10. Artem
Artem
I’m standing in Saks Fifth Avenue, holding shopping bags, while two women pop into and out of dressing rooms like it’s a goddamn military operation.
I haven’t sat down in more than an hour.
Not because there aren’t chairs scattered around, but because I’m not giving Cady the satisfaction of seeing me get comfortable.
And every time I think they’re done, she disappears into another dressing room.
The fitting room curtain slides open, and Cady steps out wearing another dress that probably costs more than most people’s rent.
Dark green this time, silk, and backless.
The material hugs her body in a way that begs for attention. She turns toward the mirror, studying the dress from every angle.
Her friend, Anna—or Ava, I don’t remember—gasps dramatically from one of the velvet chairs near the mirrors for the hundredth time today. “Oh, my God. That’s the one.”
“You said that about the last one,” I mutter.
Cady’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “No one asked you.”
Anna-Ava laughs a little too hard at that, crossing her legs and openly staring at me again.
She’s spent the past several hours flirting in the rich-girl way that’s supposed to feel subtle but isn’t.
Blonde. Pretty. Probably mid-twenties.
Forgettable.
I don’t think she realizes I stopped listening the moment she introduced herself.
“I’ll think about it.” Cady disappears behind the curtain again.
Silence settles for all of three seconds before Anna-Ava leans forward in her chair, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“So…” she starts.
I already hate this conversation.
“So?” I repeat flatly.
Her smile widens. “Are you always this intense?”
“Yes.”
That should end it.
It doesn’t.
Women like her mistake emotional unavailability for mystery.
“You know,” she says, tilting her head. “Cady said you’re Misha’s brother, but you don’t really seem like brothers.”
“We’re not the same person.”
“Obviously.” Her eyes drift slowly over me again. “You’re a lot bigger… and scarier.”
Finally.
Someone is paying attention.
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Benedikt’s name flashes across the screen. There’s only one reason he’d be calling me in the middle of the afternoon.
I step away from the dressing rooms, weaving past racks of designer clothes.
Benedikt’s voice comes through calm and clipped.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“Work.”
“That’s interesting,” he says dryly. “Work usually involves you showing up to the house when I ask.”
“I’m dealing with family business.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end.
“What kind of family business?”
“Misha.”
He exhales slowly like he’s already annoyed before I’ve explained anything.
“What did he do now?”
“Started thinking with his dick again.”
“Ah. The Irish girl.”
I don’t answer right away, which is answer enough.
“You’re spending time around her.”
I glance back toward the fitting rooms just as Cady’s voice drifts through the hallway curtain.
“Unfortunately.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do I need to be concerned?”
“Still digging,” I admit. “She’s probably more careful about it now, since I’ve made my suspicions known.”
“And Misha?”
“Attached.”
“You need to figure out if she’s a threat or just a distraction.” Benedikt Volkov built an empire by knowing when emotions became liabilities.
“She can be both.”
“That’s not better, Artem.”
I know where this is heading.
“If she’s a problem,” Ben continues evenly. “We handle it.”
I look back toward the fitting rooms just as Cady steps out from behind the curtain, holding another dress against herself.
Her eyes land on me, then narrow.
Christ. Even annoyed, she’s hard to stop looking at.
“No beautiful woman is worth risking the future,” Ben says calmly.
That much is obvious.
The Volkov operation always comes first. Ben built that into all of us years ago, somewhere among bloodshed and survival and learning the difference between weakness and loyalty.
Family first.
Everything else burns.
“I know,” I answer.
“And Artem?”
My attention stays fixed on Cady while she watches me from across the store.
“What?” I ask quietly.
“Don’t let your brother’s mess become yours.”
Barely a day.
That’s how long I’ve been around her, and instead of catching her slipping or finding proof that she’s still digging into Volkov business, I’ve spent more time noticing the shape of her mouth when she gets annoyed, and the way her tiny fucking shorts she wore this morning nearly made me forget my name.
I know what women like Cady Gallagher are capable of when they want something badly enough. I know even better not to trust someone raised inside another mob family who’s pretending they’re harmless.
None of that stops me from thinking about shoving her against the wall inside one of those fitting rooms just to see if she’d stop looking at me like she wants to fight every time I open my mouth.
“It won’t be a problem,” I reply evenly. “This is light work.”
