Nikolai positions himself near the door, giving me space but maintaining that watchful presence. I lose myself in the familiar routine of checking inventory, reviewing upcoming jobs, and making notes about supplies I need to order. For twenty minutes, I almost feel normal, almost feel like myself again instead of a prisoner in a gilded cage.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out absently, expecting another cancellation email or spam call. Maya's name flashes across the screen, and my stomach drops before I even read the message.
Aria, we have a problem. Cane knows you're staying at Nikolai Alekseev's house. He knows who Nikolai is. He wants the rest of the money by Friday or he's coming for both of us.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering against the stainless steel counter. The sound echoes through the kitchen like a gunshot, and Nikolai is moving before I can process what'shappening. He's across the space in three strides, his hand catching my elbow as my knees threaten to buckle.
"What is it?" His voice is sharp, commanding, the Pakhan fully emerged.
I can't speak, can't form words around the terror closing my throat. Cane Harris knows where I am. Knows who Nikolai is. And instead of being smart enough to back off, he's doubling down, demanding the rest of Maya's debt within the week.
24
NIKOLAI
Istand in the doorway of my study, my shoulder pressed against the frame with calculated casualness that belies the tension coiling through my muscles. The security monitor mounted discreetly in the mahogany paneling shows Lara Utkina's Mercedes gliding through my gate with the unhurried grace of someone who's never had to rush for anything in her life. The afternoon sun catches the vehicle's black paint, turning it into liquid shadow as it navigates the circular drive.
This meeting has been orchestrated with the same precision I apply to territorial negotiations. Aria needs allies in my world whether she's ready to admit it or not, and Lara is the key to unlocking doors that would otherwise remain closed. The woman has survived four decades in a world specifically designed to chew up and spit out anyone who shows weakness. If anyone can teach Aria how to navigate these treacherous waters, it's her.
My fingers drum once against the doorframe before I force them to stillness. Control. Always control.
Through the monitor, I watch Lara emerge from the car with the bearing of royalty. Her platinum blonde hair is swept into that signature chignon, not a strand out of place despite the breeze that rustles the trees lining my driveway. She's wearing emerald today, a color that makes her pale blue eyes even more striking. The diamond pendant at her throat catches the light as she moves toward my front door, and I recognize it as the Romanov piece she acquired under circumstances she's never fully explained.
I move through the house with purpose, arriving at the living room just as my housekeeper shows Lara in. Aria is already there, positioned near the windows with her arms crossed over her chest in that defensive posture I've come to recognize. She's wearing one of the dresses my people delivered yesterday, a simple navy wrap that emphasizes her figure without being ostentatious. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and one hand rests protectively on her still-flat stomach.
The sight of her makes something primal surge through my chest. Mine. She's mine, carrying my child, and I'll burn the world to keep them both safe.
Lara's entrance commands immediate attention. She sweeps into the room like she owns it, her gaze moving over Aria with the clinical assessment of a jeweler examining a stone. I position myself against the far wall, close enough to intervene if necessary but far enough to let this play out naturally.
"So," Lara says, her accent softer than mine but unmistakably Russian. "You're the woman who jumped into the ocean."
Aria's chin lifts fractionally, and I feel pride bloom hot in my chest at her refusal to be intimidated. "I am."
"Foolish." Lara circles Aria slowly, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor with metronomic precision. "Or brave. I haven't decided which yet."
"Does it matter?" Aria's voice remains steady despite the tension radiating from her body.
"Everything matters in our world, dear." Lara stops in front of her, those pale blue eyes boring into Aria's dark ones. "Where did you grow up?"
"Here. In the city." Aria doesn't elaborate, and I see Lara's lips curve slightly at the evasion.
"Family?"
"A sister. Maya. She's twenty-two."
"Parents?"
"Dead." The word comes out flat, final. "My mother died in a car accident when I was seventeen. My father left years before that."
Lara's expression softens fractionally, a crack in the porcelain mask. "So you raised your sister alone."
"Yes."
"And your business? Thyme and Tide?"
"I built it from nothing three years ago." Aria's shoulders square with pride. "Every piece of equipment, every client, every recipe. Mine."
I watch Lara process this information, see the calculations happening behind those pale eyes. She's measuring Aria against some internal standard, determining whether this woman haswhat it takes to survive in a world where weakness is a death sentence.
