by Renee Rose
Yes, I’m shameless with my flirting. It’s because he never does anything about it! I could have sworn this guy liked me. I thought he was asking me to massage him as an opening to… more.
And no, I’m not that kind of massage therapist. I don’t do happy endings. But I could have sworn Dima was interested. Anytime I was in the main penthouse suite, his gaze would follow me. Sometimes there was a light touch—his hand at my lower back, like we were on a date.
And then the most glaring evidence: his hard-ons during the two massages I’ve given him. The tension he never releases. It’s like the guy suffers through my sessions instead of relaxing and enjoying them.
But he never asks me out or flirts back. I even tried asking him out, very casually. I asked if he was going to see his roommate’s band play at Rue’s Lounge. He said no, then showed up, didn’t speak to me, and glared at everyone who talked to me. And when I say everyone, I don’t even mean guys hitting on me. I was sitting with his suitemates—the members of his bratva cell and one of their wives.
After that, I stopped waiting. Stopped expecting him to do anything about it. And I should stop flirting because I started seeing a guy a few weeks ago. A hot half-Russian guy who just started as a personal trainer at my gym.
I pull out the sheets and cover the table, turn on my massage music, and get out the oil. “I’ll just wait behind the door while you get undressed and lie facedown on the table,” I say in my best quiet spa voice. I swear I feel Dima’s gaze on my ass as I walk into the bathroom—the only place to go to give him privacy in his hotel-room-like bedroom setup. I wait until the rustling sounds go quiet and then knock before I come out.
I pull the sheet down to expose his back. All of the bratva members have tattoos. Some are the same, some are different. I’ve memorized every one of Dima’s, which I find the most fascinating. Most of the bratva guys’ tattoos are crude, probably made in prison with a penknife and ink from a broken pen. Dima sports colorful art down both his arms. Across his right shoulder blade and down his right biceps are a series of ones and zeros. Computer code. That’s why I’m banking on him being a hacker. The bratva’s tattoos depict their crimes. Their stints in prison. Their initiations to the brotherhood. Who they served. How long they’ve served. At least that’s what I’ve surmised. I know better than to ask.
I focus on his right shoulder to start with—it’s always the tightest, not that he ever complains. This probably sounds weird, but I relish touching Dima. He may not enjoy my massages, but I sure as hell enjoy giving them. I like the feel of his muscles under my palms. The scent of his aftershave, his stoic silence.
Today, like the other times I’ve massaged him, his hips go cockeyed the moment I touch him, a boner tilting his pelvis. It can’t be comfortable. If I were the bolder, fearless version of myself, I would lean down and with a purr in his ear, ask if he wanted me to work out that particular part of his anatomy.
But that’s not me. I’m not a sex-kitten. I’m just friendly, helpful Natasha, here to serve with a smile.
I work out the muscles of his deltoid and biceps then down his forearm to his fingers. Holding his hand makes the flutters start in my tummy again. Like the hands are a more intimate body part than all the other places I’m touching. Dima wears a slender gold band with a diamond chip on his pinkie finger. I’m guessing it means something to him because it doesn’t go with the rest of him. He’s not flashy, not the jewelry wearing type. I work down each finger individually. He has three X’s tattooed on his knuckles. All the guys on the top floor have them. I’m guessing they represent kills.
“So, I hear your brother runs a Friday night poker game.” I don’t know why my heart starts pounding so hard. It’s a little awkward, but all I have to do is get an invite to the game. This is my mission.
Alex, my new guy, really wants to go. He got super interested when he heard I lived in the Kremlin. I guess he’d heard about the game.
Dima stiffens even more than he was. When he doesn’t answer, I plow forward.
“May I come?”
“No,” he says immediately. His voice is thick and gruff.
“No?” I laugh to cover my embarrassment. I’d pretty much promised Alex I could get us in. “Why not?”
“Natasha, those games are for serious betters. Not you.”
