Chapter 4
Black sweatpants and a baggy crewneck cover me in warmth, making my eyelids heavy.
I could sleep for three days straight at this point.
My night consisted of studying Lucy Sinclair’s life and how on this God-forsaken planet my family acquired me this powerful of a position within the Alessi house.
I’m also fucking stressed because my fraud of a father has given me until the infamous Alessi Christmas Eve Gala to complete the assignment. A little over three weeks.
Now I’m cranky, stressed, tired, and horny for a triple espresso.
Turns out the previous physician, Doctor Arden, was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer, earning him a one-way ticket out of the mafia life.
Lucky bastard.
However, he doesn’t know any Lucy Sinclair, so what made him fold like a cheap chair to recommend her to care for the men he’s been with for thirty-plus years?
Money, and a lot of it. Alexey spared no expense in schmoozing this old fuck into betraying the Alessi house. Tsk tsk, naughty doc.
It’s two in the morning now, and I have yet to sleep.
The plane leaves in an hour and I still need to get my ass downstairs, caffeinated, and in the car.
A triple espresso calls my name as I jog down the stairs, and because no one makes them like Marianna does, I had our butler wake her up extra early.
That’s a total bullshit lie. I make them better, but what fun would that be? Everyone loves their espresso served with a side of russkaya suka, right?
Except I must beat the Russian bitch to the kitchen to ensure the old hag doesn’t poison it…
I enter in front of her, speeding up my steps to cut her off. “Marianna, good morning. What are you doing up so early?”
She snarls her flat, wrinkled upper lip at me, tying off her apron with a murmured string of curses.
The moonlight streams in through the French doors of the kitchen, illuminating the white cabinetry in a gentle glow until the old hag flicks on the overhead lights, blinding me with the stark rays of hell.
She flashes a snide grin at my misery, and I sneer at her, promising to bury her six feet deep one day.
The sixty-something, grey-haired woman makes it obvious in the slamming of doors and drawers. She knows what I’m up to and her misery lights a spark of delight inside my bitter heart.
Because guess what, you’re still making my fucking espresso, suka.
I settle on the barstool, watching her closely as she grinds the coffee beans and froths the milk. The warm scent makes me want to cuddle up with a blanket and watch Scream. I always had a thing for Billy.
When he licks the fake blood off his finger, holy wet panties.
When she passes me the steaming life-substance with a perfect layer of cream on top, I inhale the rich, nutty aroma and wink at her. “Thanks, babe. Have fun without me.” I exit the kitchen, waving my fingers as a cute little snarl further wrinkles the skin around her nose.
“Isporchennyy otrod’ye,” she whispers.
She’s right about one thing, I am a brat, but I’m the furthest thing from spoiled. Everything I own and wear, where I sleep and piss, was all bought with the price of my blood, sweat, and tears. The bitch only sees what I want her to.
Someone call up the Oscars and give me the golden statue, it’s the only man I’ll ever hold in my hands at this rate, but I deserve something for the act I wear, how I fool everyone around me into believing I’m not fucking dying inside.
She doesn’t know the darkness camping out inside my fucking skull. In fact, she’s lucky I have some level of control over it or I’d have slaughtered every mother fucker in this place two times over already.
Except Ilya of course.
We like Ilya.
I make my way through the foyer and trot down the white marble steps toward the blacked-out SUV.
Our driver, aka my second favorite human, waits for me.
I could kiss his handsome mug when he opens my door and blesses me with my favorite quiche from Harter’s Bakery. “Dami, what would I do without you?”
“You’d be just fine, Miss.” He softly closes the door with a sideway tilt of his lips.
The drive from our house to our private tarmac is only thirty minutes, so I cover my ears with my headphones and turn on my music.
Sleep Token’s alluring yet devastating rhythms come on first, but not even their melodies could ease my mind.
Before I know it, the car pulls up to the jetway and Dami shifts into park. “Miss, you were just out on an assignment, were you not?”
I smirk at Dami’s concern. “I was. But you know how it goes, what Father wants, he gets.”
He scoots out, rounding to my side before opening my door. “You take care of yourself, Miss Katya.”
“I always do,” I reply before taking Dami’s extended hand and slipping out of the car.
A deep melancholy haunts his deep blue irises, making me fight an unwelcomed warmth inside me. But when he pulls me into a swift hug, catching me by surprise, I can’t help but hold my breath. As quickly as he scooped me up into his embrace, he lets me go and clears his throat. “I know, Miss.”
When I reach the top of the steps, I wave goodbye and step onto the plane.
