I shouldn't notice that he was attractive.
But my body didn't care about should.
His eyes were worse. Grey, piercing, the kind that saw too much.
"Good morning," he said in perfect, almost unaccented English. I thought I could hear the Russian underneath, but I could have been wrong. His voice was deep, controlled, the kind that never needed to be raised to command attention. "How do you feel?"
My throat was dry. "Who are you?" I played dumb.
"You know who I am. Nikolai Besharov," he said patiently. He moved further into the room, unhurried, and set the tray on the dresser beside the silver-framed photographs. "You're in my home, in the Besharov compound in Brooklyn. You're safe here."
Safe. The word made me want to laugh. Or scream.
"I'm a prisoner," I said flatly.
He turned to face me fully. Studied me with those analytical eyes. The attention felt like being x-rayed. Like he could see through the grey dress, through my skin, straight to the parts of me I'd buried.
"No," he said quietly. "You're under my protection. There's a difference."
"You locked the door."
"For now." His voice was too damn patient. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing I said would rattle him. "Until we establish some ground rules and I'm certain you won't do something foolish like try to run."
"Why would running be foolish?"
"Because the Belyaevs want you dead or worse." He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. "Every family in this city knows they violated sacred ground last night. The Settling has been neutral territory for fifteen years. What AntonBelyaev did—attacking it, murdering Yevgeny Sidorov, trying to take you by force—that broke every code we operate under."
I already knew this. Had grown up hearing my father talk about the old codes, the rules that kept the five families from destroying each other completely. Neutral ground was sacred. Violence there was unthinkable.
Until last night.
"But until the situation is resolved," Nikolai continued, "you're too valuable and too vulnerable to be anywhere else."
"So I'm bait."
"No. You're protected." His gaze held mine. "There's a difference, Sophie."
The sound of my name in his voice did something to my nervous system. Made my pulse skip. Made some buried, traitorous part of me want to trust him.
I shoved that part down hard. Couldn't trust anyone. Couldn't let myself want safety or protection or any of the things that got people killed.
"What do you want with me?" I asked.
He pulled out the leather chair—the expensive one by the windows—and sat. Giving me space. Putting himself at a lower height than me. Everything about his body language was careful. Deliberate. Non-threatening.
Which somehow made him more threatening. Because it meant he knew how to handle scared, skittish things. Knew how to make them feel safe enough to let their guard down.
I stayed pressed against the doorframe.
"Let's start simple," he said. "Tell me your real name."
"Sophie Andreeva."
"Sophie Volkov," he corrected. "Your father was Dmitri Volkov. Exiled from the Volkov family twenty-five years ago for stealing. Changed his name to Andreev. Worked for West Coast bratva operations until his death six months ago."
The blood drained from my face. "How did you—"
"I'm very good at research." His voice was matter-of-fact. "I know exactly who you are, and more importantly, I know the Belyaevs know."
