Noelle’s eyes dart between me and Lev, her brows knitting. “Wait.” She tilts her head, looking at him as if she’s trying to line up puzzle pieces. Then her gaze snaps back to me. “Sasha…Lev is the guy?”
I don’t hesitate. I nod once, sharp. “He’s the one.”
Her mouth falls open, scandal clear in her voice. “Oh my God.”
Niko straightens, apron hanging loose around his neck as he glares at Lev. “Are you fucking serious?” His accent roughens his words. “This is a new low. Even for you.”
Lev doesn’t flinch, but his hand stills on the knife, grip white-knuckled. His eyes flick to mine, unreadable, as if he wants to speak—wants to explain—but for once, he’s got nothing to say.
And I let the silence damn him.
“Since there’s nothing for me to do here,” I say, keeping my smile plastered in place, “I’ll go to the living room and watch a show. Niko, please, make sure Lev doesn’t poison me. He wants nothing at all to do with me, remember?”
Lev’s jaw tightens, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to speak. But I don’t give him the chance.
I turn on my heel, sundress swishing around my thighs, and walk straight out of the kitchen.
Only when the doorway swallows me whole do I let my smile fall. My breath escapes in a sharp rush, my chest too tight. God, I hate that he can still do this to me—make me bleed inside with just his eyes.
I glue my eyes to the TV, though I can’t remember a single thing about the show flickering across the screen. My pulse hasn’t slowed since I left the kitchen.
Eventually, Noelle’s voice carries down the hall. “Sasha, lunch is ready!”
I square my shoulders, paste on my polite smile, and join them at the table. The air is thick, but no one acknowledges it. Noelle does most of the talking, bless her, steering the conversation to safe, shallow waters. I nod, answer when I have to, keep my fork moving. I don’t look at Lev. Not once.
By the time the plates are cleared, I’m already standing. “Thank you for lunch,” I tell Noelle, forcing brightness into my tone. “I can’t stay, though. I’ve got a flight tomorrow, and I should rest.”
Her face falls, but she doesn’t press. I lean in and hug her tight, whispering, “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you more,” she sighs, squeezing me like she doesn’t want to let go.
I straighten, smooth the hem of my sundress, and turn toward the others. “Goodbye, Niko,” I say warmly enough, though I don’t linger. I can still feel Lev’s gaze. It burns into me, heavy, unrelenting, like he’s trying to brand me with those gray eyes alone.
Noelle clears her throat, almost too loudly. “Sasha, I’m…sorry for what Lev did.” Her tone is openly apologetic, almost pleading.
I glance at her, then shift my eyes to Lev. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, and the air between us stretches taut. “Itisn’t you who needs to apologize,” I say softly, but the words strike sharp anyway.
For a moment, it’s just us—his stare locked with mine, unreadable, mine refusing to flinch. A battle in silence.
Then I turn on my heel and walk out, refusing to look back, even though my skin tingles like he’s still watching every step I take.
Chapter 6 – Lev
The blinds are drawn, the air thick with smoke and silence. Numbers crawl across the projector screen, the kind that could topple empires if placed in the wrong hands.
I sit at the head of the table, back straight, eyes on the ledger Igor Petrov has laid out. He’s old Bratva, steady even with his hands gnarled from age, and if he’s flown to Chicago personally, it means the situation is bleeding serious.
Niko lounges across from me, deceptively relaxed with his chair tipped back. Kazimir is more obvious, arms folded like a coiled spring, his attention flicking between me and the figures on the screen. Mikhael stands at my right shoulder, silent as a blade but sharp enough to cut through the tension.
“I’ve reviewed the transfers three times,” Igor rasps, sliding his glasses lower on his nose. “And they all lead back to one name—Vassilis Marino.”
The name hits like a stone dropping into still water. Greek shipping magnate. Greedy bastard. A man I’ve done business with before, usually under the table—fees for discreet cargo, goods no government needs to know about. He paid; I looked the other way. Clean. Simple.
But the accounts Igor shows me are anything but simple. Shell companies in Cyprus, transfers through Luxembourg, cash bleeding into hands I don’t recognize.
“Marino’s either gone sloppy,” Niko mutters, tapping the table, “or someone is using him as a cover.”
I don’t answer. My jaw tightens as I read the last page again, slower this time. The numbers don’t lie. Money’s vanishing, and someone thinks they can siphon off Bratva channels without me noticing.