“Good.” Ben clears his throat. “Sienna wants you over for dinner this week.”
His wife is always inviting me over for dinner. I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“Friday?”
“Whatever she wants.”
“I’ll see you then. Seven o’clock.”
The line goes dead. I pocket my phone and head back toward the fitting rooms, staring at the curtain Cady disappeared behind.
“Your face is terrifying.”
I glance over at Anna-Ava, smiling at me from one of the velvet chairs outside the dressing area, sipping an overpriced coffee.
“And yet you keep talking to me,” I point out.
“That’s because you’re hot.” She grins shamelessly. “In a terrifying murdery kind of way.”
I stare at her.
“Okay.” She laughs nervously. “Tough crowd.”
The curtain slides open again before I can tell her to fuck off, and every coherent thought in my head disappears for a second.
Red.
That’s the first thing I register.
Deep red. Dark enough to remind me of blood drying on knuckles after a fight.
The bikini barely qualifies as decent. Thin straps against pale skin, curved high over her hips in a way that makes my body react before I can stop it.
Cady pauses near the mirror, adjusting one side of the top absently while studying herself.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to walk across the room, drag her back into the fitting room, and yank the curtain behind us.
I can’t.
She’s Misha’s girl, and Ben just got done reminding me where priorities belong.
If I touch her once, I know I won’t stop.
Anna lets out a low whistle beside me. “Okay, now that’s unfair, Cady.”
Cady glances over at her and smiles.
“What do we think?” Anna asks brightly, looking between us.
I should lie.
Should say it looks fine and leave it there.
Instead I say, “Misha likes blue.”
Cady’s brows pull together. “What?”
I keep my expression flat even while my body remains uncomfortably aware of every inch of exposed skin in front of me.
“My brother likes blue,” I repeat calmly. “I prefer red.”
Anna blinks between us, and Cady’s eyes narrow.
“And what does that mean?” she asks. “I think he’d like me in anything.”
“You should get it,” Anna encourages. “Seriously. If I had your body, I’d never wear clothes again.”
“I’m sure Misha would survive either way,” Cady says casually, her eyes moving back to the mirror as she angles her body to study what she has on. “He promised me a trip next week.”
Next week?
Not happening.
Anna stands. “I’m gonna go see if they have my size in that.”
Cady keeps pretending to study herself in the mirror, but I can feel the awareness rolling off her.
“You can stop glaring at me any time,” she says.
“I’m not glaring.”
She laughs under her breath.
Then, she turns around fully. The bikini leaves nothing to the imagination, and my brain starts supplying imagery I absolutely do not need.
She cocks her head. “You hate it?”
“No.”
“You like it?”
“Fuck off,” I ground out. “I’m not your friend or your stylist.”
That earns me a cheeky little smile from her fuckable lips. “C’mon, now. You wanted to come shopping with me.”
“I didn’t know that required my approval of everything you picked out.”
“Shouldn’t have come, then. I told you that many times.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m working.”
Her face twists a little in confusion. “On what? Planning how you’re going to strangle me with a hanger?”
“Good one. That’s not bad.”
“We’re almost done, and then we’re heading to lunch.”
“Great.”
“You like salad, right?”
“That’s a fucking crime.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh at me, and for some reason, that makes me want to hear it even more.
“You don’t eat salad?”
“I eat food.”
“That is food.”
“It’s decorative leaves.”
She lets out a soft snort before turning back toward the mirror again, adjusting one of the bikini straps while I try very hard not to focus on the line of skin along her shoulder.
“God.” She catches my expression in the reflection. “You really are miserable all the time.”
“I’m selectively pleasant.”
“And who qualifies for that?”
“Not you.”
“Mm.” Her blue eyes flick toward me through the mirror again. “Yet here you are. Following me through a department store while I try on bikinis for another man.”
There’s something deliberate in the way she says another man.
She’s testing me, and she will not win.
I pull my eyes away from her legs before I do something stupid. “You’re taking this vacation seriously.”
“Ava said I needed something fun.”
“That woman’s definition of fun concerns me.”
“She’s normal.”
“No,” I say flatly. “She flirted with me for ten minutes after I looked at her like I was considering homicide.”
That finally pulls a real laugh out of her, and it’s warm and soft. The real her. “Maybe she likes emotionally unavailable men.”
