Chapter 11 #2
He wore a dark casual suit like he didn't give a damn. His golden-brown hair was a little messy. His gray-green eyes held that sharp, careless kind of intelligence.
He'd been my closest friend since we were kids. Inside the Bratva, he ran the casinos and the underground money laundering network. Oleg was one of the few people on earth who dared to act this comfortable on my turf.
"You'd better have a damn good reason for being in my apartment," I said, cold, walking in, ripping my tie off, pouring myself vodka, and dropping hard into the chair across from him. "And for smoking my limited Cohiba."
"Yuri told me about last night." Oleg exhaled smoke, the grin fading a notch. "Sorokov, that old fox—he's been getting bolder. What are you doing? Taking out their Brooklyn operation, or do you want me to dump their dirty ledgers to the FBI?"
"Neither." I took a long drink. The burn hit my stomach, but it didn't touch the irritation in my chest. "I'll handle that debt myself."
Oleg caught it anyway. He leaned forward, eyes scanning my face like radar.
"You don't look pissed about Sorokov." He lifted a brow, the smile turning into something smug and punchable.
"Honestly, Viktor, I've known you over thirty years.
I've never seen you like this—horny and restless and acting like you're about to lose something.
You look like a teenager catching feelings. "
"Shut up," I said.
"No. I'm not." He pushed harder. "Yuri might be too stupid to see it, but I'm not blind. I heard you moved some bottom-tier female analyst right into a private office next to yours. And you personally handled some tiny assistant DA in the lobby because of her."
My grip tightened around the glass until my knuckles went pale.
"She has rare financial talent," I said, giving him the stiffest, most polished excuse I could. "She's useful to the Group."
"Ha." Oleg barked out a laugh and leaned back. "That's the funniest thing I've heard all year. You—Viktor Ivanov—when do you ever run short on talented finance people? You snap your fingers, and Wall Street quants with seven-figure salaries will line up all the way to the Brooklyn Bridge."
He pointed at me with the cigar, voice turning loaded. "Just say it, brother. The old ice king is finally melting. What you feel for that girl isn't some damn 'financial talent.'"
I didn't answer, because I could feel his eyes peeling every lie off me.
"And Yuri said Natalia invited you tonight.
" Oleg slid into the name that had been grinding on me.
"Sorokov wants to lock the alliance down through marriage.
Before, even if you didn't like her, with the history and the money on the line, you wouldn't have refused so fast. But lately?
Different. Natalia doesn't get it yet. She's still pushing with family pressure. That got under your skin, didn't it?"
I drained my vodka and slammed the empty glass onto the glass table. It cracked the quiet with a sharp pop.
"She crosses lines," I said, hard. "I don't like anyone trying to chain me with an alliance."
Oleg sighed and shook his head.
"Stop lying to yourself, Viktor." The joking fell away.
For once, he sounded serious. "You didn't reject Natalia because she crossed lines.
You rejected her because you already have someone else in your head.
Your attention, your moods, even your security slipping...
all of it is because of that woman—Hailey.
You've already started treating her like she belongs to you. "
I stared at him, my eyes turning black.
"My business isn't yours to judge."
Oleg shrugged like he didn't care, stood, and crushed the last of his cigar into a crystal ashtray.
"Fine. I won't." He straightened his jacket, then met my eyes. "But I'll say this as your friend. Where we stand, with your name, there are too many people who want you dead to count. Last night was just one of them."
He held my gaze.
"Having a weak spot gets you killed. Watch yourself."
Oleg left.
The apartment went dead quiet again.
I sat alone, staring out at Manhattan under a bruised, heavy sky. Rain slammed the windows like fists.
Oleg's words dug in like a thorn.
A weak spot?
I was Viktor Ivanov. I didn't need weak spots.
But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was Hailey in the bathroom—eyes red, jaw set, glaring at me while she demanded to know if I'd been playing her.
Had I gotten soft lately? Had I let myself indulge her too much? Had I lost the edge I was supposed to have?
Restless and wired, the urge to see her—to make sure she was okay—shot through me like a vine breaking concrete and wrapping around my heart.
I stood up hard, grabbed my keys, and took the elevator down.
I didn't bring bodyguards.
I drove my unmarked black Aston Martin through Manhattan in the downpour, pushing it too fast, tires cutting water like blades.
The wipers thrashed. The world blurred. I still drove straight to that rundown part of Brooklyn.
I parked in the shadows and stared up at the third-floor window glowing with dim yellow light.
What was she doing right now? Spiraling? Packing to run? Had today scared her so bad she wouldn't even show up at work tomorrow?
In that cold, filthy rain-soaked night, that little square of light gave me something I hadn't felt in a long time—quiet. I sat there and let the rain pound the glass, like staring at that glow could calm the violent animal in my chest.
It didn't last.
A sudden, vicious crash ripped through the rain from upstairs.
Then a stifled scream—ragged, edged with tears.
"Don't touch me! Get off!" Hailey's voice. Pure fear. Pure rage.
"Stupid bitch! Don't push your luck!" A sleazy man's voice snapped back, crude and ugly.
Something in my head just snapped.
I shoved the car door open. Freezing rain drenched my shirt in a second. I didn't feel it.
My hand went to the cold weight of my Glock, and I stared up at that lit window like death itself.
Rage flooded me.
Those worthless fucking pieces of shit.
Whoever touches my woman tonight dies.