The Wrong Makarov

1. Artem

Artem

Cady Gallagher is sitting in my office, typing casually on her laptop.

But that’s bullshit.

I stand in the doorway and watch her for a second longer than I should. It’s after three in the morning, and I can’t sleep because I heard something move in the house, and that set off alarm bells in my head.

Set off by her.

She’s focused on what she’s doing, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen, searching for something.

There’s no hesitation or aimless clicking. That’s the first thing that tells me this isn’t harmless because she’s not using just any old laptop.

She’s using my brother’s.

Also, she chose this room. Not the guest room where my brother is passed out from too much vodka at the club tonight, where he showed her off and grinded on her ass for most of it.

The final dealbreaker is that she’s Cady Gallagher.

Irish mob princess. Connected enough to this world that even saying her last name in the wrong room can shift the air. The same family that the Volkov bratva has been trying very carefully not to go to war with for the last few months.

And she’s here.

In my house.

In my spare office.

On my brother’s laptop because he’s stupid enough to leave her alone here.

I shift my weight, the door clicking quietly behind me as I push it shut. That’s what finally gets her attention.

She stills, her fingers pausing on the keys as she turns to look at me.

Blue eyes.

Sharp, clear, and not surprised.

Definitely not scared.

I take a few steps into the room, slow and unhurried, letting the silence stretch a little. She watches as I round the couch to stand in front of her, trying to figure out what I’m going to do.

Most people would panic when they get caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

She doesn’t.

Which means I’m right: She’s playing games and using my idiot brother as a pawn.

My gaze drifts over her before I can stop it.

She’s changed since we got back. The tight black dress she wore at the club is gone, traded for something softer. Thin cotton shorts and a loose tank that slips off one shoulder.

Nothing flashy. Nothing that tries too hard.

Still… it works.

Her hair is a mess now, light red curls falling everywhere, wild and uneven.

It’s more distracting than it should be.

My jaw tightens as I pull my focus back to her face.

It doesn’t matter what she looks like.

It doesn’t matter how my brother looks at her.

But what does matter is that she walked through my house tonight like she already knew where everything was.

She’s still Cady Gallagher.

And right now, she’s in a place she shouldn’t be, doing something she shouldn’t be doing.

“Get lost, Lisichka?”

Her gaze flicks briefly to the screen, then back to me. It’s quick and controlled, but I catch it anyway.

“No,” she says.

Too calm.

Like this isn’t a problem.

Like I’m not the problem she’s about to have.

There’s a hint of something in her tone—dry, maybe a little sarcastic—but not careless.

She’s comfortable.

Too fucking comfortable.

She’s been here a few days now. Long enough to leave traces of herself in the house—her voice in the mornings, her perfume in the hallway, and the way my brother sticks around longer than he used to.

He calls her his girlfriend like it means something.

It means shit all when he’s a notorious playboy who has a new woman every night, but that stopped about two months ago.

Suddenly, she appeared.

“You’re in my office.”

She straightens, but she doesn’t shut the laptop. “That seems obvious,” she says. “I thought this was Misha’s office.”

“Let me rephrase then—” I sit on the coffee table and fold my hands together. “—this is my house. That is my brother’s laptop. My brother is part of the bratva. You shouldn’t be on it.”

She lifts a brow and tilts her head, studying me like she’s deciding how far she can push this.

If she’s smart, she’ll let it go. She won’t use her perfect lips to profess a bunch of lies that I’ll pick up in a heartbeat.

“Was that a rule?” she mutters so softly and femininely that it licks up my skin in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable and highly annoyed. “No use of laptops after midnight?”

“Not my brother’s.”

“I was shopping.”

That’s a lie.

“Lisichka, don’t fuck with me.”

“Lisichka,” she repeats. “What does that mean?”

“You’re on my brother’s laptop; look it up.”

She glances down at it and pushes her cheek out with the tip of her tongue. “How do you spell that?”

I’m going to throttle this woman.

If she thinks I’m an idiot, her father keeps her far too sheltered. I kill people for lesser things than breaking into laptops of men in the Russian mafia.

She knows what she’s doing, who she’s dating, and what kind of mess she’s getting herself into. Playing cute doesn’t do it for me.

“If I tell Benedikt Volkov you’re in here, doing what you’re doing, Lisichka,” I say, my voice lower now, and more controlled. “Your father’s got a problem he doesn’t walk away from.”

Her expression stills with recognition.

Good.

She knows what that means.

“If I tell my brother,” I continue. “You’ll be out of this house before morning.”

She’s pissed.

“And yet,” she says quietly, “you’re still just sitting there.”

“Tell me what you’re doing, Cady.”

I use her name on purpose.

Her lips part like she’s about to answer, but she stops herself. I see the thought process happen in real time: what she can say, what she can’t, what she’s willing to risk.

“If I don’t?” she asks.

“Then I decide you’re a problem.”

“And?”

“And I deal with problems.”