“She should seek professional help.”
Cady shakes her head.
“Where is Misha taking you?”
“St. Barts.”
I stare at her for a second. “Of course, he is.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means my brother doesn’t know how to be creative. He takes all his little female friends there.”
Nothing slips out of her.
No jealousy, no pained glare.
“Maybe you should take a vacation,” she offers. “You need one, and some vitamin D.”
“I own a window.”
“You need more than that.”
“I can assure you I’ve been to beaches before, Lisichka. I don’t need a vacation.”
She shrugs. “Was just a suggestion.”
“Well, I am protecting you. Maybe I’ll come.”
Her brows pull together. “Please don’t.”
“You invited me to dinner three nights ago,” I remind her casually. “I thought you wanted to get to know me.”
“That was before you started following me around like a federal agent with anger issues. You’d hate St. Barts anyway. Too much sun. Too many people enjoying themselves.”
“I can tolerate both.”
“No, you tolerate murder and vodka. There’s a difference.”
“That’s a little judgmental.”
“You shot at me yesterday. I’m going to judge the shit out of you.”
No, I shot at your car.
“You’re paranoid,” I say. “I think it’s cute you think that was me.”
“You arrived thirty seconds later, looking like you’d planned the entire thing. I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m just efficient.”
“You’re just suspicious.”
“We can keep going back and forth with that game, Lisichka, but there’s only going to be one winner.”
“Oh, I know.” She grins at me. “And this bikini is all I need, Artem Makarov, to get you down on your knees.”
A rough laugh leaves me before I can stop it.
Cocky little liar.
But Christ, she looks good standing there saying it.
I push away from the wall, watching the exact moment her attention sharpens as I close the distance between us. “You think that’s all it would take?”
Her chin tips up another inch. “I think you’ve been staring at me for the last twenty minutes like you want to commit several felonies.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s close enough.”
I stop in front of her, letting my gaze drift over the red bikini before settling back on her face. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lisichka.”
“There you go with that word again.” Her eyes move briefly to my mouth before returning upward. “You love threatening women.”
“I don’t threaten women.”
“You shot at me yesterday.”
“Prove it.”
I reach out before I think better of it, fingers brushing lightly along the warm skin of her arm.
Just once.
Still, her breath catches.
And that’s all I need.
Because now I know that she feels this too, no matter how polished she acts about it.
My thumb slides slowly along the inside of her wrist before I curl my hand around it loosely, testing the boundary.
She lets me, and I’m dangerously close to crossing a line.
“You know,” I murmur, lowering my head. “If you actually wanted information from this family, you picked the wrong brother.”
Her eyes narrow just a little. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Maybe… but I don’t think you listened.”
“And maybe I think you’re too obsessed with yourself.”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “Possibly.”
I let my fingers drift higher, tracing lightly over the soft skin of her forearm, watching her carefully while I do it.
Watching for rejection, hesitation, or any sign that she cares about betraying Misha.
“What are you trying to prove right now?” she asks softly.
“That you’re curious.”
“About what?”
“Me.”
The silence stretches for a second too long, and her pulse jumps beneath my hand.
I move close enough and drop my voice lower. “Come over tonight.”
That catches her off guard. I can see it in the slight widening of her eyes before she recovers.
“My place,” I continue evenly. “You seem very interested in me lately.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still letting me touch you?”
For the first time since this started, she doesn’t answer right away.
And for one second, I think maybe I finally pushed far enough to crack through some of that attitude and pull out something honest underneath it.
Then her expression changes.
Not nervous; fucking Irish.
Spirited and mean as all hell.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “You really thought this was working.”
Her knee comes up hard between my legs, and pain explodes through my body.
“Jesus Christ—”
I stagger back a step, gripping the edge of the chair beside me while she points a finger at my chest, eyes blazing with satisfaction.
“I’m with Misha,” she snaps. “That’s where I want to be, you arrogant asshole.”
She looks thrilled with herself.
“You hit hard,” I grind out. “I’m impressed.”
“Not hard enough,” she jeers. “You’re still talking.”
I straighten slowly, still recovering, and she turns back toward the mirror. “You’ll pay for that.”
“Don’t miss next time.”
This woman is going to drive me fucking insane.