Until the End

by London Miller

  The water ran for a little bit before Mishca returned, holding a damp washcloth in hand. Lauren’s eyes widened as she shook her head adamantly.

  “I can handle it.”

  “Don’t be shy now,” he said dropping onto the bed, drawing the sheet back to expose her lower half.

  “No, seriously I—”

  He cut her off with a kiss, silencing any further argument she thought to give. She was too preoccupied with the way his lips moved over hers to pay attention to what he was doing between her legs. When he was done—taking one last trip to the bathroom—he came back, pulling her to his chest as he turned the lights off.

  He kept his hand on her lower stomach, fanning his fingers out to cover more of her. His touch was hot, branding, and she loved every minute of it.

  “Was it what you hoped?” He asked softly.

  She yawned, surprised by how tired she was. “Better.”

  Late into the night, long after Lauren had fallen asleep, Mishca was standing on the balcony, almost oblivious to the cooling temperature, thanks, in part, to the tumbler of whiskey he was drinking. For once, his mind was at ease, his thoughts not constantly focused on the work he had to do for the Bratva.

  He relished the time he spent uninterrupted with Lauren. She made him feel whole, like he was more than his position in the organization…like he was more than his name. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since his mother.

  Looking up at the starlit sky, he narrowed his eyes on the flimsy line of light he saw across the sky, just barely there, but enough that he recognized what it was. With a smile, he walked back into the room, over to the bed where Lauren was still sleeping peacefully.

  The sheet was wrapped around her, shielding her nudity, but doing nothing to hide the outline of her body beneath it. She looked so peaceful as she slept, but he knew she would love what he was about to show her, even if it meant she had to wake up for it.

  “Lauren?”

  He gently touched the curve of her hip as he called her name, unable to resist the temptation of curling his hand around her side, watching in satisfaction as she sighed, arching into his touch.

  Yet, she still didn’t move.

  Chuckling softly, he slipped an arm beneath her knees and another around her shoulders, easily lifting her into his arms. She gasped, immediately clinging onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  “Mish, what are you doing?” She whispered sleepily, burrowing her face in the curve of his neck.

  “I want to show you something.”

  Pushing open the French doors, he stepped out onto the balcony, laughing as Lauren cursed him, gripping him harder as though she could escape the cold.

  “You have to turn around to see it,” he explained as he set her down, holding most of her weight up though her bare feet rested on his so they wouldn’t be on the cold concrete.

  Keeping an arm wrapped around her waist, he used the other to point up and well past the water where a strip of green light was hovering in the atmosphere and if one were to look close enough, there would be distinct shades of blue in there as well.

  She followed his direction, looking out. He could tell the moment she saw what he pointed to, her gasp of shock making him smile.

  “I always sleep through it,” she said smiling up at him. “Is there anything you forget?”

  Not when it came to her. If it took him the rest of his life to do it, he would give her everything she had ever asked of him, not because of the guilt, but because she deserved it and he wanted her to be happy with him.

  She turned in his arms, her eyes warm and awake. “Thank you, Mish.”

  Leaning forward, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Diya vas v mire—For you, the world.”

  “Do you have everything?” Mishca asked as he shouldered their bags the next morning.

  Lauren gave the room one more look over, checking in the bathroom and next to the bed for their phone chargers. Mishca headed down before her, going to give their ticket to the valet.

  At the front counter, she retrieved her card from the clerk. Smiling, Lauren said, “Have a great day.”

  As she was walking away, the clerk called, “Please tell Mr. Volkov his invoice will be sent to his email.”

  Dammit Mishca.

  Mishca was in an uncharacteristically good mood as he stood in a warehouse surrounded by large wooden crates, but it wasn’t the man standing across from him in all leather that had him rather calm in the middle of an arms deal.

  Since Viktor had supplied most of the guns to their clientele, Mishca and Mikhail had split the list. Mishca had a few motorcycle clubs as well as businessmen looking for military grade weaponry. Mikhail’s were similar though his included men that were seen in the public eye and were more willing to work with someone of Mikhail’s age.

  Mishca was happy that he finally had something to look forward to after he was done. He could never have imagined this, having someone that knew him, inside and out, and not just the parts he chose to show.

  The gruff looking biker, along with a select number of his club, were perusing the automatic weapons Mishca had brought, testing them on dummies Mishca’s men had set up in the back.

  They had only been doing business together for the last six months, and after a rocky start—mostly the president’s surprise at Mishca’s age, which never got old—things had gone steady since. There had been a few negotiations on the price when Mishca first approached them with the new deal, and Mishca were in their position, he might have tried to pull one over on someone as young as him, but Mishca wasn’t the average twenty-five-year old.

  “Fifty thousand for the AK’s, ten for the handguns,” The Pres said holding up a duffle bag full of wrapped bundles of cash.

  Nodding absently, Mishca signaled for Sergei to collect the money, distracted by his chiming cell phone.

