“Only on occasion. This used to be where my father brought my mom and me when I was a child and he wanted to escape city life. I haven’t been here in some time.”
“Where is home?”
“New York. A penthouse in Manhattan.”
We fall into silence again.
Nikolai opens a second bottle of wine and refills my glass. It's probably my third. Maybe my fourth. I've lost count, and the edges of the room are starting to blur in a pleasant way.
"So," I say, suddenly hating the silence between us.
Because in the silence I feel things I shouldn't.
Like the heat blooming low in my belly when he smiles.
And the need to press my thighs together when he drops his voice to that low, rough rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
My fingers tighten around my glass. "What's it like being the boss of a bratva?"
He pauses, wine bottle still in hand, and those piercing blue eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart kick.
"It means everyone answers to me," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Every decision. Every move. Every breath taken by the bratva goes through me first." He sets the bottle down and leans back in his chair, studying me. "It means I carry the weight of hundreds of lives on my shoulders. Their safety. Their families. Their futures."
"Sounds lonely," I say before I can stop myself.
"Loneliness is the price of power,malyshka. You can have loyalty or you can have equals. Rarely both."
"That's depressing."
His lips curve into a small, dark smile. "That's reality."
I take another sip of wine, bolstered by the warmth spreading through my veins. "So what does the bratva boss do when he's not, you know, kidnapping people?"
"Are you seriously asking me if I have any hobbies?"
"I'm asking if you have a life outside of being a crime lord. Or is it all guns and threats and brooding looks?"
He laughs and the sound does something dangerous to my insides.
"I read. I play piano. I enjoy good wine and better company." His eyes gleam. "And I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood."
"Careful, Holly. Keep talking like that and I might think you're not afraid of me anymore."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
Because he's right.
Somewhere between the wine and the firelight and his confession about loneliness, I've forgotten to be terrified.
I clear my throat.
"So how does someone become the boss of the bratva?"
His lips curve into a small smile. "My father was pakhan before me. When he died, the position passed to me."
"I'm sorry," I say. "About your father."
