by Renee Rose
My stomach sinks as I realize he’s surrendering to Alex—for me.
“I asked for Ravil,” Alex snarls.
“Ravil’s on his way,” Dima promises. “I followed from Starbucks. Listen to me—you want Ravil, no? Take me instead. Let Natasha go. She’s not part of this.”
Alex’s hold on my jaw tightens, wrenching at my neck. “No, she stays right where she is.”
Dima shakes his head. He’s twenty-five yards away, but even from here, I see he’s pale and sweating—afraid for me. “She is nothing to Ravil. Just girl in building.” His accent’s thick with fear. “I am bratva brother to him. Take me instead. Just… let her go.” He inches forward on his knees.
“Stay where you are!” Alex yells.
Dima freezes. “Let her go. Please—pozhaluysta.” He’s begging for me now.
Yesterday—a lifetime ago—I would’ve been moved to see the depth of Dima’s fear for me. Right now, though, I register it with only pain. I’ve shut the door to my feelings for Dima. Nothing will make me open it back up.
Dima shifts on his knees. No, he’s creeping forward again.
“You move another fucking inch, and Natasha gets hurt. Understand?”
I note that Alex says hurt, not killed. Maybe I’m loony, but I don’t believe he’d actually shoot me. Of course, I thought he liked me, and I didn’t believe he was using me to get to the brava, either.
Dima’s lips peel back from his teeth in rage, but I watch as he sucks his fury back down. When he speaks, he makes his voice conciliatory. Pleading, even. “Alex, you don’t want to hurt her—I know you don’t. You didn’t mean to shoot Nikolai, either, did you? Put the safety back on the gun. We don’t want another accident.”
Something he says must get through to Alex because he eases the butt of the gun from my head. It’s still pointed at me, but the metal isn’t pressed to my scalp anymore.
Dima’s careful to keep his eyes on Alex, only flicking to me for milliseconds. “What’s wrong with her?” he demands now.
“She’s all right. I gave her a muscle relaxant.”
Yes, and it’s made me a confused stew of uselessness. Sluggish heartbeats hit my ribs with sickening thuds of fear.
“Please. I won’t move. Let her come to me. Then you can put gun on both of us at the same time.” He spares a quick glance at me. “Can you walk, Natasha?”
Alex pulls my body in front of him as a shield. “She’s not going anywhere,” he snarls. “Where is Ravil?”
The elevator dings and Alex swivels to face it, keeping me in front of him as a human shield. The doors open revealing Ravil with his hands in the air. He’s in khakis and a dress shirt, open at the throat. His body language is relaxed, despite the hostage situation playing out in front of him. He steps out and walks toward us, his pace neither slow nor fast, his bearing one of unflappable calm—even ease.
“You’re looking for me?” His mild-mannered question seems to irritate Alex, who brings the butt of the gun against my temple again.
I whimper.
Dima inches forward on his knees in the direction of his gun. I catch the movement of shadows emerging from the ramp area. The bratva is here.
Ravil stops, perhaps recognizing that his advance was antagonizing Alex. “This is personal, no? What have I done to invoke your wrath?”
“You killed my father,” Alex spits.
Ravil’s brows lower. “Oh? It’s possible. Who is your father?”
“Sergei Litvin. Do you remember him? Your bratva cell killed him.”
“Sergei Litvin?” Ravil scoffs. “Your father is not dead.”
Alex splutters, shaking me like I’m the one telling him lies. “He was killed in 1998 in Russia—Moscow.”
Ravil walks forward at that same leisurely pace. “Sergei is my bratva brother. He is alive and well in Moscow. Who told you I killed him?”
Alex is breathing hard through his nose, but his hold on me loosens. The gun drifts away from my head.
Dima’s crept closer now, and I sense someone behind us, but I don’t dare look to tip Alex off.
“My mother. She told me he was killed by the Moscow bratva. The cell you were with before you moved here.”