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  Since the hotel, Mishca had wanted Lauren around more, much to her joy. Her things were now split between the brownstone and Mishca’s apartment in the city. Realistically, she had nothing to complain about.

  She—

  “Well…I guess some things never change.”

  Lauren dropped the shirt she was hanging, turning to face the girl that stood in the closet doorway. In a skintight blue dress, she was beautiful with wavy blonde hair that was darker at the roots.

  “Are you here for Mishca?” She asked, not knowing what else to say, her gaze focusing on the gold key dangling from a chain in her hand.

  “Come up with that on your own, did you?”

  Lauren frowned, watching her run manicured fingers through her blonde hair. “He isn’t here. How about you leave and call him?”

  “It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do.”

  She had nails like claws, painted a deep maroon color that was only lightly lighter than the shade she wore on her lips.

  “What’s your name, dear? He always loved little girls with common names.”

  She had an accent, a stronger one of the version Alex had. Maybe she was French. Lauren didn’t doubt that Mishca had relations with the girl, not when she was acting proprietary though Lauren had never heard of her…not that she even knew what her name was.

  “I don’t think my name matters. Who are you.”

  The front door opened and closed, the sound carrying to the closet, but Lauren stood where she was, refusing to take her eyes off of her. She was secretly glad Mishca had come back early.

  “Lauren?”

  “In here.”

  He appeared in the doorway some moments later, his gaze straying between two of them, his entire demeanor shifting as he focused on the girl.

  “Naomi.”

  She wiggled her fingers at him and without a word, closed the distance between them and proceeded to stick her tongue down her throat. Mishca didn’t react at first, but a heartbeat later, firmly set her away from him.

  “Ne nachinayte eto der’mo—Don’t start this
shit.”

  At least he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. She couldn’t believe the nerve of this girl.

  “Could you excuse us,” Mishca asked looking directly at Lauren.

  A little hurt, no, a lot hurt, she asked, “You want me to leave?”

  He shook his head, frowning at her. “Of course not, Naomi is leaving, now.”

  It had been ages since Mishca had last seen Naomi Le Feuvre, but even that time seemed too short. Once, he had gladly welcomed her as a distraction from his father’s betrayal so long ago, but after she had walked out on him, he had grew to understand that she was a toxic addition to his already unhealthy lifestyle. He would be damned if she came in now trying to destroy what he had built.

  “What do you want, Naomi?”

  She trailed her nails down the center of his chest, digging in slightly with a serene smile. “I came for you. Come now, Mishca. Haven’t you missed me at all?”

  “No.” That wiped the smile off her face.

  “That wouldn’t be because of that naïve little twat that’s playing house, would it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, reading his expression. “She is. You can’t possibly feel something for her.”

  “Doesn’t matter, she doesn’t concern you. Walk away, Naomi, before I forget that you crossed me.”

  “It’s not over between us,” she murmured in a silky voice, pressing her breasts against his chest. She grabbed his hands, forcing them around her until they were pressed against her lower back. “Or have you forgotten that?”

  “I tend not to forget my mistakes lest I repeat them.”

  “Can she really give you everything you need, Mishca…or do you restrain yourself with her? How long will it be before you accidentally show her the beast resting inside you?”

  Mishca ground his teeth, ready to shove her away when the door at his back gave way. He cursed beneath his breath, dropping his hands and turning to face Lauren.

  There was accusation in her eyes. “Mish—”

  “Mish? He actually lets you call him that? The Mishca I remember hated pet names.”

  He readied to respond to her barbed comment, but Lauren beat him to it.

  “People change.”

  Whether she was just tired of the game, or leaving it for another day, Naomi turned away.

  “I’ll see you soon, Mishca.”

  When she was out of sight, Mishca immediately turned to Lauren. “I can explain.”

  “Please do.”

  “First, never let her in this apartment again.”

  “Oh, I didn’t let her in,” she said when they were back inside his bedroom. “She has a key.”

  Fuck. He needed to get the locks changed immediately.

  “I’m assuming you two had to be close for her to have a key.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardness filling him. “We lived together at one point, but it wasn’t like what we have. I believe we were both only in it for the sex.”

  And for what Mishca could do for her, but he hadn’t known that at the time.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “From the time I was eighteen until I was twenty-one.”

  “That’s a long time to just be friends with benefits, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged, a bit ashamed of his past. “It was what I was into at the time.” Mishca just noticed that she was now wearing her jacket. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’ve got school tomorrow, Mish. Can’t miss another day of class.”

  “D’you mind if I stay the night with you?”

  “Of course not, but you don’t have to. I’m not freaking out or anything about Naomi.”

  But he didn’t believe that. Grabbing his keys, he followed her out of his apartment, taking his car back to her place. Lauren was surprisingly silent on the drive over, making him worry more about what she was thinking.

  Inside her apartment, he stripped down, climbing into her bed as she did the same. She kept her back to him, not that he let that deter him.

  He pulled her towards him, relaxing when she settled against him with a contented sigh.