“Maybe I want to seriously bet.” Now I’m just annoyed. What is with this guy anyway? My mission morphs from being for Alex to proving I’m not a total loser.
“No.” His voice sounds even harder.
“Well, can I come and just watch?” Call me persistent. I adjust the sheet. “Roll over, please.”
Dima rolls over.
“Please?” I say in my sweetest voice. I don’t know why I can’t take no for an answer. I personally have no interest in the game, and it’s not like I’m trying to impress Alex. I actually don’t think we have a future. He feels more brotherly than boyfriend. I think I’m just hurt that Dima told me no, and that, combined with his refusal to act on his obvious interest in me, makes me rather desperate for a win.
“Natasha…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I can’t believe you’re asking me.”
I pump some oil into my hands and rub his shoulder from the top. “Are there, like, strippers there or something?”
Dima snorts. “No strippers.”
“Drugs?”
“No drugs.”
“Can I just come and check it out? Just once? Please?”
Dima groans and closes his eyes. A moment later, he peeks and catches me watching his face. “Ugn. Fine. Yes, you can come. I’ll text you the address.”
“Yay! Thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.” Now I’m flirting again.
Dima cracks one eye, and the sheet tents between his legs.
My heart trips over itself like I’m running down a hill.
Now is when I should tell him I’m bringing Alex. I should definitely tell him now.
Gah. Why don’t I want to tell him?
And then I realize the ridiculous truth. The whole reason I agreed to ask Dima if we could go to this game was not to please Alex. It was to show up with Alex and make Dima jealous. Maybe spur him into taking action with me.
I ignore the little prickle at the back of my neck that tells me this is totally going to backfire.
2
Dima
“You did what?” Nikolai’s head nearly spins off his neck.
I’m set up in my corner of the luxury Chicago hotel suite where tonight’s poker game will be held. Nikolai’s the bookie. The games are his operation. I’m here to track the bets, vet the players digitally, and run security footage.
Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, is here as muscle. He sits in the opposite corner, near the door.
“I gave Natasha the address. She wanted to come,” I repeat.
“What. The actual. Fuck?” Nikolai gapes at me. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”
Oleg glances up, but doesn’t comment, which isn’t unusual. He’s mute, and while we’ve all been learning sign language to understand him, he still doesn’t have much to say, except to Story, his girlfriend.
I close my eyes and shove my fingers through my hair. “I know. I tried to refuse her, but she kept begging. I don’t know why she wants to come, but she does.”
“Her mother will kill us both—and Ravil,” he says, mentioning our pakhan, the boss of the Chicago bratva. “You know that woman is not afraid of any of us.”
“Svetlana is fierce,” I agree. “But she’s in Russia at the moment. That’s probably why Natasha timed her request now.”
“It’s not going to work,” Nikolai says. “She’ll ruin the vibe. I’m not letting her in.”
I grit my teeth. Nikolai and I are both generally easy-going, but I’ve been on edge the last month, and it has everything to do with the little strawberry blonde vixen putting those oiled hands all over my body.
I can’t sleep at night. I can’t think of anything but stalking her duri
ng the days.
“You’re letting her in.” I give him a hard stare to make sure he sees I mean it.
There’s not much I put my foot down about, but anything to do with Natasha makes me cranky. And Nikolai denying her entrance somewhere she wants to be? Not gonna happen.
A muscle twitches in Nikolai’s jaw. “You are such a mudak. How many months have you been stringing this girl along? You won’t even ask her out. That’s why she asked to come to this game. She’s trying to get past your resistance. Are you so fucking blind you can’t see it?”
My fingers clench in a fist over my keyboard. The thin band of Alyona’s ring bites into my skin on my little finger, the reminder of why I will never ask Natasha out. I want to throw something at my brother.
I refuse to even consider whether he’s right.
Natasha and I are not going to happen.
Ever.
I made a promise to Alyona, and I don’t break my promises.
“I’m not letting her in,” Nikolai repeats stubbornly.
