Several dark SUVs wait by the curb, serious men waiting outside. Their guns aren’t visible, but I know they’re there, ready to be pulled out at a moment’s notice.
And then I see it as I climb into the SUV with the door open for us: a small, distinctive tattoo on the wrist of one of Viktor’s men standing guard for us. It’s a stylized raven. I’ve seen it before on Viktor’s men. I’ve also seen it on Viktor. It’s the exact figure as the crest of the Antonov Bratva Viktor regularly wears pinned to his lapel. I’ve also seen his tattoo with the same symbol, emblazoned on his chest just over his heart.
The memory of the two masked men reaching for us flashes into my head. Because, on the wrist of the one trying to grab me, I saw the same tattoo.
My stomach lurches. A cold wave washes over me, more frigid than the fear of the chase. “Viktor.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “The men who came after us had a tattoo like that.”
I point at the guard’s wrist tattoo.
Surprisingly, Viktor doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, I see a flicker of something akin to shame, quickly masked by his usual impenetrable facade. His jaw tightens further.
“They were,” he finally admits, his voice low, almost a growl, “rogue elements. They will be dealt with.”
Rogue elements. The words ring hollow. This wasn’t some random attack, and Viktor already knew someone from his crew tried to kidnap me. The realization is a bitter pill, confirming every doubt, every fear I’ve had about his world.
The dark clouds have broken open by the time we get to the Chelsea house. Rain on the car windows fragments the light, and the streets are wet, reflecting the streetlights that have just flickered on.
For the first time since Eliza and I moved in, Viktor’s house feels like a sanctuary, albeit one now buzzing with a new, heightened sense of security. More men, more watchful, patrol the corridors. The air is thick with unspoken tension, a stark contrast to the usual quiet luxury.
“Holy shit,” Suzie whispers to me, her gaze taking in the unbelievable luxury that has the gall to call itself a “town house.” “Not even the partners have homes like this.”
“It is kind of insane, isn’t it?”
“So, like, what’s your deal, Iliya?” Suzie asks suddenly. She’s always been fearless, even with men like Iliya. “Are you always this stoic? Or do you have a secret passion for something weird, like interpretive dance? Do you perform on open mic nights in the Village or something?”
Iliya turns, a flicker of something almost like amusement in his usually impassive eyes. “My deal, as you call it, is to ensure the safety of those under my protection. And no, I do not have a passion for interpretive dance.”
Suzie giggles. “Aww, come on! Not even a little bit? What do you do for fun? Do you, like, knit tiny sweaters for attack dogs?”
Iliya’s lips twitch, a rare, almost imperceptible smile. “I do my job. I train. I observe.”
“Observe?” Suzie raises an eyebrow. “Like people-watching? Or are we talking surveillance-level observing?”
“Both,” Iliya replies, his gaze briefly meeting mine before returning to Suzie. “It is important to understand patterns, to anticipate.”
“He’s very good at it,” I interject, a small smile forming on my face. The easy banter between Suzie and Iliya, so unexpected, is a welcome distraction from the lingering fear.
“I bet he is,” Suzie says, her gaze taking in the large bear of a man. “Do you like to read? I bet you read Russian literature exclusively. No, wait, I know—” The look in my best friend’s eye suddenly makes me nervous. “You readPeoplemagazine, don’t you? I bet you secretly love celebrity gossip. It’s part of ‘understanding patterns’ and ‘anticipating,’ isn’t it?”
I rub my face in embarrassment. I have no idea how long Iliya’s patience rope is, but it has to be fraying by now, except I swear I see an actual smirk curl at his mouth that he covers by turning to meet the footsteps coming toward the room. One of the guards passes by the threshold, then continues.
“So Iliya,” Suzie presses, “how long have you known Viktor? Do you know what he was like as a kid? Was he, like, a tiny little mob boss in training? Did he extort lunch money from other kids?”
Iliya lets out a low chuckle, a noise that almost shocks me into saying something. “ThePakhanwas disciplined. Even as a child. He always knew what he wanted. And he always found a way to get it.” He pauses, his gaze distant, as if recalling old memories.“He and his brother, Andrei, were inseparable. Like two sides of a coin.Pakhan, the mind. Andrei, the force.”
My ears perk up. Andrei, Viktor’s brother.
“ThePakhanwas always the quieter one,” Iliya continues, his voice thoughtful. “More calculating. Andrei would charge head-first into a fight. But thePakhanwould plan how to win it before the first punch was thrown. They complemented each other. Viktor trusted him implicitly, more than anyone, I think.”
A subtle shift in Iliya’s tone catches my attention. A hint of something unsaid, a shadow. My instincts, honed by years of navigating difficult situations, prickle.Trusted.The emphasis on the pasttenseis almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A tiny seed of unease plants itself in my mind. Was it simply a slip or is there something more to it?
“Brotherhood is the most important thing in our world, the world of thevory v zakone,” Iliya says, his voice softer now. “No matter what, brotherhood above all else.” He glances at me, a strange expression on his face. “But sometimes, loyalty can be complicated, especially when the stakes are high.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.My unease deepens. It’s a vague feeling, a whisper of caution, but it’s persistent, and a sudden chill skitters across my neck.
I push the thought away—what the hell do I know about all of this? It’s probably just the lingering fear from the attack, making me paranoid.
Viktor appears, his phone still pressed to his ear, his expression grim. He ends the call, his eyes immediately finding mine. He crosses the room and pulls me gently to him. His arm wraps around me, a silent, comforting embrace.