  “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he promised. “She’s in my past.”

  “I know.”

  Later, as he was dozing off, he wondered why Naomi had come back, knowing she didn’t care enough about him for this to be about their relationship, or lack there-of.

  Now she wasn’t above petty jealousy. He could see it all over her face when he walked, and she would do everything in her power to screw with Lauren’s head because of it.

  He would have to find out why she was here and soon. The faster he got this done, the faster he could force her to leave, holding the one thing over her head that he had as leverage.

  Mishca rubbed his eyes tiredly as he came awake, his phone’s insistent buzzing already grating on his nerves. He accepted the call without checking the caller ID, waiting until Lauren settled in his arms before placing the Blackberry to his ear.

  “Yea?”

  “The Albanians are in town.”

  His hand tightened on Lauren’s hip and the constant headache he had hoped to quell came back with a vengeance.

  While the Irish—Declan in particular—were a nuisance, the Albanians was a different kind of problem, one that stemmed back years.

  “The Pakhan?”

  Vlad grunted. “From what I head, they are here for you.”

  “Where?”

  “The Den.”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Hanging up, Mishca slipped out of bed, hunting the floor for his pants, jerking them on.

  “Work?”

  Lauren was on her side, hugging the pillow he had just abandoned. He wished he could stay here with her, forgetting about Naomi and now the Albanians’ sudden arrival in New York. He had a sudden suspicion that the two were connected somehow, but he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Yes, but I won’t be gone long.”

  He leaned down, kissing her forehead, seeing the smile light up her face.

  “Hurry back.”

  First, a pit stop by his apartment to change clothes and get himself together, then Mishca was off to Brighton Beach where he would have the meeting with a few of the members.

  The Den was one of many Russian cuisine restaurants in Brighton Beach, though not located near the pier, but despite its owner’s shady dealings, it was a place free of any criminal activity except for the occasional business meeting.

  Mikhail had owned the restaurants for two decades and poured his earnings into it, making it a quality destination. The walls were made of white stone, mosaic tiles lining the floor, with warm champagne colored chandeliers. There was a stage towards the back of the eating area where performers sung in their native tongue, an experience unmatched by any of his competition.

  When he wasn’t conducting business, Mikhail was in the kitchen, overseeing the chefs as they prepared the day’s selections. It was here that Mishca found his father wearing a stained, white apron tied around his waist, a large silver spoon in hand as he tasted what looked like beets.

  Mishca had barely entered the kitchens when Mikhail called out, “I hear the Albanians are in town.”

  He really shouldn’t have been surprised that his father had heard, hardly anything went down in this city that he didn’t know about. “It’s why I’m here.”

  Territories were in place for a reason, primarily to ensure that whenever a neighboring organization intruded, they announced their presence. Before Mishca had even joined the ranks, it had been common practice to shoot first and question later. After a few awful, bloody accidents, the Bratva made it clear to anyone who thought to near them that an invitation was required. For the Albanians, however, the arrangement was entirely different. They were never allowed on the Russians’ territory. Ever.

  “What have you done now?” Mikhail asked wiping his hands clean.

  “Nothing that I’m aware of. I try to steer clear of them after the inci
dent.”

  He didn’t have to elaborate, Mikhail knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “And I assume I’m not needed?”

  “I can handle it.”

  Mikhail studied him, finally nodding. “So be it. I trust you will have this wrapped up quickly. I’m entertaining guests this evening.”

  “Senator Torres?” Mishca smirked as his father looked back at him. He wasn’t the only one that heard things.

  Mishca left the kitchens, returning to the dining room, finding a booth away from the front windows. Now, he needed only wait for them to show up.

  He hadn’t come unprepared however, Mishca had called a few of his men to meet him here, just to ensure everyone’s compliance. Vlad was already stationed nearby, as well as Donald and Raj who often worked security at his club.

  Then there was the other.

  He walked through the front doors, yelling out at a man that mistakenly bumped into him on his way in. He had a head full of curling blonde hair and blue eyes, but his rather pleasant look contrasted with the psychopath he truly was.

  Luka Sergeyev was another of Mishca’s enforcers, a fact that many others didn’t understand. They thought, because of his age, he didn’t deserve the position, but that mattered little to Mishca--he too was disregarded because of his age--and mattered even less to Luka.

  He had zero regard for authority besides Mikhail, and when he was in the mood, for Mishca as well. While others wore suits, Luka only owned jeans and T-shirts. He routinely turned up late for meetings--if for no other reason than to piss Mishca off--hardly spoke, and had a warped sense of humor. It didn’t mean that he didn’t respect Mishca and the work he did, he just wasn’t as traditional about it.

  It also didn’t help that he could be a bit…unpredictable. Men in the Bratva came from various walks of life, but Luka came from several different backgrounds, ones that Mishca didn’t truly know since Luka refused to talk about it. The only thing Mishca knew for sure was that Luka’s parents had been Albanian.