Page 56 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

“I’m sorry,” I say again quickly, putting on my most innocent voice. “I wasn’t looking where I was heading.”

The man stops his call and turns slowly. He looks like he’s in his forties, sharp jaw, calm eyes, the kind of face that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command a room. He studies me for a long second, then lifts a hand slightly.

The guards release me instantly. I stagger back half a step, forcing myself not to run; they’d catch me anyway.

Now that I’m really looking at him, the air around him feels… heavy. Powerful. The way his gaze pins me in place makes fear crawl up my spine, and I don’t scare easily.

His eyes swept over me, slow and assessing, as if he could see straight through the thin jacket, the hunger in my bones. For a terrifying second, I wonder if he knows I already stole his wallet.

He snaps his fingers at me. The sharp sound cuts through the drizzle and the low hum of traffic, leaving me blinking in confusion. For a second, I almost think he’s signaling his men.

When I don’t move, he speaks. His voice is rough, and there’s an accent in it, one I recognize instantly. Russian.

“Hand over my wallet, little thief.”

I shake my head quickly. “I—I didn’t take anything.”

His eyes narrow. He snaps again, sharper this time. “Do not test my patience, little boy. I can ask my men to search you. If they do, the consequences will be worse.”

My mouth goes dry. Igor flashes through my mind, the promise I made about dinner tonight. My fingers curl inside my damp sleeves. The way this man is staring at me… I’ll be lucky if I walk away alive.

Still, I force my shoulders back, swallowing down the fear clawing up my throat. Slowly, I reach into my dirty, damp coat, the fabric stiff with grime and rain, riddled with more holes than I can count. My fingers close around the wallet.

I pull it out. My hand trembles as I place it into his open palm. He takes it, weighing it once, flipping it open, checking the contents.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks calmly.

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Obviously,” he says dryly. “That is why you had the audacity to steal from me.”

He lifts his gaze back to me. “Do you know what happens to people who steal from me, boy?”

I swallow. “No.”

“They die.”

The blood drains from my face so fast I feel dizzy. My hands go cold, my knees threatening to buckle. I don’t want to die. Not yet. Igor can’t survive without me. And I still need to prove those idiots from our last foster home wrong, that I’m not trash, that I’ll become something.

He tilts his head slightly, studying my face. “What is your name?” he asks.

“Leonid,” I answer quietly.

A flicker of surprise crosses his features. “Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn,” I say automatically.

He shakes his head once. “Your roots.”

“Moscow.”

A faint, almost amused smile tugs at the corner of his rugged mouth.

“And your parents?”

“Dead.”

He nods, absorbing that. Then his gaze shifts past me, toward the alley. “The boy I saw you hovering around earlier. That is your brother?”