Until then, I wait. I watch. I want.
And I feel like the worst kind of bastard for hoping danger finds her, just so I can keep her close.
5
IVAN
The city bleeds gray at six in the morning, caught between night and day. I walk because sitting still feels impossible. Because I told Lila I had business to handle.
What business? Oleg's dead. Dmitri will retaliate, but that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight—this morning—my only business is the girl sleeping in my guest room wearing nothing but my shirt.
The girl I'm holding prisoner under the guise of protection.
The excuse still hasn't come. I've been turning it over in my head for hours, looking for the angle that makes this right. Makes this anything other than what it is—me wanting someone I shouldn't have and taking her anyway.
Her apartment is in Pilsen, a southwest side neighborhood where the rent's cheap and the buildings remember better days. I got the address from her employee file weeks ago, but didn’t visit. That would've crossed a line.
Now I'm crossing every line there is.
The street's quiet except for an old man walking a dog that looks even older and early risers heading to factory shifts. Thesmell of breakfast—eggs and burned toast—drifts from an open window. Normal people living normal lives.
I scan for threats out of habit. Dmitri's crew drives black Escalades with tinted windows and parks where they can watch exits. I count three potential vehicles within a two-block radius, but they're all too clean, too new for this neighborhood. Civilian cars.
Her building is brick, five stories. The front door's propped open with a phone book.Great security.
I climb to the fourth floor. The stairwell reeks of piss and the industrial cleaner that tries and fails to hide it. Apartment 4C. The door's thin enough that a half-hearted kick would take it down.
I pick the lock instead. Quieter.
The apartment reveals itself in sections as I step inside. A kitchen barely big enough to turn around in. A living room that's really just a couch facing a TV. Everything's cramped, sparse, but clean. She takes care of what little she has.
The thought does something uncomfortable to my chest.
I'm not here to feel guilty. I'm here for clothes, toiletries, and whatever else she needs for an extended stay. That's the story I'm telling myself.
The bedroom is barely big enough for the twin bed pushed against one wall. There's a milk crate serving as a nightstand, a lamp with a shade that doesn't match. Above the bed, she's tacked up drawings—city scenes, portraits of people who look like diner regulars, a detailed sketch of the Chicago skyline at sunset.
No drawings of me. Not where anyone could see them.
A tightness fills my chest. Hurt? Disappointment? No, fuck that.
I find a duffel bag in her closet and start filling it with what little clothes she has. Jeans worn soft at the knees. T-shirts with band names I don't recognize. A sweater that still smells likeher. Underwear from a drawer I shouldn't be opening. Cotton, mostly white, nothing fancy.
Focus.
The matchbox-sized bathroom is next. Toothbrush, shampoo, and a pink razor. Makeup she doesn't need. I grab it all before methodically sweeping each room for anything Dmitri's men could use. Photos, documents—anything with her family's addresses or names.
In the process, I find a box under the bed, shoved toward the wall. Cardboard, standard moving size, with the top flaps tucked closed. Someone's written “TAX DOCUMENTS” on the side in black marker.
It’s off. Too obviously labeled yet hidden.
I pull it out and set it on the bed. The box is too heavy for documents.
Inside, there are no tax forms.
Instead, paperbacks. Dozens of them. The covers all similar—shirtless men with tattoos, women in various states of undress, titles in bold fonts promising danger and desire.Ruthless Vow.The Bratva's Prize.Claimed by the Pakhan.
My mouth goes dry.
