Chapter 5 #2
“Like I was in a position to refuse,” I grumble.
Truth is, I’m not that upset. Galina is fucking gorgeous.
Sexy, in that way where I want to rip her clothes off and just look at her before I plough my dick into her so hard, she will forget any other man she has fucked.
I just want Baron to know I’m more pissed off that this was done over my head.
“I understand your frustration,” Baron says, and that’s the closest thing to an apology I’ll ever get from him.
“But you need to understand something. Rusanov didn’t walk into this blind.
He’s been planning it. The corridor, the club, the daughter—all of it was calculated before we stepped through his door.
Viktor Rusanov sacrificed three men who weren’t his to sacrifice in order to create a crisis that only he could resolve.
That takes a particular kind of ruthlessness. ”
“Sounds familiar.”
His mouth twitches. “Watch yourself.”
“What do you know about the club?” I ask, dragging my focus back.
“More than you, apparently. Zolotoy Rezerv is infamous for its location, not because it’s a great club.”
“What is its location?” I ask. To be fair, I’ve never heard of it before.
Which means it’s the Bratva’s best-kept secret and need to know.
Baron’s expression shifts. Not quite a smile, but something close to satisfaction at knowing something I don’t.
He enjoys that. It’s one of his few pleasures that doesn’t involve violence or vodka.
“The Zolotoy Rezerv sits on top of the largest underground vault network in London outside of the Bank of England,” he says.
“Built during the Cold War by a Soviet diplomat who had more foresight than loyalty. The club itself is a front. Always has been. Beneath it are three levels of reinforced storage, temperature-controlled, blast-proof, with tunnel access that connects to the river.”
I stare at him. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He does not.
“Every criminal family in London, Bratva and beyond has wanted their hands on it for decades,” he continues.
“Rusanov’s father acquired it in the nineties through means that are still debated.
Viktor inherited it, and apparently transferred ownership to his daughter at some point.
Keeps it one step removed from his name if anyone comes looking. ”
The pieces rearrange themselves in my head. “And he just handed it over as part of his daughter’s dowry. Whatever he wants with the corridor is fucking huge.”
“No shit,” Baron mutters. “You did good today, son. I am proud of you.”
I freeze. He has only ever used son with me once, and that is when my loser dad abandoned us, and my mother was thrown out of our flat.
He took us in, even though he and my mother were estranged.
He and Irina raised me as my mother fell into a deep depression that eventually killed her. That day, he called me son.
Never once has he said he was proud of me. I didn’t think he had it in him.
“Stop sniffling,” he grouses.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, even though I’m feeling this fuzzy feeling inside that is as foreign to me as the concept of having a wife.
“Never swear at your pakhan,” he reprimands.
“I’m not. I’m swearing at my uncle.”
He almost smiles. Then the mask slides back into place, and he’s Baron again—Voronov Pakhan, strategist, the man who holds half of London’s underworld in a grip so tight it leaves bruises.
“Two weeks,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Two weeks,” Baron confirms. “I’ll have the lawyers draw up the terms tonight. You’ll review them tomorrow.”
“And the wedding itself?”
“Small. Private. No fanfare. The last thing either family needs is a spectacle that draws attention.”
I nod. That, at least, makes sense. A Voronov-Rusanov wedding would set tongues wagging from Mayfair to Moscow, and neither of us needs that kind of scrutiny.
“One more thing,” Baron says as the car slows for a red light. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“Specific and helpful, as always.”
“I mean it, Laszlo.”
“I know you do.”
“You treat her with respect, and you never lay a hand on her.”
I turn to him with an expression that must convey my anger at his words. “What do you take me for?”
“A hardened criminal who has been forced into a marriage to prevent a war. That will fuck up any man’s brain.”
“Not mine,” I grit out.
The light turns green. The Mercedes glides forward, and I turn my face to the window so he can’t see whatever expression I’m wearing.
I’m not sure what it is myself. Something between fury and fascination, with a healthy dose of what-the-fuck layered on top.
The thought of any man, myself included, laying a hand on her to hurt her makes me see red in a way that nearly blinds me with rage.
Galina Rusanova.
My fiancée.
My soon-to-be wife.
Mine.
She didn’t pull away from my kiss.
She should have. Any sane woman would have. But she stood there and let me touch her and looked at me with those green eyes like she was memorising every detail of my face, so she’d know exactly where to put the blade.
I want her to try.
Christ, I need to get a grip.
The car pulls up outside Baron’s townhouse, and I’m out before the engine shuts off.
“Laszlo,” Baron calls through the open window.
I stop but don’t turn around.
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”
I raise a hand in acknowledgement without looking back and head for my Bentley. The key fob is in my pocket, and I press it as I walk, the car chirping once in the quiet of the crescent. I get in, close the door, and sit.
The leather creaks as I grip the steering wheel with both hands.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days to prepare for a life I didn’t ask for with a woman I don’t know and can’t stop thinking about. The imprint of her lips is still there, faint and electric, a ghost of contact that shouldn’t mean anything and means far too much.
I start the engine and pull out onto the road. There is one stop I need to make before I head home.