I stand from my workstation. Oleg shifts forward in his chair like he’s ready to break up a fight if we throw down over a woman who’s not even my girlfriend. “She’s already in. I invited her. End of fucking story.”
Nikolai frowns at me, nostrils flaring. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “But when I give you the signal, you get her the fuck out of here. Understood?”
I hesitate. Of course, I know Nikolai’s right. Natasha is the opposite of the kind of player we want. She will turn our serious high-stakes poker game into something low-stakes and frivolous. We won’t make any money. Worse, the regulars will be pissed at the interruption of the usual vibe.
I nod. “Da.”
Oleg sits back in his chair again.
“You think this is weird, right?” Nikolai asks Oleg. We’re doing a better job including him in conversations these days, now that his girlfriend, Story, has forced him to interact more.
Oleg shrugs, but nods, shooting me an apologetic look.
“Yeah, I know,” I concede.
Nikolai switches on the background music. A tap sounds at the door, and Oleg opens it, letting Adrian, one of our soldiers in. He’s been serving as bartender since Pavel decided to move to L.A. to be with his girl.
Adrian gets to work, unpacking and arranging bottles of liquor on the table provided by the hotel. When Cari, the woman Nikolai hires to deal the cards shows up, I’m reminded of why Natasha shouldn’t be welcome here.
Cari is great. Smart, keeps her mouth shut and is a great dealer. But she’s in a slinky leopard-print dress with cut-outs on both sides.
Natasha will probably show up in her jeans and a fitted t-shirt. She has the quintessential American teen look, even though she’s not American or a teen.
I settle into my work station—the place I’m most comfortable. If I had it my way—I’d never have to interact with the outside world. I’d just stay in the Kremlin, operating from a keyboard and a screen to manipulate my environment.
Within a half an hour, the knocks start coming on the door.
Zane shows up first. He’s a douchy twenty-one-year-old college student. Smart kid, goes to Northwestern. He has a lot of talent. Last year he paid his entire year’s tuition with his gambling winnings. But now he’s lost his edge. One of our mudak players introduced him to the wonders of strip clubs and blow, and now the guy has lost focus.
Nikolai shakes his head at him. “You’re not welcome here tonight, Zane, except to make payment on your note. You’re down fifty grand.” He tips his head toward Oleg, who does the slow rise from his chair. “You’re about two days shy of getting a visit from Oleg.”
Oleg clenches and unclenches his hand, showing off his meaty fist. The guy is huge, so his size and silence alone are usually deterrent enough for any would-be trouble-makers.
The guy frantically pats the pockets of his black suit jacket. “I brought payment. I did. I have ten grand here.” He produces an envelope of cash and thrusts it toward Nikolai who doesn’t move. He changes his angle to thrust it toward Oleg, who also doesn’t move.
He opens the envelope and starts counting the cash outloud to show Nikolai. When he’s done, Nikolai nods and writes it down in his ledger. “You’re still not playing tonight.”
“Aw, come on, guys.” Zane spreads his hands, drops his head to the side, and turns on the charm. He’s privileged and smart and generally good-looking. I’m sure he’s used to getting most anything he wants. But it’s obvious he’s hurtling quickly toward all that potential crashing and burning in a horrible way. “You know I’m good for it. I’ll probably make it all back tonight. You know how much I made last year.”
“You can’t borrow against last year’s earnings, my friend. You’ve lost focus.” Nikolai drops a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “Clean your shit up. Keep your nose out of the blow. You’re a fucking mess.”
Some of the charm frays. Desperation starts to show around the edges as he speaks too fast. “Nikolai, I’m your most loyal client. You know me. You know I can win back what I owe you and more.”
“Get out. I need at least another fifteen grand before you sit down at my table again. Now move, or Oleg will throw you off the fucking balcony.”
Zane pales and stumbles back toward the door. “All right, all right,” he whines. “I’m leaving.”
“That one is heading for trouble,” I remark when the door closes.
“I predict a spectacular mess,” Nikolai agrees.