She holds my gaze as something shifts behind her eyes.

For the first time since I walked in, there’s a crack in her control. It’s small, but there.

“Misha says you’re Benedikt Volkov’s enforcer,” she says.

This time, I smile. It’s not the kind to make her feel nice and comfortable in my home but one to remind her of what I do daily.

“I’m his everything.”

The way her fingers curl a little against the edge of the laptop claims she’s not immune, and that’s good to know.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she asks.

There’s a softness to her voice that doesn’t match the words. It’s almost curious.

“It should,” I tell her.

She hums under her breath, like she’s considering it.

I lean back on the coffee table, bracing my hands on either side of me. “You want to try that again?” I ask. “Or are we done pretending you’re browsing for dresses at three in the morning?”

Her lips press together for a second, then part again.

Still thinking. Calculating.

Everything about her is controlled, and that’s what makes this worse. If she were panicking, I’d already be done with this conversation.

But she’s not.

She’s choosing every move.

“You’re very observant,” she says finally.

“Occupational hazard.”

I lean forward, close enough now that I can see the tiny freckles across her nose and the way her lashes cast faint shadows under her eyes from the low light in the room.

Close enough to notice the faint rise and fall of her chest.

Too close for this to be anything casual.

“Here’s what I don’t understand.” My voice is quieter now. “You’re smart enough to know whose house you’re in and whose laptop that is. What happens if you get caught doing this.”

She lifts her chin. “Maybe I’m not as careful as you think.”

“No.” I lock my eyes on hers. “You’re more.”

She didn’t expect that answer. She expected me to underestimate her.

My gaze drops to the laptop again, then back to her. “So, I’ll ask you one more time. And I’d think very carefully about how you answer. What are you doing, Cady?”

This time, the pause is longer. She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the truth, or at least part of it.

That’s new.

People don’t usually look at me like that. They either lie or they don’t get the chance.

“If I tell you,” she says slowly, “you’re not going to like it.”

A humorless huff escapes me. “I don’t like you in my house. We’re already past that.”

Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile but thinks better of it. “Tell me, Artem, is it true what they say?”

“We’re not changing the damn subject, and we sure as hell aren’t gonna start flirting.”

“Do you fuck like you kill?” She leans forward, and I don’t expect that. “Fast, hard, and bloody.”

My eyes narrow. “You won’t find out, so why does it matter?”

“Curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. And, in this case, it’s going to be the Lisichka if you don’t answer my fucking question.”

This time, she releases a full-on smile, and it’s breathtakingly dangerous on her.

I see what Misha sees in her, but she’s so much more than surface-level beauty. She’s an Irish princess who is secretly stealing intel from the bratva, apparently fluent in subtle manipulation and possibly mafia espionage.

“It was nice talking to you, Artem.” She removes the laptop from her lap and places it gently on the cushion next to her.

Like she didn’t just walk into my house, into my space, and turn this into something I can’t immediately shut down.

I watch her.

The way she stands, unhurried. The way her fingers smooth over the fabric of her shorts—thin, soft, and barely there. The tank slips a little more off her shoulder when she straightens, exposing skin that shouldn’t matter but does.

It’s not intentional, and that’s what makes it worse.

Nothing about her feels forced. No overdone seduction or obvious play for attention. It’s quieter than that. Subtle. Built into the way she moves, the way she looks at me.

Conniving.

Pretty girls get by on looks.

Girls like her weaponize them.

Hide everything sharp behind something soft enough that most men don’t think to question it until it’s too late.

My brother doesn’t see it. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

Either way, it makes him a liability.

She steps around the coffee table, close enough that I catch the faint scent of whatever she used earlier—something light, not overly sweet, just enough to linger.

“Cady.” I stop her before she reaches the door.

She glances back at me over her shoulder. Her blue eyes don’t waver when she looks at me with cool and collected bravado.

“Be careful,” I tell her.

If she’s playing a game here, she’s stepped onto a board where I don’t lose.

Her lips curve again, not the same smile as before, but close enough to feel like she’s still one step ahead.

“I always am,” she says.

She opens the door and slips out, soft footsteps fading down the hall until the house goes quiet again.

I let her presence linger in a room she had no business being in.

Finally, I look down at the laptop.

Slowly, I reach for it and pull it onto the table, flipping the screen back open. Chrome is still up, front and center.

Rows of dresses fill the page—different colors, different cuts, something about spring collections and new arrivals. Harmless. Pointless. Exactly the kind of thing she said she was doing.

My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek as I scroll.

No obvious traces. No mistakes.

Clean.

Too clean.

I lean back, eyes still on the screen, and let out a quiet breath. “Bullshit.”

There’s no way that’s all she was doing, not with the way she was typing and with the way she looked at me.

Not with who she is.

Cady Gallagher doesn’t sit in the middle of the night shopping for dresses on a bratva laptop.

She just wants me to think she does.

And that’s a fucking problem.