Chapter 39 Aria
ARIA
Iplant myself in front of Nikolai's study door, blocking his path to the garage where his car is waiting. He's about to walk out of here and confront the bastard who photographed us, and he thinks I'm staying behind like some helpless damsel?
Not happening.
My spine is straight, my chin lifted in a way that I know drives him crazy. The kind of defiance that makes his jaw tic and his eyes flash with something that's equal parts frustration and heat.
"Move, Aria." His voice carries that edge of command that probably makes grown men scramble to obey.
Not me.
"No." I cross my arms over my chest, feeling the subtle swell of my stomach press against my forearms. "I'm coming with you."
"This isn't a negotiation." He takes a step closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker. The predator beneath the expensive suit. "You're staying here where it's safe."
"Safe?" The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Someone violated our privacy. You think I'm going to sit here and wait while you handle it?"
His eyes narrow, and I watch him calculate his options. He could physically move me. His body is all coiled muscle and controlled violence. But something in my expression must tell him I'll fight him every step of the way, and we both know that's a scene neither of us wants.
"You stay in the car," he finally says, his accent thickening with barely controlled frustration. "You don't get out. You don't interfere. Understood?"
"Understood." I step aside, victory making my pulse quicken.
His hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the garage, the touch possessive and protective all at once.
The heat of his palm seeps through my dress, and my traitorous body responds with a flush that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I hate how aware I am of him, how every casual touch makes my skin prickle with electricity.
The drive to the industrial district passes in tense silence.
Nikolai's hand rests on my thigh, his thumb tracing absent circles that make concentration impossible.
I watch the city slide past the tinted windows and try not to think about what we're driving toward.
What Nikolai might do to the man who photographed us.
"What will you do to him?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
His thumb stills against my leg. "What needs to be done."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." His fingers tighten fractionally on my thigh. "Some things you don't need to see, Solnyshka."
The endearment makes something warm bloom in my chest despite everything. I've learned it means "little sun" in Russian, and the way he says it, rough and intimate, does things to my pulse I refuse to examine too closely.
The warehouse looms ahead, all rusted metal and broken windows.
Cyril's car pulls up behind us, and I watch through the rearview mirror as Nikolai's second-in-command emerges with two other men I don't recognize.
They move with that same controlled efficiency, like violence is just another tool in their arsenal.
"Stay here," Nikolai says, his hand cupping my jaw and turning my face toward his. "I mean it, Aria. Don't get out of this car."
"I won't." The lie comes easily, but I see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knows me too well already.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, the touch sending heat cascading through my body.
For a heartbeat, I think he's going to kiss me, and I'm not sure if I want him to or if I'll push him away.
But he just studies my face like he's memorizing it, then releases me and steps out into the fading light.
I watch him walk toward the warehouse entrance, his stride purposeful and predatory.
The way he moves makes my mouth go dry. All that controlled power wrapped in an expensive suit, and I know exactly what that body feels like pressed against mine.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly despite the circumstances.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. My fingers drum against my thigh, and I'm acutely aware of my security guard in the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the perimeter with mechanical precision.
"I need to see," I say, already reaching for the door handle.
His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. "The Pakhan said—"
"I know what he said." I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. "But that man violated my privacy too. I have a right to face him."
He studies me for a long moment, then releases my wrist with a sigh that suggests he knows this is a battle he won't win. "Stay close to me. Don't speak unless spoken to. And if things go sideways, you run. Understood?"
"Understood."
The warehouse interior reeks of rust and desperation. My guard positions himself at my elbow as we move through the shadows, and I hear voices echoing from somewhere deeper in the building. Nikolai's voice, cold and lethal. Another voice, higher-pitched and panicked.
We round a corner, and I see him.
The fugitive is younger than I expected, maybe thirty, with sandy brown hair and the kind of face that would be forgettable in a crowd. He's handcuffed to a metal chair in the center of the empty space, and when his eyes land on me, genuine terror flashes across his features.
Nikolai stands in front of him, his body coiled with tension, and the moment he senses my presence, his head snaps toward me. Fury blazes in those ice-blue eyes, hot enough to burn.
"I told you to stay in the car." Each word comes out clipped, dangerous.
