by Livia Grant
Ryder controlled his breathing, staying calm through sheer will. He'd expected the question and was ready. "I'm sorry if my convalescence caused you any concern, Pakhan." He was careful to use the proper term of respect for the head of the family. "As soon as I was well enough to travel, I called in a favor from an old friend in Poland. He was able to transport me to a trusted hideout I've used when such unwelcome accidents occur. I appreciate your consideration, but as you can see, I was well cared for." He took a casual bite of the lobster dripping in butter and then cut into the thick steak on his plate.
"Vladimir was especially glad you returned and with the double order of the always welcome SVKs. Still... your absence is concerning."
Oleg finally looked in his direction from across the table. Ryder felt the weight of their combined mistrust and knew he was at a dangerous juncture. "My apologies for not checking in once I'd recovered sufficiently, but in order to keep the family safe, I had installed an auto-destroy feature on my cell phone so no unwanted attention could come your way should someone find it if I was incapacitated. Without your private numbers, I didn't know of a safe way to contact you without drawing possible attention to the family by whomever it was who had tried to kill me."
Ryder held the gaze of the older man, refusing to be intimidated, as most men would be when lying through their teeth to the devil. Thirty seconds later, Viktor Volkov broke into a broad grin, apparently satisfied with his explanation.
"Very wise, Nicolai. I only wish all of our shestyorka showed the same resourcefulness in adversity." The elder man took another bite before he continued on. "It makes me pleased that Artel chose you to handle one of the family's most important missions we've had in a long time."
Ryder had been expecting them to ask a favor since Alexi's hint on the drive. Still, his heart rate spiked higher knowing any important task the family asked him to complete would be dangerous, not to mention it was most likely a renewed test of his loyalty after his unexplained disappearance and sudden reappearance.
"I'm honored to receive your trust, Pakhan. I look forward to being of service to the family again," he replied respectfully.
"There are few I would trust with this task. I warn you. It's not without danger, but we can no longer allow the westerners to steal from us and from right in our own homeland. Every year they grow bolder and gain more influence. We've tried to solve the problem through negotiations, but the time for talk is over."
Ryder's curiosity was piqued at the word 'westerners'. The delicious food he'd eaten was settling in his gut like a heavy rock. He tried not to let his imagination run away from him before he got facts, yet his sixth sense told him his night was about to go to shit.
He didn't have long to wait. It wasn't the sound of the door opening behind his back, but rather the smothered screams of women that announced the arrival of additional guests. The thought of watching another innocent woman being whipped while he munched on caviar as if he hadn't a care in the world turned his stomach.
Yet the look of hatred mingled with joyous revenge in his host's eyes was the first clue they'd been joined by someone more important than another prostitute brought in for their perverted entertainment. With dread, Ryder pushed back from the table, turning his body until he could look behind him to the group now standing between the table and door.
Only years of experience kept him from blowing his cover in those first critical seconds. He felt the glare of the Volkov men on him, rather than the spectacle Artel and Vladimir had dragged into the room. If this was another sick test of his loyalty, Ryder had to admit, it was ingenious. His face may have frozen with feigned indifference, but his brain was racing to compile all viable options at his disposal, weighing the odds of getting out of the house alive and with his soul intact.
I'm fucked. I should have stayed in D.C.
Even as he thought it, he knew he didn't mean it. He was needed here. Now.
Viktor Volkov threw his cloth napkin on the table next to his now empty plate, pushing back from the table far enough that he could cross his right leg over his left, casually relaxing as he observed the newest arrivals.
He grinned victoriously as he switched to heavily accented English. "Welcome to my home, Mrs. Marshall. I've been awaiting the arrival of you and your daughters with great anticipation."
In a moment of clarity, Ryder recognized that the makings of the next World War stood in the room. Kidnapping the wife of a wealthy foreign businessman was risky, even for the most powerful Bratva in the country. That she was clearly American only made it worse.
But it was the frightened young daughters–children–that would find the Bratva condemned and hunted for their foolish risk should their involvement ever be traced back to them. The girls couldn't be more than ten and twelve. Clearly underage and clearly off-limits in any ethics manual, including that of crime families. Kidnapping or hurting children was a declaration of war and put the Volkovs squarely in Ryder's crosshairs.
Artel had hold of the youngest girl, but her sobbing clearly annoyed him. He thrust the frightened child into the arms of one of his henchmen just before barking his twisted orders.
"It's time to take a few farewell photos to send off to Daddy." As if the kids and their mother weren't scared enough, he taunted them. "I'm going to make sure he'll have nightmares of watching his family slaughtered each time he closes his eyes for the rest of his life."
Ryder was relieved at the order. It solidified his decision.
I'm so fucked.
Chapter 2
"I need a few minutes. You go ahead. I'll meet you at the limo." Khloe turned her back on the room full of anxious people waiting on her. She carefully took a sip of her chamomile tea, praying not to spill it down the front of her Versace gown.
Her agent, Bernie Kaplan, complained for the umpteenth time. "We don't have a few minutes, Khloe. We should already be pulling up in front of the theater."
