Chapter 7
“It’s Week One. We knew we were stepping into a challenge. This is manageable.”
Glancing around the gaudy office that Ivan never got around to renovating, manageable is the last word I would use to describe my task.
Take over a bigger Bratva branch, they said.
It’ll be fun, they said. Still, Misha has a point.
It isn’t like me to be flustered like this over minor inconveniences.
Although I haven’t had a lifestyle change this monumental since…
“If it would make you feel better, I can make the renovation of your main suite of rooms my priority and knock it out within a couple of weeks.”
“Your priority list is already too long. Integrating the men we brought into the existing structure here without ruffling feathers, building rapport with the house staff, gathering intel on any bad apples that need to be weeded out—”
“Making breakfast for stray hockey players you collect.”
I swivel my desk chair back around to see a smirk on my best friend’s face. “You made Thatcher breakfast?”
“Mm-hmm. My famous pancakes. I was bonding with Kirill. I think you’re right, by the way, that he’s a high-potential guy who’s been underutilized. Your instincts are still sharp, even in your old age.”
“Mention me turning forty next year again, and see what happens. I don’t know how many more scars your face can handle before the women stop finding you devilishly handsome.”
“Infinite scars, moya tsaritsa. The answer is always infinite scars when it comes to looking dangerously sexy to attract women. Besides, these days, handsome doesn’t even matter. Have you seen the books the women are reading? Minotaurs, snakes, doors—”
“Doors?”
“Doors. So I think with my height and my substantial co—”
“Okay, you win. Please. I don’t need to hear about anything that’s substantial, other than your ego. Tell me more about your fucking Brady Brunch breakfast with Thatcher.”
“Not too much to say, really. The kid seems a little lost.”
“I don’t know if he’s a kid. I mean, he’s twenty-five—”
“That’s fifteen years!” Misha dodges a stapler I launch at his head, barely missing yet another scar.
“But I stand by it. Lost. He had a good training session with the guys. I don’t think we’ll have too many to cull, to be honest. The group overall has a few cliques, but they seem centered around hobbies and whether the individual is single or married with kids.
Nothing prevents them all from working effectively across subgroups.
I don’t think we’ll have to separate any units that currently operate together. ”
“Hmm. He trained with them?”
“I love that that’s the first question you have after hearing the intel I’ve been working so hard on.
” My death glare, which has made grown men piss themselves, has just as little effect as ever on Misha as he laughs.
“But yes, he did well. He seemed happy to bask in the camaraderie. Maybe we can keep him around, poach him from the hockey team. Not sure he can fire a gun, but we can always—”
“Eeeeeeeeee!”
A screech interrupts us, gone as quickly as it began. The office overlooks the backyard and the forest beyond, but I’ve had the curtains closed all day. Drawing them reveals exactly why I was afraid to let a party-crazy hockey player into my house.
The sloping lawn leading to the pool is covered in black tarps, which are sudsed up into the biggest slip and slide I’ve ever seen.
Speakers come to life, blaring house music, and what looks like fifty men are in swim trunks, either in the pool or in line for the slide.
Someone’s manning the massive grill in the outdoor kitchen, and a table is being set up for beer pong.
Misha approaches and leans over my shoulder to look out before guffawing loudly in my ear.
“You have to be joking. This isn’t funny! I told him not to go outside, and I told him no parties.”
“Did you specify not to go outside the house? Or did you leave it open to interpretation? Maybe he thought you meant not to go outside the property.”
“What kind of idiot would need that spelled out for him?”
“And did you tell him no parties, or that he can’t have people over? Because it looks like it’s all off-duty men of ours, so nobody would have had to come through the gates.”
Pulling the curtains closed, I try to channel my annoyance into a more productive emotion, to no avail.
“Why are you encouraging him?” I finally manage to redirect my anger to Misha, who’s backing out of the office slowly but still smirking.
“I’m not encouraging him.”
“You are, and—”
“I do, however, find him amusing, mainly because I think he’s going to annoy the fuck out of you while he’s here. And I think you’ll be better for it. Besides, you’re too tense. You need to let loose. It’s been too long since you’ve been to the club.”
