Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I RINA
The inside of the Aston Martin smells like leather and that sharp, metallic scent of gun smoke. It’s stuck in my clothes. It’s stuck in my hair. It’s stuck everywhere and it’s getting to me.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the city blocks blur past, but I can’t stop seeing the warehouse—the way that guy’s head snapped back when the bullet hit him. The spray of blood against the gray metal wall. Most of all, I’m seeing Mikhail.
In the sauna, he was slow and full of himself. In that warehouse, he was a machine. There was no talking, no taunting. He just moved. One second those men were laughing, and the next, they were on the floor, bleeding out. Dead.
I’ve lived in this world my whole life. I’ve seen my father’s guards with their hands on their holsters.
I’ve seen the bruises on people who didn't pay. But I’ve never seen anyone move into a room of armed men like it was a chore he wanted to get over with.
He didn't even look scared. He just looked. .. done.
My fingers won’t stay still. It keeps shaking until I have to twist my hands together in my lap, digging my nails into my palms until it hurts, just to keep them from hitting the door.
I’m from this world, but I’m not used to this.
I’m not used to seeing a man's throat open up three feet away from me.
And the reason for it is what’s really messing with my head. He didn't kill them because they were stealing money. He killed them because of those girls. Girls he’s never met. Girls who don't mean a thing to the Morozov bank account. He saw those zip-ties and he just lost it.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s just a shadow behind the wheel. His jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. He’s driving fast, weaving through traffic with a focus that makes my stomach do a slow roll.
"Stop looking at me like that," Mikhail growls.
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to figure out if this was all a set-up. You think I staged a massacre just to get you to like me?"
"I’ve been a Petrov my whole life, Mikhail. My father doesn't do anything for free. I figured you were just checking your inventory."
"Inventory? Is that what you think those women were?" Mikhail shifts gears, the car surging forward. "I’m a lot of things, Irina. I’ve done things in Naples that would make you sick. But I don't move people. I don't trade in flesh. My father knew that before I left, and he definitely knows it now."
I watch him in the dim light of the dashboard. There’s a raw, ugly disgust in his voice that I recognize because I feel it too. He truly didn't know.
"I believe you," I whisper.
The car slows as we hit the iron gates. Mikhail doesn't look at me, but I see his chest expand in a long, ragged breath.
"You believe what?"
"That you didn't know. That you have a line, Mikhail. I thought you were all the same. I thought you just traded one kind of horror for another. But you were pissed. Not because your docks were messed with, but because of what was in those crates."
He pulls the car to a stop in the driveway and finally turns to face me. His eyes are dark, wide, and full of a heat that makes my stomach flip.
"I’m not a good man, Irina. Don't go making that mistake. But I protect what’s mine. That is my warehouse. My father used me to hide that filth. He won't be doing it again."
"And my father?" My heart is hammering. "He’s in there right now. They’re probably drinking vodka and talking about the next shipment."
Mikhail reaches across the console. His hand closes over mine, his palm hot and heavy. The heat of him sears through my jacket. It’s a possessive, crushing grip, and for the first time, I don't want to pull away.
"Artyom isn't coming tonight," Mikhail says. "He’s too pissed off to sit at a table without killing someone. But you and I? We’re going in, we’re going to sit there and let them see that their 'bridge' is gone."
"You want me to confront them?" I ask. A small, sharp spark of the old Irina flares up. "I don't think that was in the wedding vows."
"You were born for this," Mikhail murmurs. His thumb caresses the back of my hand, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my gut.
"Fine," I say, lifting my chin. "But if I throw a glass at your or my father, you’re the one who has to deal with the guards."
Mikhail lets out a short, real laugh. "That’s a promise. I’d love to see that."
He lets go of my hand and gets out, rounding the car. He doesn’t wait for me to open the door; he hauls it open and pulls me to my feet. His hand locks around my upper arm, firm and unyielding. It’s a claim, and tonight, I let him have it.
The foyer of Vladimir’s wing of the estate smells like floor wax and old money. It’s a cold, silent place that feels like a tomb.
"Mikhail. Irina."
I look toward the stairs. Calina and Milana are standing there. Calina looks like a statue in a silk dress, her blue eyes narrowing as she sees the state of us—the grease on my jacket, the blood on Mikhail’s cuff.
"You’re late," Calina says. "Papa and Mr Petrov are in the dining hall. They’re waiting."
"Let them wait," Mikhail rumbles. He doesn't even slow down, steering me past them.
Milana looks at us with worried eyes. "Is Artyom coming, brother?"
"No," Mikhail says. "Artyom is busy. You two should stay upstairs after dinner. It’s going to be a long night."
We reach the double doors of the dining hall. Mikhail stops and looks down at me. He reaches out, his fingers lingering on the skin of my neck for a second too long, adjusting my collar.
"Ready, wife?" he whispers.
"Ready," I nod.
He pushes the doors open.
The room is huge, the long mahogany table stretching out like a battlefield.
At the far end, Vladimir Morozov and my father, Boris, are sitting together.
They look like two kings who think they still own the world.
My father looks up, his eyes cold and calculating.
Vladimir just watches us with a bored look that makes my skin crawl.
"About time," my father says. His voice is a low rumble. "Sit down. We were just talking about the North Docks."