4. Egor
EGOR
The kitchen smells like garlic and butter, rich and warm, the kind of scent that should make my stomach growl.
But all I can focus on is her, the way her hips sway as she stirs the pot, the way her fingers curl around the wooden spoon, the way her tits press against the thin fabric of her shirt with every movement.
Fuck.
I should be thinking about the report sitting on my desk, the one detailing our plans for the rival mafias. I should be planning my next move, my next threat, my next test.
But instead, I'm watching the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips, the way her breath hitches when she tastes the sauce.
I grit my teeth. A week. A week of watching her, of wanting her, of pretending I don't. Seven days of criticizing every fucking thing she does, of making her redo dishes, of acting like her food isn't the best thing I've tasted in years.
Because if I admit it's good, if I let myself enjoy it, then she might think I trust her. I'll be weak. And weak men don't survive in my world.
Her shoulders tense as she reaches for the salt, her fingers trembling just slightly. She knows I'm here. She always knows.
"Too much pepper," I say, my voice rough.
She doesn't turn around, but I see the way her spine straightens, the way her grip tightens on the spoon. "You said it tasted bland five minutes ago."
I step closer, close enough to see the goosebumps rise on her arms. "I changed my mind."
A beat of silence. Then, quietly, "You always do."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Because she's right. I do. I change my mind every time she looks at me, every time she breathes near me. One second, I'm convinced she's a threat. The next, I'm imagining her bent over this counter, her tits in my hands, her milk on my tongue.
I reach past her, my arm brushing hers, and grab the spoon. Her breath catches, her body going still. I dip the spoon into the sauce, bring it to my lips, and taste.
Fuck.
It's perfect. Rich, balanced, the flavors singing. But I can't say that. I won't.
"Needs more salt," I lie, my voice low.
Her jaw tightens. "It's fine."
I set the spoon down with a clatter, my patience snapping. "I said it needs more salt."
She turns then, her caramel eyes flashing, her chin lifted. "Then you add it."
The challenge in her voice makes my cock twitch. I step closer, crowding her against the counter, my hands braced on either side of her. She doesn't back down, doesn't flinch, just tilts her head up to meet my gaze.
"You think you can talk to me like that?" I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
Her breath hitches. "I think you're being an asshole for no reason."
The words are a spark to gasoline. My hand wraps around her throat, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who's in charge. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers, her breath coming faster.
"You don't know the first thing about my reasons," I growl.
Her lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them. "Then tell me."
Her gaze burns, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. My fingers flex against her throat, not squeezing, just feeling the way her pulse jumps under my touch, the way her breath turns shallow.
I open my mouth, but then I remember.
I can't trust her.
My hand falls, letting her go. The loss of contact is a cold shock. She sways, just slightly, her lips parted like she's about to say something, but I step back before she can. The space between us feels like a chasm. My jaw aches from clenching it.
"Just finish the food," I snap, turning away before she can see how close I was to breaking.
And then I walk away.
The office door clicks shut behind Pavel, the sound sharp against the hum of the ocean outside. The waves keep crashing, relentless, like the thoughts in my head.
"Here's everything about her. She's clean." Pavel's voice is flat, final. No hesitation. No doubt.
I exhale through my nose, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.
The file sits in front of me, thick with details, every address she's ever lived at, every job she's ever worked, every person she's ever worked with.
And not a single damn thing that ties her to the Armenians, the Italians, or anyone else who'd want to stick a knife in my back.
Fuck.
I should feel relieved. I do feel relieved. But there's something else, something sharper, something that burns like cheap vodka in my gut.
Guilt.
The word tastes foreign. I don't do guilt.
I do consequences. I do control. But here I am, staring at the back of her handwriting on a grocery list she left in the kitchen, and all I can think about is the way her shoulders hunched when I snapped at her this morning.
The way her voice went quiet when I told her the dish was still wrong.
The way she leaked when I cornered her against the counter.
I drag a hand over my face. The file is open to a photo of her, some grainy shot from a security camera outside a diner where she used to work.
