5. Cady
Cady
Something about these events allows everything else to fade, if only for a little while.
Not completely—nothing ever really does—but enough that I can breathe without feeling like every move I make is being watched, weighed, or turned into something useful for my father's gain. Or worse, something lacking.
Lately, that's been his favorite angle. Ever since our last dinner, he's been pressing harder, pushing me to bring him something tangible that proves the bratva isn't working against him.
It's exhausting.
Tonight feels quieter. No immediate sense of backroom deals or quiet threats wrapped in polite conversation. Just appearances, money, and carefully curated intentions.
The event is for underprivileged kids, local outreach, and scholarship funding, and that lets me focus on something other than digging through bratva systems in the middle of the night and hoping I don't trigger something I can't undo.
I smooth my hands over the front of my dress out of habit and let my gaze sweep the room. Everything is where it should be. The stage is set, the donation stations are ready, and the volunteers are in place.
Misha said he would come, or at least implied that he might, but I know he isn’t here. This isn't his scene. Structured environments, quiet control, anything that requires restraint—none of it suits him. He prefers chaos, noise, and the illusion of danger.
He likes to act like he belongs in the darker side of things.
Artem actually does.
Misha follows. Artem leads.
Two brothers, but not the same kind of man.
"Is this one of the dresses you found on my brother's laptop, Lisichka?"
The voice is close enough that my body reacts before my mind does. I straighten and turn toward him without rushing.
Artem stands a few feet away, his darker form cutting through the soft gold of the ballroom lighting. He's dressed well, as always, in a tailored suit that fits him perfectly. Broad shoulders, a solid frame, the kind of build that suggests controlled violence rather than restraint.
His hazel eyes are fixed on me with a level of focus that feels deliberate.
Nothing about him is casual.
My pulse jumps before I push it down and tilt my head. "This is something old." I glance down at my dress before meeting his eyes again. "You don't approve?"
His eyes move over me slowly, assessing. "I didn't say that."
No, he didn't, but his look says more than enough.
I let a faint smile touch my lips anyway, choosing not to acknowledge it. "Then I'll assume you do."
His mouth shifts, not quite a smile and not anything meant to reassure. "Not in the way you're thinking."
"Is complimenting difficult for you?"
"Not at all. Being fake polite to an enemy just isn't something I bother with."
My brows draw together. "Enemy? I'm not—"
"Have you done any more browsing, Lisichka?"
Subtle, but not nearly subtle enough.
Of course, he checked the laptop after I was done.
I let out a quiet breath that might pass as mild amusement, even as my thoughts shift and recalculate. "Do you always keep tabs on your brother's girlfriends?" I ask lightly, folding my arms as I lean back against the table.
"Only the ones who go through his laptop at three in the morning."
That would've landed harder if he hadn't already called me out for it that night. Still, I wonder if he found anything. I was careful, but I wasn't slow.
"You caught me." I give a small shrug. "I have an addiction."
"To shipment logs?"
My smile doesn't falter. "Shopping."
He doesn't react, which isn't surprising.
Pushing off the table, I step a little closer, closing some of the distance between us despite knowing better. "Why are you here?" I ask. "I didn't think charity events were your thing."
"They're not."
"Then what is?" I press. "Because this doesn't match your usual environment."
"I came to donate."
The lie is flat enough that it almost makes me laugh. Instead, I gesture toward the front of the room. "Then you'll want the main table. They can help you over there."
I turn, as if I intend to guide him, even though I'm not buying it.
"You can stop," he says.
I glance back at him. "Stop what?"
"Looking through things that don't belong to you."
The warning is clear.
I let a faint crease form between my brows. "I think you're overestimating me."
"I don't overestimate anything."
"Then maybe you're misunderstanding," I counter.
"I'm not." The certainty in his voice settles between us. "I know what you were doing. And I know what you were looking at."
I don't respond right away because this is the problem. Not that I got caught. But that he's the one who caught me. Artem doesn't miss things, and he doesn't let them go. I'm either going to flirt my way out of this, or he's going to make sure I'm not a threat to his precious bratva.
"If you're going to keep dating my brother," he continues, his gaze sharpening, "you should try being better at it."
I perk a brow. "Did he say that?"
"He doesn't talk about you at all."
"I hope you're joking," I emit, even though I don't care. "I like him."
"Then you're stupider than I thought."
Okay, that's enough.
"Was that all?" I cross my arms. "Or did you come all the way over here to insult my intelligence? I would think Benedikt Volkov would have you running around doing whatever it is you do."
"You know what I do."