“Ah.” Ravil tips his head back in understanding, stopping ten feet away. “Maybe she believes that, but I assure you, your father is alive and well.”
Alex shakes his head. “Nyet. The bratva killed him, and you were part of it.”
“How much have you studied the bratva? Not enough, I fear. You should know when a man joins the brotherhood, he vows to leave all family behind. To the rest of the world, he must be dead.”
Alex lets out a ragged exhale.
“I assure you, your father is alive. I will prove it to you. I can call him right now. It is midnight in Moscow, but he will pick up. As I said, we are brothers.”
The gun drops to Alex’s side, and his grip on me loosens.
“Natasha, come to me.” Dima’s low urgent tone beckons me. He’s on his feet, holding his arms out. I launch myself forward, trying to walk on jelly-like legs, but Alex yanks me back.
“I don’t believe you. Prove it, then.”
Ravil nods. “I’m reaching for my phone,” he says, his hand hovering above his pocket, like he’s waiting for permission.
“Slowly.”Alex’s breath rasps heavily against my ear. The gun trembles. One startled move, and that trigger could go off.
Ravil gingerly pulls his phone out and dials a number on speaker phone.
A man’s voice comes on, clogged with sleep. “What the fuck do you want, Ravil? It’s the middle of the night here,” he demands in Russian.
Ravil keeps his gaze glued to Alex’s face as he speaks in Russian. “That woman you were with back in the late 90s, what was her name? Was it Volkov?”
The other man hesitates before he speaks. “Why do you ask?”
“Did you have a son with her?”
“With Yulia Volkov? Nyet, why do you ask this?”
“There’s a young man here who wants to kill me. He claims to be your son.”
After too long of a pause, Sergei says, “Send him away. Yulia and I had no child together. She wanted nothing to do with me or the bratva.”
“Liar!” Alex explodes, shoving me aside and lunging for the phone.
Oleg, Adrian, Maykl and Maxim spring from the shadows. Oleg knocks his gun from his hand, and they take him down to the asphalt, while he yells, “give me the phone! Let me talk to that piece of shit!”
Dima lunges to catch me, wrapping me so tight I can hardly breathe.
Ravil ends the call and watches dispassionately as the guys deliver several well-placed punches and kicks, then he intervenes with the mild order, “Don’t kill him.”
Ravil’s phone starts ringing, but he ignores it. Alex pants, staring up through a rapidly swelling eye as the guys check him for additional weapons, removing a knife and a magazine of bullets from his pockets.
Ravil holds Alex’s gaze and nods at him. “He was lying,” he agrees, like he’s soothing a tantruming child. “He forgets I have a son now myself. I’m not going to kill another man’s progeny just because families aren’t allowed in the bratva.”
Dima hasn’t released me. He kisses the top of my head, his arms like steel bands around me.
Ravil’s phone starts ringing again. He checks it. “It’s your father.” He holds his phone up in front of his face and answers a video call. “Sergei,” he says. “I have your son.” Ravil turns the phone around to show Sergei Alex’s now-bloodied face.
“Alex,” the other man croaks.
Ravil looks at Alex. “You see? He knows you.”
“You’ve made a mess, Sergei. Your son works for the FBI—it’s like the Investigative Committee in Russia. He thought the bratva killed you, so he came after me.”
“Son...” Sergei croaks in Russian. Ravil turns the phone back around and his tune changes, “Ravil, don’t hurt him. Let him go—he doesn’t know. His mother tol
d him I was dead. You know the rules.”
“I know them,” Ravil agrees. “You come here and deal with him, or I will.”
“I will come. Chicago, right? I will come at once. Let my son go.”
“Call me when you get here.” Ravil ends the call without waiting for the other man’s response.
He tucks the phone in his pocket and considers Alex. “You see? Your father is my brother. That makes me your uncle, no? We’re family now.”
Alex leans up on his elbows and spits blood from his mouth. He’s subdued, maybe he’s sorry, it’s hard to tell.