She was well aware of that. She didn't need anyone telling her the importance of tonight's event. It was a day she'd dreamed of since she was a little girl growing up in the Bronx, not more than thirty minutes away from her Time's Square hotel.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. A small chuckle escaped as she compared her reflection to Cinderella. Despite working her ass off for years, self-doubt nipped at her, leaving her feeling like a fraud. A nobody, all dressed up, pretending to be someone important. The worst part was she had to fight down the panic that, like the Disney heroine, the clock would strike at midnight and everything she'd worked so hard for would be taken away. The more success she achieved, the more she lived in fear she'd wake up one morning and realize it had all been an elusive dream.
No, she wasn't ready to leave yet. It was either give the calming tea time to settle her upset tummy or risk losing the small snack of crackers she'd choked down when she got on the red carpet in front of dozens of reporters and paparazzi.
Khloe was used to being hungry, but even she suspected she'd been taking her starvation routine too far the last few months.
The clapping of Ricky's hands startled her. "Alright, everyone. Time to head down to the carport. We have two limos there waiting to take us all over to the theater. Everyone go ahead. Ms. Monroe and I will be right behind you."
She welcomed the mild chaos her personal assistant's announcement caused. The commotion was better than having a room full of people awkwardly standing around waiting for her to puke.
Luckily, the majority of the crew mingling in her seven-thousand-dollar-a-night suite at The Plaza were more than ready to head over to the grand theater in Lincoln Park to get the release party started. Khloe watched her makeup artist, hairdresser, personal shopper, and the assistant the studio had sent over shuffle out the door without a backward glance. Unfortunately, they weren't the people she was hoping would leave first.
Bernie and Natalie Kaplan, her agent and publicist, otherwise known as the dynamic duo of the entertainment industry, stood g
rounded, arms crossed, permanent scowls on their faces. In their fifties, they had helped launch many A-lister's careers during their illustrious time in Hollywood. They were amazing at their jobs. The problem was they knew it. As much as a pain in her ass as they were, Khloe knew they had helped her land the lead in Dirty Business and for that she was grateful.
Ricky, her diligent personal assistant, did his best to try to encourage the Kaplans to leave, but she knew it was futile.
"It's okay, Ricky. We can head out now. I'm feeling better."
Liar.
Her personal bodyguard, Trevor, approached, a faux fur wrap across his tree-trunk-like forearm, hidden under his stylish tuxedo. "You'll need this. The temp has dropped by at least ten degrees since we got here a few hours ago." He helped drape the garment around her shoulders in time to hide her shiver. She wasn't even outside yet.
As her entourage made their way to the elevator that would take them to the grand lobby, Khloe gave herself a pep talk.
Today should be one of the best days of her life. She'd reached a major milestone in her career. Tonight the world would celebrate the long awaited film–her first lead in a major box-office film. The fact that critics were raving about the film, and it hadn't even opened yet, was a real coup. The studio was spending millions on marketing. Tonight was the first of four red-carpet release parties scheduled over the next three weeks across the globe. Next up would be Hollywood, Washington D.C., and finally London.
The ding of the elevator had her putting on her final accessory for her outfit. Her public smile.
"Khloe!" The screams of her name came from several directions the second she stepped into the lobby. She was grateful for Trevor's steadying hand on her elbow as he stayed close enough to help clear a path through the throng of fans that had somehow discovered what hotel she was staying at. The flash of cameras was blinding. She felt hands daring to grope her. While her brain knew they didn't mean any harm, it always unnerved her.
She had never been the beauty queen in the parade, but she'd perfected her public wave nonetheless. A small part of her reveled in the attention. She'd been chasing fame for years after all, so it felt wrong to reject the outcome now after working so hard to get here, yet she couldn't shake the feeling as they finally pushed through the revolving door, Trevor jammed into the same small wedge as her, that there had to be more to fame than this.
A hotel doorman greeted them with an umbrella as they were spit out of the revolving door into the carport where her limo waited. The hotel had put up stanchions to hold the fans back. It didn't stop several teenage men from hopping the red-velvet rope to get closer to their wet-dream.
"Stand back, boys," Trevor admonished, keeping himself between her and the aggressive fans.
"We love you, Khloe! Give us one picture! Please!" The tallest of the three begged.
She wasn't sure why she stopped, but she did. She patted Trevor's arm as if to say 'it's okay' and stepped around him to approach her brave fans. Pimpled faces broke into lopsided grins as she greeted them.
"Hi, boys. I have time for a quick photo."
The shortest of the three looked like he might faint while the one closest to her held out a selfie-stick. She stepped closer to sandwich in for the photo she knew would be on Facebook and Instagram in thirty seconds, trying to ignore the grope against her lower back as the flash went off.
It took another minute to close the last few feet to the waiting car as she stopped to sign autographs for more fans lining the path until she finally arrived at the door being held for her by yet another doorman.
Only when the door closed and she was alone–or as alone as a celebrity got with her entourage along–did she let her public smile slip away.
