5. Artem
Artem
My phone rings at nine PM—an unknown number, though I know immediately who it is. There's only one person who has the number to this phone.
I let it ring twice more before answering. After all, I can't appear too eager in this game of cat and mouse I've set up. I don't want to frighten the mouse into hiding.
"Orlov," I answer, keeping my voice neutral, pretending I don't know who is on the other end.
"Mr. Orlov?" Her voice is soft, uncertain, and I can hear the exhaustion in it. I glance at the clock on my desk, confirming the time. She likely just arrived home. I hold back a smile at that thought. She was eager. "It's Katya. Katya Popova."
As if I wouldn't know the sound of her melodic voice.
"Katya," I fill my voice with warmth. It's not totally forced. As much as I don't want to, I find that I do like her. "I'm glad you called."
There's a pause, and I can almost see her biting her lip, working up the courage to continue. "I wanted to thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful." Her voice is soft and reverent, and I wonder if she's caressing the flower petals.
"Not nearly as beautiful as you." It's the type of thing she'd want me to say, the kind girls like her expect. It's much too corny for me, but I'm playing a specific role.
She laughs, a little breathless sound that makes me wonder what she would look like if I were to press things a little further—if I were myself. If I told her what I actually desired from a woman. "You're very smooth, Mr. Orlov."
"Artem," I correct. "Please. Mr. Orlov is too formal."
"Artem," she repeats, and I like the way my name sounds in her mouth, shaped by her light accent. "The flowers were too much. Fifty-one roses?—"
"An appropriate number for a serious gesture."
Another pause. She's uncomfortable, but I press just slightly. "Did you not like them?"
She releases a sigh. "They are beautiful, but I wasn't kidding when I told you I don't date."
I lean back in my chair, looking out at the New York skyline from my penthouse. "You sound tired," I say, changing the subject deliberately, choosing not to acknowledge her rejection. "Long rehearsal?"
"Brutal," she admits, taking the bait and extending the conversation past her decline. "Jonathan is..." She releases a long breath. "Demanding."
I make a mental note to speak with that bastard. Katya is a long-term investment, and I can't afford for her to break before I get what I need.
"You need a night off. A proper meal, good conversation. Let me take you to dinner, Katya."
She laughs again, but this time there's something wry in it. "There's no rest for the wicked, I'm afraid."
"You could never be wicked." I mean it. I've followed her for months, and I know she's good, sweet, and trusting. I'm banking on that. There's fire there, sure, but she's still a trusting woman, which makes her an easy target.
"You don't even know me," she says softly. "That's what I don't understand." I can hear a heavy sigh on the other end. "Why are you so interested in someone you don't know?"
It's a fair question. A smart question, and I'm reminded that I need to handle this delicately. She's already shown me that she can bare her teeth.
"I know you're dedicated to your art, which I admire. I know you're Russian, like me, and that means something when you're far from home. You are also incredibly beautiful, though I know it is not polite to point such things out."
There's a long pause before she speaks again.
"I know men like you..."
"Oh?" I keep my voice light, curious. "What kind of man is that?"
"Men who never take no for an answer."
Fuck. Another miscalculation on my part. I mistook her innocence for naivety, which was stupid of me.
"Katya," I say, and my voice goes serious, all the charm dropped. "I need you to understand something. I would never take something a woman wasn't willing to give. Never."
It's not wrong, per se. I'm not like Alexei. I am not a rapist or a sadist. I would never force her to give me what I want. She'll give it freely—with my coercion, of course. I ignore the bit of shameful heat that unfurls in my stomach as I consider what that means.
There's no point in dwelling on that.
"I—" She sounds flustered now, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to offend you. I was joking."
"I know," I say, softening my tone. "I just want to be clear. I'm interested in you, yes. I find you captivating. But if you're not interested, if you truly want me to leave you alone, I will."
"I'm interested," she says quietly, and I can hear that the admission costs her something. "But I really don't date. Especially not during the season. Ballet is... it's everything to me."
"Then not a date," I say quickly, sensing the opening. "Dinner between two Russians far from home. Friends. Nothing more."
"Friends?"
"Friends," I confirm. "No expectations. No touching. Just conversation and good food. I promise to be on my best behavior."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wait, letting her think, letting her convince herself.
"Okay," she finally says. "Dinner. As friends."
"Perfect. Friday night?"
"I have a show Friday. All weekend, actually."
"Wednesday, then. I'll pick you up at seven." I'm not so rigid that I can't pivot when necessary.
"You don't know where I live."
I do. I know exactly where she lives, down to the apartment number.
"Text me your address," I say smoothly. "I'll make a reservation somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can actually hear each other talk."
"Okay," she says again, sounding both nervous and excited. "Wednesday. Seven."
"I'm looking forward to it, Katya."
"Me too," she admits. "Goodnight, Artem." Her lips wrap around my name, and she says it as though she's scared of it.
"Goodnight."
I end the call and sit in the silence of my penthouse, staring at my phone.
It worked. The flowers worked. The romance worked. She said yes.
I laugh slightly, shaking my head because despite my worries, I knew it would work. She's the type of woman who wants traditional courtship, who responds to poetry, flowers, and a seemingly respectful pursuit.
I knew she would because I was once the type of man who would try to impress a girl truly like this.
I reach into my desk, pulling out a photograph. It's only a few years old, but you can see the creases from where I've handled it over and over.
It's Irina's wedding photo.
My sister looks beautiful in white, her dark hair crowned with flowers, her smile forced and her eyes wide with something she's working very hard to hide. Next to her stands Alexei Morozov in his expensive suit, his hand possessive on her waist.
You'd never be able to tell that he was high as a kite. Fucker.
There are three other faces in the photo. Three men who destroyed her.
My father's face has a thick black X drawn over it. He has been dead two years now, by my hand, though I made it look like a heart attack. It is not uncommon for oligarchs to meet untimely ends, and he'd pissed enough people off in his life that it could have been anyone.
When the toxicology report came back, I simply shrugged, as did his friends. Another man who should have been more careful.
Alexei's face has an X as well. Dead by Gemma Marini's hand. A slight disappointment, but the Russian in me loves the irony.
And the third man, standing in the background like he belongs there, like he has every right to be at my sister's wedding when he's the one who arranged it, who traded her like property, who sentenced her to two years of hell before she jumped?—
His face has no X yet.
But it will.
He's the head of the Bratva, residing in Moscow. The man who gave my sister to Alexei to pay off a debt, who treated her like currency, who is responsible for her death as surely as if he'd pushed her himself.
And Katya is the key to destroying him.
Sweet, innocent Katya who just agreed to have dinner with me.
Katya who thinks I'm honorable, who believes I'd never take something she wasn't willing to give.
I told her I would never manipulate her, never take without permission.
I lied. I'll take everything, and by the time she realizes what I've done, it will be too late.
I run my thumb over Irina's face in the photograph, over the smile she's forcing for a man she already fears.
I put the photograph back in the drawer and close it.
Wednesday. I have three days to prepare.
Three days until I begin destroying Katya Popova's life.
I ignore the way Irina's eyes stare at me from behind the drawer. She would understand.