“It’s good. I was hoping for a contact within the FBI.” He glances at Oleg. “Help him to his car.”
Oleg hauls the beaten agent to his feet and deposits him in the driver’s seat of his car.
Ravil walks over and stands in the open door. “We’ll be in touch, nephew.” He smirks when Alex’s face morphs to one of utter dismay as he absorbs the fact that his vendetta led him to being in bed with the bratva he so hated.
Ravil shuts the door and taps the top of the car.
“Natasha,” Dima croaks, finally loosening his grip on me.”Are you okay? Are you hurt?” With one arm still around my back, he pulls away to examine my face. When he strokes my hair, I jerk back, tears burning my eyes.
“Don’t.”
“Please, Natasha.” Regret washes over Dima’s expression. “I’m so sorry—for everything. Can we talk?”
I take a step back, my legs starting to feel more sturdy. “No. I’m done, Dima.” I don’t feel angry any more. Just so damn tired.
I can’t get on the rollercoaster with him again.
Never again.
He blinks, his face pale.
“I’m not going to let myself be used anymore, and I can’t be your fall-back friend. Please respect my wishes and leave me alone.”
“You’re not my fall-back, Natasha. Listen—”
“No,” I say firmly, putting my hands on his chest and giving it a shove. “I can’t do this.” I’m fighting tears, and I really don’t want the whole gang seeing me cry over Dima. How pathetic can I get?
“Nikolai will take you home.” He touches my elbow then pulls his hand back like he’s afraid to touch me.
It feels wrong even though it’s what I just asked for.
“Thank you,” I whisper. The two words encompass so much—gratitude for what we shared and goodbye.
He shakes his head like he’s not accepting it, but Nikolai pulls up the ramp like he knew the plan, and Dima walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me.
I get in without a word.
Leaving the cabin felt like a test, but this time, it’s really over.
19
Dima
After lying on my bed staring at the ceiling all night, I stay in my bedroom instead of going to the kitchen in search of breakfast.
I can’t be around anyone. I want to throat-punch Ravil and Maxim for coming up with any plan that involved putting Natasha in danger.
Bozhe moi, I will never get the image of that gun at her head out of my brain.
And knowing it was my fault?
Ruins me.
She didn’t want to go, and I made her. And look how it turned out.
I sink onto my bed and stare into the darkness.
The worst of it? Natasha thinks I used her. That literally makes me want to shoot my nuts off. She compared me to Pamela Harrison.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
She was never my fall-back girlfriend. It wasn’t a love-the-one-you’re-with situation. Not even close. She rocked my world the moment I first met her.
Maybe that’s what scared me so badly.
I didn’t want her to mean more to me than Alyona had because that, even more than the promise I’d made to her, made me feel unfaithful.
And now I can’t even tell Natasha any of those things because she asked me to respect her wishes and stay away.
I couldn’t have fucked things up more with her.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I wasn’t ready to open my heart until the day she closed hers.
I’m not giving up, but I don’t have a fucking clue where to start.
I can’t hack back into her heart. I can’t solve this one behind my computer.
I’m not lame enough to try to text her how I feel. I need to show her somehow. But what would prove I’m not using her? That I’ve changed and I’m ready to go all in?
I have absolutely no fucking clue.
It’s possible I need help. Honestly, I’d rather throw myself down the elevator shaft than go bare my soul to my roommates, but maybe one of the women can tell me what to do.
That’s it, I just need someone to tell me what to do.
I head into the main living area of the penthouse, which seems like a foreign place after spending the week with Natasha. It’s familiar, but wrong.
All wrong.
“You look like shit,” Maxim observes. He and Sasha are in the kitchen in their running clothes with their hands all over each other. “Seriously. You look as bad as Nikolai.”
“Thanks.” I drift toward the breakfast bar, inviting more abuse.
“So what’s the story with Natasha?” Sasha demands. She’s not the type to ever stay out of anyone’s business, but for once, I’m almost grateful for the intrusion.
