Maybe it’s time for me to see who they’ve left me with and where I am.
Cautiously, I open my eyes, allowing them to adjust before looking around. The room is white, but the lights are dim so it’s not blinding. I’m facing a bare wall, and I very slowly, carefully, turn my head.
The room isn’t overly large, and it’s bare of anything other than the bed I’m lying on. The rustling is of the guard outside the room, so I’m alone here. He’s not as large as the men I killed at the airstrip, but he’s still six feet, and looks in good shape. Something tells me he’ll be just as difficult to take down.
I scan the room, looking for the cameras, and finally spot it in the corner to the right of the door, a tiny gleam in the bright room’s small shadow. It’s cleverly hidden, and that tells me Tatiana or whoever is monitoring that camera will know I’m awake.
I turn, sitting up slowly, giving the appearance that I’m still not steady. Still weak. I look around the room once more, trying to see if there’s anything that I missed on the first look around. Nothing immediately stands out, but I wouldn’t put it past them to hide something else. Depending on how long they keep me in here, I’ll have to search it carefully.
Footsteps sound outside the door, putting me on alert. Here we go.
I can’t see past my bodyguard’s head, but I hear the low murmur of voices. It’s less than a minute before the door is open, and a woman steps inside. She’s tall, close to six feet, wearing all black, and her dark brown hair hangs just to her shoulders, cut into a sharp bob. Her eyes are forest green with minimal make-up.
That look in her eyes, though, can’t hide who she is. The moment our eyes connect, I can see the amusement; darkness lurking just under the surface.
Fuck, it’s still jarring realizing how easily she can transform into someone else. She doesn’t look at all like her natural self, doesn’t even hold herself the same way. The question now is who has she changed for? Do the people here work for her and she uses this persona when they’re around? Or is this for whoever she’s working with?
“You’re awake,” Tatiana states briskly. Wait, is that a Canadian accent? “Good. We have somewhere we have to be, so get up and let’s get going, eh?” She turns on her heel.
Part of me wants to be defiant, stay exactly where I am, but curiosity is getting the better of me. I stand, stiffening my jellied knees, and follow her. She’s waiting for me, and she doesn’t even glance at the guard, who watches us curiously.
We make our way down a winding set of windowless and doorless hallways. The walls are also stark white, but the lighting is lower, casting shadows, and the floors are dark concrete. My shoes barely make a sound, but Tatiana’s heels click sharply with each step, echoing around us. It sets my teeth on edge. The guard follows us, staying a safe distance behind me, but I can feel him, and also hear the slight scuffing of his shoes since he doesn’t pick up his feet the entire way. I can feel his eyes on my ass, too. I manage not to show my revulsion, keeping my expression blank, but I really want to turn around and punch him in the face.
Finally, we end our jaunt at a set of large doors. Tatiana opens one of them, steps back, and waves me inside. I give her a narrowed-eyed glare, letting her know that I’m not impressed with whatever show she’s trying to give, but her expression remains bland. I don’t know what kind of trap I’m walking into, but I’m ready for whatever bullshit she’s throwing my way.
Walking past her, I enter the room, taking it all in quickly. The room isn’t overly large, with a large desk directly in front of me, filing cabinets along the left wall, and the right wall lined with bookshelves holding binders with no labels indicating what they are. It’s the man behind the desk, and the bodyguard to his left, watching me distrustfully, that has my full attention.
Everything about them screams danger, setting my nerves on edge. The guard is large, standing close to Alonzo’s height, maybe an inch shorter, but just as large with the size of hismuscles. A pang hits my chest at the thought of Alonzo, but I shove it down ruthlessly. I can’t afford any distractions. His hair is short, black, and spiked with enough product that it almost gleams, and his eyes are bright blue, watching me cautiously, suspiciously.
He’s not the one in charge, though. That would be the man behind the desk. The one watching me with a cold, neutral expression. Now that I’m looking at him closer, the two of them have to be related. Both share the same bone structure, the same blue eyes, and the same full lips. Brothers, probably.
This brother, though, he’s the leaner of the two, but far more dangerous. He focuses on the use of his skill and power, not his size to make someone fear him. Hell, would he even have to with that scowl on his face? He reminds me a lot of Nico, but this guy has a grittier edge, something dark and dangerous lurking under the surface that Nico just doesn’t have.
Something I’ve seen most of my life in the face of a lot of Russians that have come across my path. Bratva. They have to be Bratva.
The big question is what they want with me?
“Ms. Antonova,” the man behind the desk rumbles in a low voice. I don’t reply to that, stopping six feet away from the desk. I want enough room to move if they try anything. Damn Tatiana for letting me come in here without any of my weapons. Something tells me that they aren’t going to be easy to take down. “Or do you prefer to go by Aurora O’Brien now?” he continues.
Again, I say nothing, just watch him.
The one behind him gives a small chuff of amusement. “I like her,” he tells his brother. “She’s not afraid or impressed with you at all.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know who I am.” The man behind the desk rises to his feet, hands bracing on top of thedesk. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Antonova?” When I say nothing, he makes a small sound of annoyance. “Fucking assassins,” he mutters.
Well, I guess that answers the question of why I’m here. But why isn’t Tatiana doing this job herself? Why is she putting me forward?
He must realize that I’m not going to speak, so he states, “I’m Ilya Romanov.”
I know that name. I know it very well. He’s one of Timur’s main rivals. As Pakhan, he runs all of Oregon, into Washington, and from the rumors I’ve been hearing, he wants to expand that into California, possibly into Canada. He’s the biggest player on the West Coast, and if he’s involved in whatever scheme is about to be told to me, it’s not anything small.
It’s going to be deadly.
Another snicker from the brother. “See? Not fucking impressed.” I quickly search my mind for his name until I finally remember. Zakhar—Ilya’s right-hand man and just as crazy as his brother.
Ilya gives his brother a quelling look, but his brother just grins. He’s like Alessio somewhat, but his darkness is right under the surface instead of hidden deep. Not to mention, I doubt he would ever dare to call his brother Boo Bear or some other ridiculous nickname. It’s the quickest way to end up in a shallow grave.
Loyalty in the Bratva is to the organization as a whole, not necessarily the family, like the Mafia.