"I needed to see him." I force my voice to remain steady despite my hammering heart. "The man who turned our private moments into a commodity."
Something shifts in Nikolai's expression, and he gestures for me to approach. I move closer, my guard shadowing my steps until I'm standing beside Nikolai.
"Tell her," Nikolai says to the fugitive, his voice dropping to something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Tell her what you told me."
The man's words tumble out in a panicked rush, tripping over each other in his desperation to cooperate. "I was hiding on the island. From Interpol. International warrants for fraud and extortion. I'd been living in a cave on the far side for three months, trying to figure out my next move."
"And then we arrived," I say quietly.
"Yes." He won't meet my eyes, his gaze fixed on the concrete floor. "I recognized him from news coverage. Nikolai Alekseev. I knew who he was, what he was worth. And when I saw you two together, I saw an opportunity."
The casual way he says it, like our vulnerability was just a business opportunity, makes nausea rise in my throat. "So you photographed us."
"I had a telephoto lens. Salvaged it from my boat wreckage. I watched you, documenting everything." His voice cracks. "I thought it would be my ticket out. Two million dollars for a new identity in South America. A chance to disappear."
"How many photos?" Nikolai's question comes out soft, almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying.
"Maybe fifty. Different angles, different moments." The fugitive's hands shake in the handcuffs. "I kept the best ones for leverage."
"And the copies?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "You sold copies to someone."
His face goes even paler, if that's possible. "A Russian man. He found me two days ago, said he'd heard I had something valuable. Paid cash, twenty thousand dollars, for duplicates of everything."
"Describe him." Nikolai's hand finds my waist, pulling me closer in a gesture that's both possessive and protective.
"Older, maybe fifty. Gray hair, expensive suit. Heavy accent, thicker than yours." The words come faster now, desperation bleeding through. "He asked specific questions about your routines, your security, your relationship with her. He knew things about your organization. About your enemies."
"Matvey," I whisper and feel Nikolai's body go rigid beside me.
"He didn't give a name," the fugitive continues. "But the way he talked about you, the questions he asked, it was obvious he wasn't a friend."
Nikolai's silence stretches too long, and I glance up to find his expression carved from ice. The Pakhan in full force, calculating and cold. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of a death sentence.
"You've given my enemy ammunition." His hand tightens on my waist. "Do you understand what you've done?"
"I'm sorry." Tears stream down the fugitive's face. "I just needed the money. I didn't think about the consequences."
"No," Nikolai says quietly. "You didn't think at all."
He turns to Cyril, who's been standing in the shadows, and speaks in rapid Russian. I catch enough words to understand he's issuing orders, making arrangements, ensuring this man disappears in a way that sends a message to anyone else who might consider similar betrayal.
"Let's go," Nikolai says to me, his hand at the small of my back guiding me toward the exit.
I glance back once at the fugitive, at the man whose greed turned our most private moments into weapons, and feel nothing. No sympathy. No regret. Just cold satisfaction that he'll pay for what he's done.
The drive home passes in tense silence. Nikolai's hand grips mine too tightly, his knuckles white against my smaller fingers, and I can practically hear his mind working through strategies and countermeasures.
How to neutralize Matvey's advantage. How to control the narrative. How to protect what's his.
My phone buzzes in my purse, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. I pull it out with my free hand, expecting more tabloid notifications or maybe another message from Maya's rehab facility.
Instead, my screen fills with emails from clients.
My stomach drops as I read the first one, the words blurring together through the sudden sting of tears.
Dear Ms. Levin, After careful consideration, we've decided to go in a different direction for our upcoming event. We appreciate your understanding and wish you the best in your future endeavors.
The second email is almost identical, just different names and dates. Professional. Polite. Devastating.
"What is it?" Nikolai's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I hand him my phone wordlessly, watching his jaw tighten as he reads. When he looks up, fury blazes in those ice-blue eyes.
"They're canceling because of the photographs," I say, my voice flat. "Because being associated with the Pakhan’s woman is bad for business."
Two of my biggest clients, gone. Events I'd been planning for months, revenue I'd been counting on to keep Thyme and Tide afloat. The photographs aren't just destroying Nikolai's reputation. They're destroying mine too.