I lean back in my chair and study his face. He’s scared but trying not to show it, even though his hands are shaking. “What do you think, Kelly?”
How do you tell someone that your family built the Russian underworld? That the Avrorin name goes back generations, that we didn’t just join thevor v zakone; we helped create it.
My ancestors wrote the codes others still follow.
When my father moved us here, I was ten. He didn’t abandon what we had in Russia. He expanded it, took centuries of power, and planted it in American soil.
I don’t just solve problems for my family. I prevent them. People call me an enforcer, a cleaner, a spy. They think they understand what that means. They don’t.
I’ve done things that would make career killers lose sleep. Things that keep this empire running smooth and quiet, the way he wants it. The way it has to be.
“The truth is always worse than what you think. Now get up.”
I got what I needed, and this should end here. I should drop him off and never see him again.
“Wait—”
When I walk out, he scrambles after me, his shoes scuffing the hallway as he catches up just as I press the elevator button. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there glancing at me, then back to the floor. When the doors open, I step in and hit the button for the garage.
He hesitates again, then follows.
The second the doors open, he stops hard. “I’ve never seen cars like this. Not in real life. Only in movies. What is this place? Do you work here?”
I keep walking while he’s staring around the garage.
His gaze lands on my black Aston Martin Valiant parked in the corner.
“I don’t work here,” I say flatly. “My family owns this entire building and the club.”
“Oh. Right.”
I walk to my car and open the door for him. “Wait. Wait, did you get us through the line? I came here with someone. I forgot all about her.”
So many questions.
I glance at him. “She’s fine. Text or call her.”
He fumbles for his phone and walks a few steps away, putting it to his ear. I stay by the door, still holding it open. He comes back a minute later, looking guilty.
“She said it’s fine. She met some guy who wants to take her home.”
Fucking Mikhail. I told him to distract her forfiveminutes, not take her home.
“Get in,” I say, nodding toward the car.
He climbs in slowly. I shut the door, circle around, slide behind the wheel. His fingers are already on the dash inside the car, tracing across it wide-eyed. The engine kicks on, the sound slamming around the concrete walls.
He jumps, doesn’t even buckle. I lean across the console and grab the belt.
He smells like coconut-lime soap, the same scent that clings to his pillows. I snap the buckle in and pull back fast, jaw tight. Men are forbidden. My family’s made that clear. I buried that want so deep I stopped noticing it was there. But I’m noticing now.
Each time I press the gas, he grips the door handle tighter, knuckles white. “Christ,” he says, voice strained. “Please don’t drive so fast.”
I push harder on the gas just to hear him gasp a little more.
He finally looks at me, frowning. “Wait, I never told you where I live.”
No. He didn’t.
