Now that she is head of the Bratva, well, not many live to announce their disappointment with a woman being in charge.
My voice slips into that sickly sweet, high-pitched tone we used when we were kids—the kind that meant trouble was either already happening or about to. "Anything else I can help you with?"
Right on cue, a glass shatters.
A thick Polish accent booms through the office, sharp and furious, followed by an equally livid Italian voice shouting either "you motherfucker" or "I will fuck your mother." Hard to tell. I haven't taken Italian in two years.
"I take it negotiations are going splendidly," I mutter, flinching just as Nikolai casually dodges a flying elbow from the Polish guy.
Nadia lets out a sharp, exhausted sigh. I turn to look at her just as she presses two fingers to her temple, watching the scene unfold through the glass conference room wall with the sort of detached annoyance most people reserve for printer errors or traffic delays, not two guys trying to kill each other with their bare hands.
"Chinese food from Jade's, please," she says, voice tight. "And make sure you get Jakub his egg rolls. He's a pain in the ass without them."
I set my book down on my desk and stand, reaching for the worn puffer jacket hanging off the back of my chair. "Let me guess—beef lo mein for you and orange chicken for Nik?"
"Yup, and some pork fried rice for the rest of the fucking animals," she grumbles, already halfway to the conference room door before pausing. "Lily, make sure you take your time."
My eyes flick to the barely-contained chaos behind the glass—Jakub has a chair in one hand, and Dante is either ducking or dancing—and I nod knowingly.
"I'll let Ming know there's no rush."
"Take your time" is code. It usually means whatever's going on is too violent, too messy, or too confidential for me to be anywhere nearby. It's the only protection the Petrov siblings have given me in case anything goes sideways, plausible deniability.
I know just enough, but not enough to be indicted.
Not that I'm clueless about the family business—I was born into this life. My father was the right-hand man to Nadia, Aleksander and Nikolai's father, worked for the Petrov family until the day he died. After that, they took me in. Raised me like one of their own.
I owe everything to the Petrov family. My loyalty. My life. My full understanding of how to order Chinese food under pressure, and make that shit last long enough so that they don't have to worry about me when their entire worlds are crumbling around them.
I slide on my fluffy, yellow, waterproof, knee-high Hunter boots—the storm-proof kind that make me feel like a ray of sunshine marching through the gloom of the city. My purple puffer jacket with mini daisies all over is zipped. Book open. Chapter almost done.
I head toward the elevator, flipping to the last two pages.
I glance up. Despite us being on the 80th floor, the elevator is still down in the lobby. Perfect. More than enough time to squeeze in one more page before I brave the January freeze of New York City.
Hands down, it's the most beautiful time of year—icy skyline, gray light bouncing off glass buildings, everyone bundled like modern-day marshmallow soldiers—but I freeze my ass off every single day. Without fail.
I tilt the book slightly toward the elevator lights. I'm in the middle of that scene—spoiler—where Tom is standing alone in that eerie, velvet-draped room, and he realizes, all too late, that the thing watching him isn't just a man. Not anymore. Not after what he's seen. Not after what he's become.
The elevator dings.
I wait the obligatory five seconds for the doors to glide open—because apparently I'm polite like that—before stepping inside and walking smack into something solid and unexpectedly warm.
I stumble slightly, my book slipping from my fingers, and come face-first into what can only be described as a brick wall wrapped in expensive wool and cologne.
Strong hands catch me by the waist before I can do something truly humiliating, like slide down his chest and apologize to his shoes.
"What have I told you about reading and walking, Moya?" comes the deep, unmistakably amused voice, thick with the rasp of his voice as if he just woke up this morning with the exact formula of how to get my heart racing in my chest.
I don't even have to look up. My spine already knows. My skin already knows.
But of course I do look up, because I'm weak and nosy and human, and there he is—leaning down slightly to meet my eyes, his mouth curved in that lazy, smug smile that says he enjoyed this far too much.
His dark hair is still damp from snow or sweat or sin and clinging seductively to his forehead, and his black cashmere coat looks like it costs more than my rent, is open revealing a black hoodie and a gray scarf hanging around his neck.
I inhale—pure instinct—and his scent hits me like it always does: all warm spice, clean linen, and smoke. It invades my senses and coils low in my stomach, flipping it in that wild, chaotic way it always has around him.
My body, as usual, completely short-circuits.