I find a box of hair dye and contact lenses in the back bathroom.
I’m the furthest thing from a brunette, but whatever, I don’t have any other choice.
Instead of trying to get out of it, I open the box and read the directions.
The plastic gloves are ten sizes too big but if I don’t use them, the dye will stain my skin.
As soon as I get the gloves situated, a text comes through on my new phone, and I huff, sliding them off.
Tate | Guard your heart, keep your head. Come home to me.
I scoff at my brother’s dramatics; he’s always had a flair for them.
Be home soon. | Me
I drag the stain through my platinum hair, cringing at how the dark color drains the vibrancy from my skin. The deep brown contacts highlight the purple circles under my eyes, and I swallow down my vomit when I look in the mirror at my favorite green and blue irises covered by a muted sable color.
After showering, I buckle my dagger belts onto my thighs. Before I sheath my blades, I run my fingertips over the engraving on each blade, smertel’no opasnaya shakhta and bezvozvratno lyubimyy, Ilya’s words filtering into my memory.
Each time you use these, Sestra, remember who you are. Fatally mine and irrevocably loved. You are the only thing I care about in this fucking universe, Katya. Always come home to me.
I sheathe the steel and cover the belts with a professional yet sexy black pencil skirt loose enough to conceal my weapons. Then I step into my red-bottomed heels and button a white silk blouse. To finalize the facade, I slip on a pair of black-framed glasses and swipe on a deep red lipstick.
Well, I look the part. Let’s hope I can play it.
Although I’m trained in treating traumatic injuries in the field, I’m not an actual physician.
They’re fucking nuts for putting me in this position.
I’ve never been the type for subtlety, yet now I’m being thrown into the fire, expected to pull off the performance of my life.
Yet, I know if it was up to Ilya, I wouldn’t be.
No, this has Alexey fucking Romanova written all over it. A risky plan with little regard for his soldier’s ability to maneuver around the obstacles, but he’s never cared about who he loses as long as the job gets done.
The pilot announces we have one more hour in the air, so I sit in an oversized tan leather chair and try to catch some sleep.
But like always, when I attempt to dream, nightmares of the betrayed obsidian irises of Rafael and Enzo Alessi haunt me.
With the soft hum of the jet and the micro-vibrations of the engines, I’m lulled to slumber, welcoming my nightmares once again.
“You’ve done it, Sestra.” Ilya meets me at the front door of the Romanova mansion. Her dried blood covers my neck, arms, and chest, and I wonder what it will take to remove the stain from my clothes…my soul.
“Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage to say, even though it wasn’t a question he asked. I wouldn’t be here if I had failed. An Owl either completes her assignment or dies trying.
“You killed Victoria Alessi.” Ilya’s arms wrap around me as I stare blankly ahead before I collide into him, my cheek pressing into his sternum, the rhythmic thrum of his heart soothing my stuttering bravado.
I’m numb, a bullet shot through an innocent soul and I’m the casing, lying on the floor as proof.
“Come, let’s get you cleaned up.” My brother’s unwavering arms lead me upstairs to his room where I shower without conscious thought, merely going through the motions. With Seattle so far from New York, I planned to shower on the plane. But I don’t remember even boarding the jet.
As I stare into my reflection, the glint of my blades draws my attention, already glimmering in the bright lights of Ilya’s bathroom. He must have wiped them for me, knowing I’m most likely experiencing some kind of shock. But why? I was trained for this.
But as I stare at the sharp edges, I can’t help but wonder what she felt.
The blades I’ve handled thousands of times rest heavy in my palms as I place one against my neck. The cold steel digs into my flesh, mimicking pain without piercing my skin. But as hard as I demand my muscles to press harder, they don’t. I’m not strong enough.
I grit my teeth as a tear falls, pulling the steel away in a rush. My fingertips run up the length of one sharp edge. Pressure then bliss. Suffering then release.
My lungs fill with a euphoric inhalation that clears my thoughts.
Is this what Victoria felt? A moment of pain to release her from a life of misery? Is this what mercy feels like?
When I’ve finished washing the small slice along my finger, I crawl into Ilya’s bed, and he tucks me into his embrace—his warm body the only comfort I’ll ever know.
Ironic how the same arms that carved my darkness into me, steady me when my subconscious turns violent.
“Father will be pleased,” he reminds me in a distant whisper.
“What have I done, Ilya?” I peer up into his icy blues.
His fingers push back a strand of my hair as he kisses my forehead. “You came home to me, Sestra. You survived.”
Did I?