ELEVEN
MARISA
Waking up, it feels as if I’m underwater.
Everything is slow and distorted and groggy.
I try to push myself to sit up but a pounding pain behind my eyes has me groaning and collapsing back onto the soft pillows behind me.
What the hell happened last night? Did I drink too much?
I try to flit back through the events that I remember.
I remember being at the bar. I remember drinking one or two drinks.
I remember Phoenix being there but then storming out after breaking a glass.
At the thought of Phoenix, something inside me protests.
It’s like a string has been wrapped around my insides and every time I so much as think of the man, the string tightens and pulls.
I can’t deny that there is just something about him.
Yes, he’s infuriating and cocky and so smug.
But he’s also very attractive, and intelligent, and I hate to admit it, but the taste of that man’s release had me humming in delight.
I’m worried that the more I’m around him, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye once this job is over.
The sound of a door closing somewhere pulls me back to the present.
The sound is unusual, unique, and unknown.
Meaning I’m not in my apartment. I crack my eyes open slightly, the bright light hurting my already throbbing head.
A shiver runs through my body. I’m usually cold but this is bone-chilling.
“The fuck?” I mutter under my breath as my eyes begin to focus.
This is absolutely not my bedroom. I seem to be in some gaudy room full of golden fixtures and warm taupe linens. It looks like there’s even some faux shimmering finish on one of the walls. Who designed this shit, and did no one bother to tell them that it isn’t 2002 anymore?
I try to run back through everything that happened.
I remember watching my mark in an upscale bar, Phoenix, a dark door, a gun, and then…
I try my best to remember but my mind is fuzzy and the pounding headache isn’t helping me to focus.
Did Phoenix do something to me to stop me from winning the bet?
I roll the idea around in my mind for a moment but it doesn’t sit right.
No, Phoenix might be a cocky prick but he wouldn’t hurt me.
I know it deep down in my bones—Phoenix is certainly a monster but not one that I need to fear.
The ornate golden handle of the door begins to turn and fear grips my core. My head spins and nausea runs through me as I whip around to try to grab the lamp on the bedside table to defend myself. It’s secured to the top of the nightstand. What the hell is this fucking place?
“Good morning, malen’kiy krolik,” Mikhael’s deep drawl calls from behind me.
It all comes flashing back to me—the men, the threats, the smell of fresh-cut hay. This asshole drugged me! The fuck?
“You drugged me?” I ask accusatorily as I reel around to face him.
The smirk on his face is anything but kind.
He truly is a wolf—smart and deadly. He stalks closer to the bed and a lump begins to form in my chest. I’ve had a man take from me before what I wasn’t willing to give.
The horrific memory of his aggressive touch, the pain, the suffocating inability to fight off the weight of his body on top of me, the smell of him, is forever burned into my mind.
I am strong and capable but I’m also not interested in unwillingly giving another piece of myself to anyone.
I promised myself never again. I’ll fight this fucker to my death before I let that happen.
“You had the choice to come willingly.” He shrugs as he eyes me like I’m his next meal.
“I won’t let you fucking rape me,” I growl at him as I throw my chin out in defiance.
Mikhael’s face quickly screws up into a look of annoyance. He scoffs before taking a step back from the bed. “I have no need to rape women, they’ve always fallen into my bed quite willingly, thank you.”
I swallow down the rising panic, the swell of sympathetic nervous system overload ebbing slightly. He seems sincere. Plus, I do seem to still be fully clothed and tucked in under the blanket of the bed.
“So what do you want with me?” I ask uncertainly.
His smug smirk returns to his face as he sits on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does. I immediately shift further away, as close to the edge of the bed as I can get.
“We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Marisa.” He levels me with a serious look that would have a lesser woman cowering. But I do not fear him. I am strong. I do not cower. “We know just exactly who you are… and more importantly, what it is you do.”
I narrow my eyes, meeting Mikhael’s icy stare. He doesn’t give anything away, though. I imagine he’s a really fucking good poker player.
“And what exactly is it that you want from me?” I finally ask as my heart beat quickens. Apprehension builds in my core as I watch him weigh his words with thought.
“What do you know of The Solentsevskaya Organizatsiya, malen’kiy krolik?” Mikhael asks finally. I jerk slightly, a physical reflection of how taken aback I am at his question. I’m still trying to stop the hazy fog that’s blurring my brain.
“The local Bratva outfit?” I ask and am met with a nod of agreement. I wrack my brain beyond what I had to learn about Aleksander Yovik in order to try to steal the tapestry. “Not much honestly.”
Having lived in the city my entire life, I learned pretty early on that it’s best in this town to stay off the Solentsevskaya’s radar. If they don’t know you exist, they can’t care about your presence in their town.
“The Pakhan is the head of the family,” Michael recites as he leans his elbow against his knee. “He runs this city.”
I’ve never met anyone who actually seems to know or have talked to the mysterious Pakhan. He seems more like an urban legend than a real guy, a cautionary tale that other criminals are warned about at bedtime—the boogeyman of crooks.
“His right hand man is Alexsander Kaschei—The Falcon.” Mikhael’s eyes darken slightly as he talks, the tone changing inexplicably. “You’re going to help me bring him down.”
My mind reels as my mouth falls open in shock. I close my lips, attempting to process what he just said before I open my mouth again. He can’t be serious, right?
“You’re fucking kidding, right?” A low chuckle shakes my core as the words tumble from my lips. “I’m not playing Bratva games with you, Mikhael.”
“The Falcon is ruthless, merciless, and vengeful. He’d sooner burn the entire city to the ground than give up an ounce of power.” Mikhael looks at me solemnly. “Should someone like that really be in charge?”
“I thought that the Pakhan was in charge?” I ask hesitantly. I can’t quite tell if Mikhael is sincere or pretending, but I have no interest in sticking around to find out. “If you have an issue with your rival, perhaps you should take it up with your boss, not some low-level thief.”
Something heady flares in Mikhael’s eyes. His irises are alight with the fire of a greedy man. I know that look. I hate that look.
“If you want the painting, you’ll help me, Marisa,” he snarks as a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
“You can shove that fucking painting up your a—”
“Careful,” he growls as his brow furrows.
“You will help me, Marisa. You belong to the Organizatsiya now,” he states as he stands and buttons his suit jacket and righting the cuffs of his sleeves.
He moves across the room, throwing open the door before turning back to me to call over his shoulder.
“You can either work for us as a thief or a whore. Your choice, malen’kiy krolik. ”