He cannot be suggesting…
“Use him for some stress relief. He followed you around every chance he got in Florida. See if he’ll let you—shit!”
Finally, I hit my mark, and Misha leaves, nursing his temple where my stress ball connected.
Sighing, I turn back to the window, the muffled sounds of frivolity growing louder as the party gets thoroughly underway.
I have emails to reply to, and I’ve been wanting to take advantage of the huge bathtub in my suite anyway.
I’ll give them the few hours it should take me to finish before I confront the troublemaker.
“Nice party.”
“Ah!”
I step back to avoid the splash from Thatcher falling into the pool, biting back a laugh.
It wasn’t my intention to startle him, per se, but I’m not displeased at the outcome.
He hops back out with the agility Misha was so complimentary of and shakes himself off.
The effect isn’t unlike a golden retriever, with his blond curls and dimpled grin.
He’s not a dog, Mila. He’s a thorn in your side.
“Hi, Boss.”
“I’m not your boss.”
“Misha said while I was here, you were, and that you’d like it if I called you Boss!”
Oh, I am so reminding Misha of this the next time we spar in the gym.
“I really would prefer it if you called me Mila.” For some reason, this seems to please him even more than calling me Boss, and he stands a smidge taller, still flashing his double-dimpled smile. “Grab a towel and walk with me, please.”
The sun is setting, and the party is winding down on its own, so I have nothing to gain from shutting it down.
I can see some wariness from the New York crew as Thatcher and I move toward the house, but instead of showing my displeasure, I offer what I hope are respectful nods.
Clearly, I’m not here to take part in the party, wearing my usual uniform of long black pants, black shirt, combat boots, and my wet hair in a braid down my back…
but I can still show that I’m not mad at their party.
Even if I am. At least a bit.
“I’m sorry about—”
“Deliberately misinterpreting the very few rules I laid out for you while you’re staying in my home?”
He manages to look regretful for a solid two seconds before one corner of his mouth turns up again.
“Yeah. That. I’m sorry about deliberately misinterpreting the very few rules you laid out for me while I’m staying in your home.
Mila.” My name sounds forbidden on his lips, and I turn on my heel to lead him into the house before he can continue.
I wish he’d put a shirt on, anything to cover more than the fucking Speedo he’s wearing, but he seems perfectly content to waltz around almost naked.
I guess he’s comfortable in his own skin, given the abs, and the glutes, and the… oh, screw this.
“Apology accepted. Misha mentioned that one of the guys is loaning you some clothing. I’ll give you the delivery address for anything else you might need.
Not all the bedrooms are fully furnished, but this one has everything you should need, plus its own bathroom.
The decor is apparently from the previous owner’s very particular interior designer and—”
“Holy shit, red latex? This room is hot! Are you putting me in the sex dungeon room?” He spins in a full circle in the center of the room before turning back to me, looking pleased. “Is this because you think I’m sexy and need a super-sexy room? For all my sexiness?”
Jesus, he’s drunker than I realized. And now that he mentions it, maybe this room is too sexy for him. And far, far too close to mine.
“On second thought, maybe you’d be better off with more space to yourself.
Let’s go.” Weaving through the hallways I only know after studying the blueprints of this house for weeks, I take Thatcher to a wing on the other side of the house.
I think this was once for the children and staff, and everything here is clean.
Although less grand, it’s completely free of red latex.
He takes in the largest bedroom in this wing, pulling a sheet off a chair in the corner and sneezing as a dust cloud puffs up into his face.
“I’ll have it cleaned as soon as possible, of course—”
“This is perfect, my own wing! Party wing, let’s go! And this room is huge. There’s so much room for activities. It smells a little musty, but that’s okay. I love candles, and a few burning in here for a while will make it nice and fresh.”
“Can Thatcher stay with you? His condo burned down, and he has this weird thing with hotels…”
“Just don’t let him have any candles, okay?”
Teddy’s warning echoes through my mind like a shot, and I’m pulling Thatcher behind me once again. It’s the last place I want to put him, but it’s impossible to deny it’s the safest for us all at this point.
“On third thought, I think you’d rather not be so far from the main rooms of the house. Do not burn any candles.”
Finally, we arrive back closer to where we started, and he seems hesitant to make any comments in case I move him again.