"What the fuck was that, Khloe? I thought we agreed no mingling with unvetted crowds," Trevor admonished her.
Her publicist answered for her. "Hey, if you can't handle a little mingling with the public, you're in the wrong job. Her fans love her. She needs to be open to them and accessible to remain likable."
Her brand. Natalie was talking about her brand.
Trevor didn't back down. "That's your job. Mine is keeping her safe. Need I remind you all that she got another threatening email less than twenty-four hours ago?"
Khloe's stomach lurched at his reminder, although in truth, she never really forgot about the threats.
Bernie defended his wife, not his client. "Oh, come on. Every celebrity worth anything gets threats like that. Being in the public eye brings out the kooks. She wouldn't be succeeding if she didn't get threats. Most of them are harmless."
"Which implies a few of them aren't," Trevor shouted back.
"Guys, stop," Khloe interjected with as much force as she could muster with her tight gown cutting off her circulation. "I have enough shit on my mind right now. I don't need to add you two arguing to it."
The inside of the luxury car fell silent as her driver, Johnson, wove through the heavy Thursday evening traffic on the way down Broadway to the theater. She used the time to take calming breaths while looking at the crowds of mostly tourists. She needed to get into the right frame of mind for the eight interviews they had lined up waiting for her and for the photo shoot on the red carpet with her co-stars from the film, most whom she hadn't seen in the many months since the filming had completed.
She'd had to call in a few favors, but she'd insisted that her leading man be excluded from tonight's gala event. She wouldn't be as lucky the next week in Hollywood, but at least she'd have one night without having to pretend. No, she'd have to lie.
Good thing I'm an actress. That's the only way I'll get through the next few weeks.
She'd, of course, been to many movie release screenings in her career, but a zing of excitement coursed through her when, in spite of the rain, she saw the huge throng of fans filling the sidewalk in front of the Lincoln Square theater. Only then did she realize an insecure sliver inside of her had been worried. Like the kid who threw the birthday party that no one showed up to, she'd worried she would arrive to an empty theater. She let relief course through her.
Her relief was short lived.
Trevor got out first, and she waited for him to turn and offer his assistance. Only after a ten second delay, a different hand waved in front of her. A hand she recognized. The Piaget watch he loved giving him away.
Khloe shrunk back, refusing to take the upturned palm as she turned to question the Kaplans. "What is he doing here? We agreed he'd skip New York, but we'd both open Hollywood."
Natalie's reply was unwavering. "Mr. Reynold's manager and I agreed it would be a missed opportunity to have him skip tonight's grand opening."
"A missed opportunity!" Her voice was almost a shout. "For who? You? Don't forget who you work for, Natalie." The older woman's eyes widened. Her shock with Khloe's uncharacteristic anger registering.
Bernie showed where his loyalty lay. "And don't forget who the experts are at turning wannabes into superstars. You need to learn to trust us and say thank you." His threat was clear. She either put up with their heavy-handed shit or they'd cut her loose as a client.
FML
"Hi there, sweetheart. I'm getting wet out here. You ready to hit the carpet?"
Her cheating ex-boyfriend, Dean Reynolds, had dared to lean into the back of the limo. His handsome face was mere inches from Khloe. Her right palm itched to slap the arrogant smile off his mug.
"Don't you dare call me sweetheart."
His smile never wavered as he countered, "For the next few weeks, I'll call you whatever I need to to keep our adoring public thinking we're still a hot item. The producers demanded we hold off announcing our breakup until after the movie is out, so that's what we'll do."
Khloe hated the helpless feeling that washed over her. She was Khloe Fucking Monroe. She was supposed to have power now, yet she seemed to surround herself with people determined to ignore her wishes. She felt trapped.
She was trapped.
Fans screamed h
er name not far away. Flashes of cameras reminded her they were already on stage. It didn't matter that Dean had blindsided her with his appearance. For a moment, she remembered how he'd looked the last time she'd seen him. Naked. His cock pounding the married pussy of their good friend, Gloria Mining, as the older woman hung suspended from a hook in Khloe's own bedroom.
That she had to reach and place her small hand into his and let him help her out of the limo like the gentleman he pretended to be, galled her. That she had to plaster on her public smile as he placed his hand intimately–possessively–at the small of her back as they moved down the red carpet, infuriated her. But when he pulled her close to plant a wet kiss on her for the line of reporters waiting like vultures, she wanted to throw up.
But she didn't.
She smiled. She waved. She put on her celebrity-diva-smile and tried not to let Dean's presence ruin this special night for her. Like the actors they were, they each played their newest role. Star-crossed lovers.
And they did it well.
They moved from one media booth to the next in the grand lobby of the theater, answering interview questions. Posing for pictures. Flirting and kissing like the lovers they no longer were. By the time they made their way to the VIP seats inside the theater, even she'd begun to forget they'd broken up. That's why the sudden appearance of Gloria Mining and her husband sitting in the seats directly next to theirs figuratively knocked her on her ass.