I shrug. "I don't go looking into people who have nothing to do with me."
"Then you are stupider than I thought. Because you were in my house, looking through our shit."
"I was shopping."
"Break up with him."
Mindlessly, I make a face because he has to be joking. "And if I don't?"
"I'll take care of it for you."
The meaning lands the way he intends it to. Clear. Final.
My pulse jumps again, harder this time, but I don't step back or break eye contact. Instead, I study him.
"Is that concern?" I ask quietly. "Or a threat?"
"Yes."
The answer is immediate, and it almost pulls a laugh out of me. God, he's an asshole. A dangerous one. And worse, he knows what he is.
"Donation table's still that way," I murmur, nodding toward the front of the room. "Feel free to get a drink at the bar as well."
His gaze drops to my lips, not lingering long enough to be obvious but not brief enough to be accidental either, before returning to my eyes with a level of focus that feels sharpened rather than softened.
"I'm not donating anything here," he says evenly.
"No?" I ask.
"No."
He steps just close enough to make me aware of the narrowing space between us.
The shift is subtle but immediate. I can feel the warmth of him now, the faint trace of his cologne cutting through the softer scents of the ballroom. It shouldn't register as much as it does.
"I'm donating you a warning," he says quietly. "And the consequences that come with it."
The threat is impossible to misunderstand.
I tilt my chin, refusing to react the way he expects me to. "I think you're being dramatic," I reply, dismissive on the surface even as my thoughts begin moving faster beneath it.
His gaze stays on mine. "You're not stupid, right? So don't act like it."
There's no bite to it or a raised voice, which somehow makes it worse. That strips away the last of the pretense.
He knows. Not everything, but enough. Enough that Misha's laptop is no longer an option, which means I'll have to find another way in, something quieter, more careful, and far less visible.
"You're in over your head," he continues, "and I don't give second chances. If I find a breach in the Volkov system, I'm going to assume it was you."
His eyes flick briefly to my mouth again. "And when I assume something," he adds, "I follow it until there's nothing left to question."
"I can assure you that won't be necessary,” I say. “In fact, I'm glad you came. I was going to ask you to join Misha and me for dinner this week. I'm cooking."
One of his brows lifts. He doesn't believe that for a second.
Fair. I don't cook.
"At what point do you find the time?" Artem asks. "Between sleeping with my brother and digging through information that doesn't belong to you?”
His hand sweeps the room. “And this, apparently. I wouldn't think you'd have much time left to pretend you care about charity."
"You seem very interested in how I spend my time," I say lightly. "Should I be flattered?"
"No."
"Then I'll assume I've caught your attention."
"I already told you what this is."
"Well, dinner might help with that."
"I doubt it."
"You won't know unless you come."
His expression barely shifts. "I know enough."
"You're making a judgment without all the information," I say. "That doesn't seem like your style."
"I don't need all the information to understand what I'm looking at," he says. "And what I see is a mafia princess trying to play spy for her father."
"Do I look like a spy?"
His gaze drops again, this time slower, tracing downward before lifting back to my face. "No."
His answer catches me off guard.
"It'll be fun," I add.
"Do I look like someone interested in having dinner with my brother's girlfriend?"
"A man has to eat."
"Not if the food is coming from you."
I let out a huff of amusement before dipping my chin. "Then enjoy the rest of your night, Mr. Makarov."
I move to step around him, but he moves just enough to stop me.
The realization settles between us. My breath catches, small enough that I pray he doesn't notice.
But he does, and his attention sharpens almost unnoticeably. "What do I get out of this, Lisichka?"
I glance back up at him. "Excuse me?"
"You should've picked me instead." His voice drops dangerously low. "I'm closer to the information you're looking for."
He isn't wrong. And that would have been more ideal. I bet the sex alone would've been more my style.
However, Artem doesn't date. I've looked into that.
"I like Misha." The words feel unconvincing. "And I'm not trying to create problems for the Volkov family. That's not my intention."
“You're lying again," Artem mutters. "Because you've gotten closer to me without realizing it.
And I could fuck you harder than eight of him combined, Lisichka.
" He allows his gaze to drop down the length of me.
"You look like a princess who likes to be tossed around a little bit while you gag on good cock. Let me know if you change your mind."
Then, just as deliberately as he created the pressure, he steps back and releases it.
The loss of it is immediate.
He disappears into the crowd a second later.
I force myself not to look after him.
I need to stay away from him. No dinner. No proximity. No opportunities for him to look too closely. If I stay in his orbit for too long, he’ll start pulling things apart.
And I have a feeling he'd enjoy unraveling me most of all.