Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Kirill
After I’m done with Ilya, I spend the rest of the morning working out and trying to get the feel of Milana’s skin out of my mind.
The job was simple at the start. Abduct the real Ilya before he ever reached Milana, keep him out of the picture, and assume his identity.
Everything has gone according to plan.
Michael has kept Konstantin occupied by pulling strings in high places and sabotaging his business.
Right now, Konstantin is out of the country trying to figure out why half his winery in Italy suddenly burned to the ground.
As long as he's busy putting out fires, he won't be here to verify whether I'm really Ilya.
The last time we spoke on the phone, he called to check if I’d gotten the “package.”
He never suspected a thing.
One of the perks of my job is voice acting. Mimicking accents, speech patterns, even breathing habits comes naturally to me. By the end of the call, Konstantin believed he had spoken to the real Ilya.
Michael wants to bring down the Morozov empire, and he wants to use Milana to do it. He knows her brothers would burn the world to save her. But before he kills her, he wants to use her as leverage to get information.
He wants to take over their businesses, and he needs inside intel.
It’s obvious Milana doesn’t know the full extent of her brothers’ dealings.
But because her brothers trust Konstantin, that trust extends to me.
Her brothers will always be cautious around me, but they’ll discuss certain matters in front of me.
Those are the pieces Michael is hoping I deliver before he makes his final move.
His father, Adrian Volkov, was once the vice president of Pantheon, one of the most exclusive societies in the world.
Membership isn't something money alone can buy.
Heads of state, billionaires, royalty, and the world's most powerful families have spent fortunes, and spilled blood, for the chance to earn a seat at its table.
Normally, having a father in Pantheon would all but guarantee your own place within the society.
Not for Michael. He’s gay, and Pantheon still clings to its outdated traditions. To them, a man like Michael is unfit to join. It doesn't matter that his father was a member and vice president.
They denied him the one thing he'd always believed was his birthright.
Then Maxim came along.
Maxim is the Pakhan of the Orlov Bratva. Dangerous as hell, but not an Orlov by blood. He was adopted into the family as a teenager, something the old men of Pantheon looked down on. To them, bloodlines matter.
For years, they barely acknowledged him. His territory was small, his influence limited, and despite carrying the Orlov name, he wasn't considered a true heir.
Then his empire started growing and he married Calina Morozov. The alliance between the Orlovs and the Morozovs transformed Maxim into one of the most powerful men in the Bratva. His territory expanded, his influence grew, and suddenly the same men who'd dismissed him couldn't ignore him anymore.
Pantheon extended him an invitation. The very invitation Michael had spent his entire life being denied.
As if that wasn't enough, Maxim exposed Adrian's betrayal, stripped him of his position within Pantheon, and, with the help of the Morozovs, killed him.
To Michael, the Morozovs didn’t just murder his father. They stole his legacy. Now he intends to take theirs. He believes he should be sitting in Maxim’s seat at Pantheon.
He’s not going after Maxim directly because over the past two years, Maxim has further fortified his empire. His security is tighter, his organization stronger, and anyone stupid enough to come at him head-on would be signing their own death warrant.
So Michael is attacking the one weakness every powerful man has.
Family.
Everyone knows Maxim would burn the world for Calina. Which means he'd do the same for her little sister. So, putting her sister in danger would draw him out.
Killing two birds with one stone.
When I’m finally done with my workout, I’m sweaty and exhausted. Hopefully she spends the rest of the day in her bedroom and I don’t see much of her.
If wishes were horses.
The moment I step into the penthouse, the scent of garlic and herbs hits me. I follow it into the kitchen and stop short.
Milana is standing at the stove in nothing but flimsy black lounge set. A thin tank top that clings to her breasts and tiny shorts that barely cover the curve of her ass. Her hair is loose, still slightly damp from a shower. She looks far too fucking edible for my sanity.
My cock hardens instantly. Irritation flares hot in my chest. This is not what I need right now.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice rougher than I intend.
She glances over her shoulder, stirring the pan. “I’m making pasta. I was hungry, so I decided to cook something for us. Are you hungry?”
I should walk away. Instead, I lean against the island and watch her move around my kitchen like she owns it.
“I didn’t picture you as the cooking type.”