Over the next twenty-five minutes, the players show up and Nikolai greets them, working the room, making them comfortable, so they’ll spend a lot of money.
I can’t decide if I’m glad or pissed when it seems like Natasha isn’t going to show. I told her to come on time, or she wouldn’t get dealt in.
But then the door opens, and I spill my fucking drink down my pantleg. Because Natasha looks gorgeous. Her red hair is in curls across her shoulders, and she’s wearing heels and a black halter dress that shows off every fucking curve of her luscious body.
But that’s not the part that makes me spill my drink.
It’s the asshole she comes in with.
“This is Alex,” she’s saying to Nikolai. “He’s my date.”
Her what now?
No. Fucking. Way.
Natasha did not bring a date to our high-stakes poker game.
I get up and walk over, snatching the driver’s license Nikolai asked Alex to produce from his fingers. I don’t say hi or how-do-you-do to Natasha.
No fucking way.
I’m beyond pissed.
It’s utterly irrational, I know. But so was me telling her she could come to this game.
Everything when it comes to Natasha is irrational.
My need to be near her at the same time I want her to move to Antarctica.
Letting her touch me when every second is torture.
Showing her what I want when I know I won’t ever take it.
I stalk to my computer and call up the info on this guy. Everything checks out. Alex is employed by a local gym as a trainer. Graduated from Illinois State. Wrestled in college. He’s got a Russian last name—Vasiliev. I don’t like that. Not for any particular reason. I mean, it makes sense Natasha might be drawn to another Russian, especially one like her—an Americanized one. But it feels like another red flag.
Not that there was a first one.
Other than him showing up. With our Natasha.
Why the fuck did he show up? Was he the reason Natasha asked to come to this game?
That thought sends alarm bells ringing, and I start digging into this guy’s past even further.
I’m so preoccupied, I miss keeping track of the bets in the first game. I look over and realize Natasha isn’t even playing. Just this asshole Alex. She’s his arm candy. His fucking lucky rabbit’s foot. Nikolai’s glares are enough to peel the fancy wallpaper from the walls behind me.
Ya znayu, I mutter aloud to him. I know.
&nb
sp; I definitely fucked up.
The way that Alex’s eyes ping-pong between us makes me think he understood.
“A ty govorish' po russki?” I ask him if he speaks Russian.
“Da, moya mama iz rossii,” he answers. My mother is Russian.
Why does that make me just hate him all the more? I keep digging, looking for his mother. It takes a while. You know in television shows where the hacker just touches their computer and produces the answer to any and every question? Well, it’s not like that. Hacking is time consuming, and you have to know what you’re looking for and where to look for it. I’ve already hacked and given myself permanent access to most databases—the motor vehicle department, police department records, Internal Revenue Service. FBI is harder because I have to re-hack it every thirty days, but I can get in there, too.
I find his mother’s name, but no current address or tax filings. Nothing on a father, at all. Alex is a U.S. citizen, born here in Chicago twenty-four years ago.
What an asshole.
I try the FBI. I search for his name in there, and nothing comes up. I search for Ravil’s name. I’ve seen these files before. They don’t have much on him. The incident where they tried to turn Lucy, his wife, after he’d kidnapped her and held her hostage at the Kremlin.
And there it is.
An active tag assigned to an agent Alex Volkov. Huh. That name is suspiciously similar to Alex Vasiliev. I pull up his photo. Yep. Same asshole.
I text Nikolai. I want to text Oleg and Adrian, too, but all three of their phones beeping at once would be a huge tell. Instead, I manage to catch Oleg’s eye. I’m about to use my limited sign language to fingerspell F-B-I, but Nikolai says, “hold up,” and stops the game.
He stands and walks around to the opposite side of the table as Alex. “What’d you say your last name was?” he asks Alex.
I watch Natasha’s face closely.
If I find out she’s part of this shit, I will not recover. I don’t see fear, just mild confusion.
Dammit.
I need to get her out of this room if things go south. Besides, she owes me a fucking explanation.
