Chapter 1 - Nadya #2
This elevator ride is quicker than the one down to the Encore’s lobby. Maybe because the coffee kicked in fast, but probably because I’m eager to catch Iosif before he’s out on whatever bratva business for the day.
Mostly, I just don’t want to be alone with my encroaching thoughts. It never ends well.
Already, every floor that flits by has me replaying flashbacks and echoes.
I have to literally shake my head, whipping my hair across my face in the process, to get my brain to knock it the hell off.
After, I bend at the waist, gathering the mass in my hands and throwing it up in the quickest, messiest knot on top of my head, securing it with the strands themselves.
The elevator dings, opening to Iosif’s sprawling penthouse.
I’m not surprised to find the living room empty. A quick glance at my phone confirms that it’s already 11 AM. Janella’s probably long-since left for her café, The Great Escape. Maybe I’ll steal a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from my brother and swing by for lunch later.
For now, I’m pretty glad I can get some one-on-one time with Iosif.
Toeing my heels back off, I pad across the open-plan living room and make a beeline for the home office he’s likely inside.
I hear him halfway down the hallway, sounding pissed as fuck.
I throw open the door without knocking. He’s standing in front of the open window, his body coiled as if about to spring…
or launch the phone he holds to his ear at the wall.
His thick, dark hair, shared by all Yuris except for me—since I’ve been dyeing mine the bright, platinum blonde the last couple of years—is a battlefield.
I can see where he’s been running his hands through it, as he’s wont to do when he’s stressed.
He whips around, and the silver hoop in his ear catches the light.
I can tell from his wild, feral gaze that he hasn’t slept well.
Must be Zakharov again.
Iosif has been chasing the spare Zakharov for months now, with vengeful, single-minded focus. All of my brothers have. From what little tidbits Iosif has let slip to me, Viktor Zakharov has messed with all of them at one point or another the past year.
Still, when he sees me, his irritation fissures, and he shoots me a grim smile. Then he holds up a finger, One second.
“I don’t give a motherfuck what goddamn time it is,” he barks into the phone, practically growling. “You tell Freddie I want updates every two hours or I’ll dig his fucking grave my goddamn self.”
He hangs up and hurls his phone at the sofa in the corner, glaring at the device like it’s caused personal offense.
Then, he faces me and exhales, the tension at least partially eking out of his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, Nads. Where the hell did you run off to last night? Trifon’s been pissed all morning.”
He doesn’t sound mad himself, however. But I’d never expect Iosif to.
He understands, more than anyone, how easily all the safe-keeping can get suffocating.
Sometimes, a girl just needs to fly. Security can’t always keep up with that speed.
If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that a man is more likely to tell you to slow down than to push himself to keep up.
Not my brother, though, which is why I tell him the truth. “To a party thing with a girlfriend,” I answer, stealing his glass of water from his desk before I flop down into his chair and drop my clutch beside me. “It was—”
I’m going to tell him everything—the stranger, the elevator, the way I’d finally understood last night what all the fuss was about—when my eyes catch on his computer screen.
I choke on air before I’ve ever taken a sip of the water.
My vision tunnels, boiling down to one focal point.
On the open screen of my very favorite brother’s computer… is a picture of the man I gave my virginity to last night.
“Wha…”
The water spills all over my lap, making me jump out of my seat with a shriek.
Iosif crosses the room to me in record time. “Nadya?” His voice pitches with concern. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
It’s him. I’d know his face anywhere.
“Oh, yeah, that’s Viktor Zakharov,” Iosif says from beside me, his eyes following mine to the culprit of my shock. “Hideous, right?”
The name lands like a fist to my solar plexus. My sternum rattles.
No. No, no, no.
He’s decidedly not hideous.
The photo is grainy and was probably taken at night, from a distance, but none of that diminishes how fucking beautiful he is.
Those high, sharp cheekbones are unmistakable.
I don’t need to zoom in on that full, expressive mouth to know it’s in that frustrating half-smirk.
I’ve had those deep-set hazel eyes look up at me from between my thighs.
It doesn’t matter if the camera can’t do them justice. He’s etched in my mind.
How can he not be?
My beautiful, dangerous stranger.
“He’s intimidating,” I rasp out. It hurts to talk.
Iosif scoffs, his ire reignited in seconds.
“He’s a slippery rat, is what he is,” he grouses.
“One of my PIs finally caught up to the fucker last night. He was going into a club. But the cameras only picked up his entry. We can’t find any record of him leaving.
And it’s closest fucking thing to a solid lead we’ve had in four months. ”
Because we left out the back.
I think the words, but my mouth won’t spit them out.
He’s probably still in bed, at the Encore. He’s fifteen minutes away. There’s a little blood on the sheets, actually. Don’t worry about that. It’s mine. I loved everything he did to me.
My stomach cramps.
“I’m so sorry,” is all I can say.
The words taste like ash in my mouth.