“My name is Iosif Yuri. And yeah, I’m aware it wasn’t part of the deal,” I agree calmly. “But this night could be ending very differently for you if I hadn’t stepped in. It would be much, much worse than you getting to marry into the most powerful bratva clan in the city if you’d been sent off with one of those fucking champions participating in that disgusting competition.”
I level her with a grim smile. “And make no mistake, Janella. Your father was going to send you off like a common whore. Is that what you want to be treated like? Would you like me to take you back?”
She doesn’t have much to say now.
Pathetically, she repeats, “You don’t even know me.”
“On the contrary,” I scoff, reaching down to collect the flask and unscrewing it for myself this time around. It seems bizarre thatthisis my first drink of the night. “I’ve got a whole summary of your miserable life on my phone already. I know your name is Janella Tamar Driscoll. Born February 23rd. Your blood type is B-positive. You were twelve years old when yourmother got pregnant and lost your baby brother-to-be. She was suffering from post-partum depression when your dear old Dad gave her the drugs that eventually led to her overdose. I know that he’s put you in the hospital before. I know you’ve bailed him out of jail more than once. Do I need to go on?”
The color has drained from her face all over again. The fire that had momentarily blazed in her golden-brown eyes has guttered out.
She gapes at me in horror. “That’s—you can’t just—”
“You won the lottery,devochka,” I remind her, handing the flask back to her. I refuse to overthink the endearment that slips out. “You should take some time. Take a bath. Sleep on it. Think about what would have happened if I hadn’t stepped in tonight. You think about what any one of those drunk bastards would have done to you. Maybe all of them, if Daddy had gotten enough money to let them take turns. At least with my name attached to yours, you will be Janella Yuri. You will be untouchable.”
Grabbing the gauze, I wind it around her arm. When I’m done, I tip her bowed head up with my knuckles beneath her chin. “You will never be a pawn again,” I say to her. “Not while you are mine.”
“I’mnotyours,” she rasps, pained.
I take a step backward, my head shaking. “Except that you are. Your own father sold you to me. Remember?”
***
After showing her the clothes that I had one of my men bring her—something warmer and more suitable for the weatherthan her skimpy little dress—I close the doors on Janella for the night.
Before I walk away, I give Ivan two explicit instructions:
1.No one is to enter without her permission.
2. She doesn’t go anywhere without mine.
Despite plenty of security, the penthouse feels like a ghost town after the heated match with my impromptu companion. Resigned, my feet lead me to my office.
All I’d wanted tonight was a little break from it all.
Instead, I find myself pouring out a drink like it’s the end of any other day. And when I drop into the immaculate leather of my chair, I’m more exhausted than before. I’ve got nothing to lose by clocking back in.
I pull up Miron’s contact on my phone and hit the dial button.
He answers on the second ring. “‘Sup, Iosif?” he asks. His mouth sounds full.
“Long night,” I say, half a warning. “Any news?”
There’s a brief pause on the other side. I pick up the faint sound of rustling from my younger brother’s end. He’s always squirming, antsy. Even in the safehouse I set up for him tonight. Trifon’s told him to shadow me as a part of his training while he’s on Thanksgiving break from school.
“He’s boring,” Miron finally answers. “Just moved some product through the Southie warehouse earlier. Nothing to write home about.”
I don’t trust that at all. I sigh but decide not to press. A part of mentorship is trusting his instincts—and, when it comesto it, letting him fuck up and learn from those instincts leading him astray.
“You good, bro?” he asks.
We really shouldn’t have let him go to an American university, no matter how well-reputed. He picked up way too many of their fucking colloquialisms.
Clearly, his instincts are fine, though. Then again, I’d rather chew broken glass than share with my baby brother how royally I’ve lost my mind tonight. “Just had a shit night,bratishka,” I tell him, always as honest as I can be. “You’ll report back the second anything changes?”
I’m positive I hear the crunch of a chip being gnashed between his teeth.
“Will do,” he says through his mouthful. “Why’re you calling? Isn’t the whole point of taking the night off to chill out? No running on fumes or whatever?”
