirks, peering back at me. “Your plane leaves first thing in the morning. Enjoy the rain.”
He steps out the door. “Poshel ty nakhuy.” Fuck you, I curse as a single chuckle echoes down the hallway.