Still, I have no answer. I shrug, weakly.
“She said you preferred a ghost over a living, breathing woman. What gives?”
I shake my head then nod. That assessment kills me, but to Natasha, probably seems accurate. No wonder she feels like the fall-back friend.
“I said goodbye to my ghost,” I tell Sasha, my voice cracking. I plunk down on the barstool in front of her. “But I think it was too late. Now she won’t talk to me.”
Story and Oleg emerge from their bedroom and gather behind me, both of them projecting kindness and sympathy. At the same time, Lucy emerges from Ravil’s bedroom in a short robe, baby Benjamin cooing on her hip.
I realize with a pang that nearly takes my breath away, how much I want what Ravil has—the woman he loves and a baby they adore. The whole package. A sweet little nuclear family. Something none of us ever thought we’d have. The women that have come into the lives of my brothers here have brought enough sweetness to counteract some of the stain of the bratva from our souls. I want Natasha’s sweetness. I want the whole package with her.
“When Natasha was new to America, she had a neighbor who was only friends with her when they were at home. At school, she was too Russian to associate with.”
Sasha pulls a horrified face, always the thespian.
“She compared me to that friend.”
Lucy sits the baby on the edge of the breakfast bar, and Sasha instantly reaches for him. “So you need to prove to her that she’s not a friend of convenience,” she sums up.
I turn to her, grateful for her logic. “Yes. But she won’t talk to me.”
“So you’ll have to show her.”
“It should be public,” Sasha weighs in. “Something big.” Of course, Sasha’s flare for the dramatic always comes into play.
But everyone else seems to agree.
“Yes. Public and big,” Maxim repeats.
“A billboard,” Story suggests.
Oleg signs something, and I watch. It’s a little fast for me to pick up. “Something she can see?” I try to interpret.
“Something she can see from her window!” Story fills me in. “Yes! A giant banner hung on the building across the way. How would you go about that?”
I frown. Fuck if I know. If it can’t be accessed with technology, I’m at a total loss.
“I can try to find the building owner,” Maxim offers.
“What about one of those airplanes that flies with the banner behind it?” Sasha suggests.
“Yes,” I agree. It feels right. “All of that.” I spread my hands. It’s not like me to ask for help. I’m usually the one offering
it, but I’m way out of my depth here. “Can you help me?”
“Of course.” Lucy smiles. “We can figure this all out.”
Natasha
My mother is home, which means I’m in my bedroom pretending to read a book. I just want to be alone while I lick my wounds.
I didn’t want to tell her about what happened last week. If I had, she would want to move us out of this building by the end of the day. Me getting mixed up in bratva business is her worst nightmare.
But not telling her makes it impossible to function around her. I’m still grieving. It may have only been a week, but the intensity was unmatched. I fell in love and had my heart broken all at once, and it’s not easy to bounce back from that.
An unknown number comes through my phone, and I pick it up. I don’t feel like talking to anyone, but it could be a new client.
“This is Natasha.”
“Hi Natasha, this is George Engels, head of admissions at the Illinois School for Naturopathy.”
I know the school—it was my top pick when I’d been applying last year, but I have no idea why they’d be calling now. “Oh? Um, hi.”
“We understand there was some miscommunication with you about your scholarship offer—that it never came through?”
“Scholarship offer?” I echo blankly.
“Sounds like you didn’t receive it, which would explain why we haven’t received your acceptance yet. Listen, most of that money has already been claimed, but I just had a student back out, and we’d like to give you the chance again, if you’re still interested in attending.”
“Well, I am interested—um—but I’m confused. You say you sent me a scholarship offer?”
“We’re confused too, to be honest. I just got an email from the Dean asking me to look into your case personally, and it looks like someone in our office dropped the ball somewhere. But there is money available, and I’d like to make the offer. Have you already accepted another offer?”
My heart starts pounding. Even though I have a strong suspicion about how this happened, I can’t hold back my excitement. “Um, no, I haven’t.”
