21. Emma
Emma
The knock on the suite door comes just after noon, making me jump and press a hand to my chest. Rus isn’t here; he left an hour ago in another annoyingly stunning suit, vaguely mentioning a meeting before disappearing into a dark sedan.
I freeze halfway through pouring coffee, staring toward the entrance. Maybe it’s just hotel staff checking in? Did we not put the “do not disturb” card on the door handle?
The knock comes again.
My stomach tightens as I glance toward my phone sitting on the kitchen counter.
Part of me wants to immediately call Ruslan.
The other part remembers the terrifying look on his face after seeing the bruises on my wrist, and suddenly the idea of dragging him into another confrontation feels dangerous in an entirely different way.
Besides, it really could just be hotel staff.
Andrei flashes through my mind instantly.
I still remember the crushing grip of his fingers digging into my skin outside the coffee shop. The coldness in his eyes inside that SUV. The brothers are different in a thousand ways, but anger strips those differences down fast. Same intensity. Same violence simmering beneath the surface.
Only Rus doesn’t bother pretending he’s civilized. Or try to use that violence on me.
Another knock echoes through the suite, less patient this time. Slowly, I cross the room and stop beside the door, my heartbeat pounding loud enough to hear blood rushing in my ears.
“Who is it?” I call through the heavy wood.
A brief pause follows before a smooth older voice answers, “A friend.”
Absolutely not.
Nerves almost make me laugh as I slide the security chain into place and crack the door open carefully.
An older man stands in the hallway wearing a charcoal overcoat that probably costs more than my monthly rent back in Miami.
He looks expensive in the same effortless way Rus does, though where Ruslan feels sharp and dangerous, this man feels polished into something warmer.
His green eyes narrow slightly when he sees me. Not threatening; just assessing.
“You must be Emma,” he says calmly.
Every instinct I own sharpens. “How do you know my name?”
One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Because Ruslan talks about you more than he realizes.”
That answer catches me off guard. The man notices my reaction and sighs softly. “Relax. If I intended harm, I would not have knocked. And I’m old, as much as I hate to admit it,” he says bitterly. “Too old to be going around fighting young women.”
“Comforting,” I mutter.
A quiet laugh escapes him. Definitely older than Rus, maybe late sixties or early seventies, with the kind of confidence that comes from years of just existing. He studies me for another second before speaking again.
“You’re deciding whether or not to slam the door in my face.”
“I’m deciding whether you’re secretly here to murder me.”
“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “Then Colorado has become more stressful than anticipated. And you, you must have Ruslan figured out.”
Despite myself, a startled laugh slips out. The man’s expression softens slightly in response, though his gaze remains observant.
“My name is Frank.”
The name means nothing to me, but something about him feels oddly safe. Not harmless exactly, but he doesn’t feel like he belongs in the same dangerous world Ruslan occupies. I can’t help it because I’m curious, but I wonder how they know one another?
“Rus knows you’re here?” I ask carefully.
“He will eventually. If he ever checks his phone.”
That is not reassuring.
Frank reaches slowly into his coat pocket, and every muscle in my body tightens until he produces a silver business card instead of a weapon. I take it cautiously through the gap in the door.
Frank Moretti.
The card itself feels heavy and expensive between my fingers.
“I helped Ruslan when he first arrived in California,” Frank says quietly. “Years ago. I’m a businessman.”
My brows knit, and he clarifies: “An investor and a luxury brand consultant. When he started Lord he sounds realistic. Aware of exactly who Ruslan is without pretending he’s harmless.
Which somehow makes me trust him more.
“He came here for revenge,” I say quietly.
Frank sighs into his mimosa. “Yes. For a long time he pretended that getting pushed out of Colorado didn’t bother him, but…”
“You came to stop him?”
“I came to talk sense into him as a friend.” His expression shifts slightly. “Though Ruslan has never been particularly receptive to good advice.”
Relief flickers through me unexpectedly. Not because revenge is suddenly off the table, it obviously isn’t, but because someone else sees the danger here too. Someone else understands that whatever is happening between the brothers is spiraling into something bigger than petty family resentment.
Frank studies my face for a moment before adding casually, “You know, he spoke about Colorado very differently before this trip.”
I glance up. “Differently how?”
“Angrily. Bitterly.” Frank swirls the champagne lightly in his glass. “Then he met you.”
Heat creeps annoyingly into my face. “That’s not—”
“You were the woman from dinner that he told me about. Roughly a month ago, was it?”
Something clicks.
“You’re the ‘friend’ he was meeting,” I murmur, head dropping back. Of course.
Frank’s eyes narrow as he watches my reaction. “Mmm. So he mentioned me. And judging by the way you’re both relieved and amused, I can only assume you were… jealous.”
“I was not jealous.”
“You absolutely were, darling.”
I take a defensive sip of my mimosa. “I barely knew him.”
“And yet.”
God, I hate perceptive people. Frank watches me struggle for a response with obvious entertainment before rescuing me slightly. “For what it is worth, Ruslan looked equally irritated before we met that night.”
That surprises me enough to momentarily stop arguing.
“He did?”
Frank nods once. “He asked three separate questions about whether he looked okay before heading home.”
I stare at him.
“You’re lying.”
“I am absolutely not.”
The image of Ruslan Smirnov anxiously checking his appearance before coming home to where he had me hostage is so bizarre I nearly laugh into my drink.
“That’s horrifying,” I mutter.
“It was fascinating.”
I shake my head, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest. Because somewhere beneath the manipulation and chaos and violence, Rus has apparently been just as affected by this disaster as I have.
Frank notices the shift in my expression immediately.
“You care about him.” The statement comes gently this time.
I look away toward the windows. “I think it’s temporary insanity.”
“Mm.”
“He’s emotionally unavailable, criminally connected, violent, controlling, and possibly one argument away from starting a small war.”
“All true.”
“And I met him because I was drunk and trying on a dress I couldn’t afford.”
Frank lifts his glass thoughtfully. “Romantic, in its own dysfunctional way.”
I laugh despite myself, then immediately groan. “See? This is exactly the problem.”
“What is?”
I stare down into my champagne. “I’m starting to forget I’m supposed to be horrified by this whole thing.”
Silence settles between us. Finally, Frank says quietly, “Emma… Ruslan has spent years making himself untouchable. You are the first thing in a very long time that seems capable of hurting him.”
“Me?”
Maybe once I would’ve believed that. Back when I carried a standard issue Glock 17M and could still get away with appearing innocent. But now?
“I’m not sure what you mean by that. I’m the one he’s using to get back at his brother.”
“So he’s forcing you to be here.”
“Well… No, but…”
Frank cocks his head, curious. “Then why did you agree? Knowing Ruslan, you signed some kind of contract, but he’s overall a fair man. What did he offer you, Emma, once he was done pretending to be the villain?”
I bite my lip, not wanting to admit the truth and the fact that I’ve forgotten about the money for a few weeks now.
“A fresh start,” I say lamely, avoiding those green eyes.
Frank hums. He doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.
I’m not here for the money anymore. And maybe I mean more to Ruslan than I was ever supposed to.