She talks as she stirs the pot. “I never used to like cooking. Growing up, there were always staff for that. My sister, Calina, liked to cook. But when I moved to Manchester I had to learn. Turns out I actually enjoy it now.”
This girl is full of fucking surprises.
I listen as she tells me about the first meal she ever made. How it was a disaster, and how she had to call her sister in the middle of the night, U.S. time, just to figure out what she did wrong.
Her stories pull something close to a smile out of me. Which is rare. I don’t smile.
When she’s done, she plates two servings and carries them to the island, sliding one toward me.
I take a bite. It’s good. Really fucking good.
I don’t say anything for a while as we eat. She fills the silence, telling me about her studies in criminal law and her specialization in forensic psychology. The more she talks, the more I realize how badly I misjudged her. She’s not the spoiled princess I was expecting.
She finishes first, gathers both plates, and heads toward the sink.
"Leave them," I say automatically.
She glances back at me. "Why?"
Why can’t she ever just do as she’s told? "I'll deal with them later."
She snorts softly. "Or we could just deal with them now. I hate leaving dirty dishes in the sink."
Before I can stop her, she's already running warm water over the plates. With a resigned sigh, I push away from the island and join her.
She hands me a clean dish towel; I grab it without saying a word. For several minutes, we work in comfortable silence.
She washes while I dry and put everything away. At one point, she reaches for a cabinet that's just beyond her height. She rises onto her toes.
I step around her without thinking, grab the bowl from her hand, and place it on the top shelf.
"Thanks," she says with a smile.
I grunt in response, annoyed by how domestic the whole thing feels, standing side by side at the sink. She hands me a plate, our fingers brush, and that familiar spark shoots through me.
With her standing so close in that flimsy lounge wear, the thin fabric clinging to every curve, I can clearly see the soft swell of her cleavage and the way her hardened nipples press against it. It makes it damn near impossible to concentrate.
All I can think about is bending her over this kitchen counter, hiking that scrap of material down her legs, and fucking her senseless until the only name she remembers is mine.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
She rolls her eyes. "If you weren't a bodyguard..." She gestures vaguely toward me. "What would you be?"
I dry a plate and slide it into the cabinet. "I already told you. I'm not a bodyguard."
She lets out a laugh. The sound does something strange to my insides. I find myself wanting to hear it again. Christ. I need my head examined.
"Just messing with you." She bumps my arm lightly with her elbow. That innocent contact causes my cock to twitch and harden in response.
"If you weren't doing whatever it is you do now, what would you rather be?"
"Nothing."
She blinks. "Nothing?"
"I like what I do."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Huh." She washes another plate, looking oddly thoughtful. "I don't think I could say the same."
I don't respond.
"If I hadn't gone into criminal law, I probably would've studied psychology."
"You already do."
"I know." She smiles. "But I mean full-time.”
She shrugs.
"I've always liked understanding people. Why they make the choices they do. Why some become criminals while others, with the same upbringing, don't."
I still don’t respond.
“You don’t talk much do you?”
"What gave it away?" I deadpan.
She snorts. “It’s strange how you’re friends with Konstantin.” She hands me the last plate. “You are polar opposites.”
My hands tighten around the dish towel. "We're not friends."
Her smile falters. "Oh."
She studies me for a moment. "Then... how do you know him?"
I don't answer.
She keeps going. "I mean, he was the one who hired you, wasn't he? I just assumed—"
"I said we're not friends." The words come out sharper than I intend.
She blinks. "I was just asking."
I set the plate down and cover the small space between us, backing her up against the counter. I plant my hands on either side of her, leaning in close enough that I can smell the jasmine on her skin again.
"You ask too many questions."
"I was only making conversation."
"Here's some advice." I plant my hands on either side of her, trapping her against the counter. "Stop asking questions about people you don't know."
She searches my face, clearly trying to figure me out. I wish she'd stop looking at me like that.
Her eyes drop for a split second, then widen slightly as she registers exactly how hard I am, pressed close against her. The flush that creeps up her neck is fucking beautiful.
I lean in even closer, my mouth near her ear. “If you want to be fucked on this kitchen table, keep wearing shit like that. If not, go put on something that doesn’t make me want to bend you over right now.”