"Red—" he starts, but I'm already turning away.
"Don't," I snap over my shoulder. "Don't call me that. Don't follow me. Just—stay away from me."
Delilah and I hurry down the street.
"Hannah," she pants, "what the hell just happened back there?"
"I have no idea," I say, not slowing down. "But I don't want to find out."
"Start talking. Who is that man, and why did he just break someone's nose for hitting on you?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "He never told me his real name was Dante. And the way he just—the violence?—"
"That was not normal," Delilah agrees. "Normal guys don't punch people for making crude comments. They might tell them to back off, but they don't go straight to assault."
I think about the scars I traced on his body that night. The way he carried himself like he was used to danger. The expensive suit, the penthouse, the way hotel staff treated him like royalty.
"I don't think he's a normal guy," I admit.
"Well, normal or not, he's the father of your baby," Delilah points out. "You can't exactly avoid him forever."
I place a hand over my stomach, thinking about the tiny life growing there. A life that's half mine and half his—half mystery and half violence and completely my responsibility now.
"Watch me," I say.
4
DANTE
Viktor gets to his feet glaring at me.
My knuckles are still stinging from the impact. Blood streams from his nose. I feel a savage satisfaction at the sight.
"What the fuck, Dante?" Viktor spits, cupping his broken nose. "Over some redhead?"
I don't answer. Can't explain why hearing him talk about her like she's a piece of meat made me see red. Can't explain why the thought of his hands on her makes me want to break more than just his nose.
She's gone now. The rational part of my brain knows that's for the best. Hannah. I knew her name already. Before I left the hotel that night, I checked her purse. I took a picture of her ID—just in case. In my life, I couldn’t afford to blindly trust anyone. I had to be aware. I didn’t think she knew who I was.
But just in case, I kept her identity as a weapon. Information was key.
"Clean yourself up," I tell Viktor, straightening my jacket.
He nods quickly, probably more concerned about his broken nose than my warning. So much for being the guy that’s supposed to be guarding my body.
"Let’s go,” Bogdan says. “He’s waiting.”
My Uncle Radimir had called this meeting. Said there was something urgent. My cousin Bogdan was the guy that got me to where I needed to be. He wasn’t my assistant, but he was the guy that helped me run my empire. He knew the business. He understood the stress of running a powerful Russian Bratva. I was the pakhan. The Godfather, so to speak. The don. I was one of the younger ones in our world. The position landed on my shoulders far earlier than I was prepared for. Without Bogdan, I don’t know that I could have managed it.
The Russian restaurant is one of ours. It’s a small place that serves as both a legitimate business and convenient meeting place. The food is actually decent, which is more than I can say for most of our front operations.
When we step through the door, the manager nods as we file in.
"Mr. Sokolov," he says. "Your uncle is waiting in the back room."
I nod and make my way through the dining room, past families sharing dinner and couples on dates. Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that they're eating in a placeowned by the Chicago Bratva. Sometimes I envy them for their ignorance.
My uncle looks older than his fifty-nine years, silver hair slicked back, deep lines carved into his face by decades of violence and betrayal. Bogdan takes the seat beside him. My cousin's bulk filling his chair, beady eyes watching the area.