She's smiling, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her apron stained with what looks like coffee.
She looks young. Too young to be carrying the weight she does.
Too young to be dealing with me.
Pavel shifts on his feet. "You want me to keep digging?"
I shake my head. "No."
A beat of silence. Then, carefully, "What now?"
Now?
Now, I stop being a fucking animal.
My gaze lands on the file again, on the list of her family members… all dead, all gone, all before she even turned eighteen. On the bank statements showing overdraft fees and late payments. On the lease for a shitty apartment that she couldn't afford.
She didn't take this job because she wanted to spy on me.
She took it because she was desperate.
And I made her life hell for it.
The kitchen is quiet now, the last of the plates cleared away. The scent of her cooking lingers, which has been making my mouth water. But not just for the food.
For her.
I lean against the counter, watching as she wipes down the stove with quick, efficient strokes. She doesn't look at me. Not yet. But I see the way her shoulders tense, the way her fingers tighten around the rag.
She's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I push off the counter and step closer. Close enough to see the faint flush creeping up her neck. Close enough to smell the milk still clinging to her skin, rich and warm.
"You cooked well tonight, karamelka."
Her hands still. Just for a second.
She turns. "What have you done to Egor?"
I chuckle. "I'm saying it's good. Take it as it is."
Then she exhales, slow, like she's been holding her breath for hours. "Thank you."
I hum, low in my throat. "There'll be no more complaints." I reach out, my fingers brushing the small of her back. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. "Your cooking is delicious."
Her caramel eyes widen, searching. Like she's trying to figure out if this is a trick. If I'm playing with her.
"Now that's settled. Drink with me."
I grab the bottle of vodka from the counter, the glass already sweating in the humid night air.
Her eyes flick to it, then back to me. "I'm good."
"Follow me." I pick up two glasses, heading to the balcony.
She follows, and we stop by the railing.
"What are we doing?—"
"Just one glass." I pour two fingers, the liquid catching the light like liquid silver.
Her throat works. She swallows, her gaze dropping to the glass. To my hand. To the way my fingers flex around the rim.
She reaches out, and takes the glass.
I watch as she brings it to her lips, her throat working as she swallows. The vodka burns, I know it does. But she doesn't cough. Doesn't wince.
I grin. "You took that well."
She smiles before turning to look at the view.
The night air is thick with the scent of salt and sea. The waves crash below, a steady rhythm, like the beat of her heart against my palm.
"Does this mean you trust me now?" she asks.
"Maybe," I reply.
"Why were you so wary of me?"
"Because I assume the worst." My voice is rough, the words scraping up my throat.
She exhales, slow. "Why?"
I tighten my grip on the railing, the metal biting into my knuckles.
The waves crash below, relentless. Just like the past. "When I was a boy, my father worked for men who didn't care if he lived or died.
One winter, he came home with a bullet in his leg.
No doctor. No money. Just a bottle of vodka and a prayer.
" My jaw clenches. "He died on our kitchen floor.
My mother cried. She begged for help. No one came. "
Emilia's breath hitches. I don't look at her. If I do, I'll stop.
"So I learned." The words taste like ash. "The world doesn't give a fuck about good people. It rewards the strong. The ruthless." I flex my fingers, the scars on my knuckles pale in the moonlight. "I made sure no one could ever hurt me again. No one could use me."
Her silence presses against my skin, heavier than the ocean below. Then, soft, hesitant, her hand covers mine. "So why did you take a risk with me?"
My chest tightens.
From the moment her milk touched my tongue, rich and sweet, I knew I couldn't just let her go. Even if she was the one thing I couldn't control.
And that terrified me.
"I don't know."
She pouts. "I'm not your enemy."
I turn then, my free hand cupping her jaw. Her skin is warm, her pulse racing beneath my fingers. "But you're the most dangerous thing I've ever let close."
Her breath catches. I feel the shiver run through her, the way her body leans into mine, even as her mind fights it.
I lower my head, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And I realize, karamelka…" My teeth graze her lobe, just enough to make her gasp. "I don't care even if I've already lost."