ENG In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)

Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Dedication Foreword Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen

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Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Epilogue Upcoming

In the Beginning London Miller

Copyright © 2013 London Miller All rights reserved. ISBN: 1492708542 ISBN-13: 978-1492708544

For H. You believed in this when no one else would.

Foreword The Volkov Bratva: 1. Forsake his relatives—mother, father, brothers, sisters… Allow no family to come between your obligations to the Volkov Bratva. 2. Not have a family of his own—no wife, no children* Have no family to be used as a weakness. 3. Never, under any circumstances work, no matter how much difficulty this brings* Live only by means that are permitted by the Volkov Bratva.

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4. Help other thieves—both by moral and material support, utilizing the commune of thieves Hold the Bratva sacred; they are your only family. 5. Keep secret information about the whereabouts of accomplices Never betray the confidence of a fellow Vor. 6. In unavoidable situations, take the blame for someone else, buying the other person time for freedom Provide an alibi for a fellow Vor. 7. Demand a convocation of inquiry for the purpose of resolving disputes in the event of a confrontation between thieves If problems arise with a fellow Vor, bring the case to the Counsel. 8. If necessary, participate in such inquiries Provide evidence to support your claim against a fellow Vor.

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9. Carry out the punishment of the offending thief as decided by the convocation Once the convocation has reached a decision, mete out justice. 10. Not resist carrying out the decision of punishing the offending thief who is found guilty, with punishment determined by convocation Never hesitate to mete out punishment after a decision is made. 11. Have good command of the thieves’ jargon (Fehnay) Talk the talk. 12. Do Not gamble without being able to cover losses Do not bet more than you can afford to lose. 13. Teach the trade to young beginners Pass along knowledge to up and coming Vor. 14. Have, if possible, informants from the rank and file of thieves

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Even men in the lowest ranks can serve a purpose. 15. Not lose your reasoning ability when using alcohol Do not allow your choice of poison to skew judgment. 16. Have nothing to do with the authorities Never help police. 17. Not take weapons from the hands of authorities; not serve in the military To serve in the military is to be considered a suka. 18. Make good on promises given to other thieves Be a man of honor among thieves *At a meeting between high ranking officials in the Vory v Zakone, these rules were redacted.

Prologue 6:30 p.m. November 15, 1997 Michigan Home of Dr. Cameron Thompson Dr. Cameron sat in the comfortable chair behind his desk—a gift from his wife for their third wedding anniversary—staring at the ceiling as he tried to quell the sense of foreboding in his heart. Crayon drawings, both taped and framed, hung along the walls, bookcases, and even his desk. Even those pictures, ones that

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normally filled him with such joy and peace, could not take his mind from his worries. Several weeks ago, he had mistakenly learned something that was never meant to be revealed, a secret that he stumbled across in the course of his work… a secret that would be fatal for someone like him. No one could have predicted this turn of events, especially when it was a freak accident, but despite constant reassurances, he and his employer did not see eye to eye on the matter. Dr. Cameron knew that no matter how many promises were made, no matter how many times he swore to keep his mouth closed, he was a dead man. As a medical man, it was odd for him, knowing that at any moment, he would die. There was hope, of course, but not in this world. When he agreed to help the businessmen involved in the seedy side of the underworld, he knew that loyalty was important to men like these,

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especially when it dealt with their personal lives. But if he had learned anything from his time in their employment, it was that information was power, so as a last act of preservation, should anything happen to him, he kept his own secrets, knowing that one day, this information would solve a crime that would be forgotten over time. A crime, he thought with a bitter laugh. It was never easy planning the events after your own death. Sighing, he rubbed his tired eyes, wishing that the grueling tension would ebb, if only for a moment. Dr. Cameron had been living like a man with one foot in the grave, but none of his coworkers, nor his wife, had noticed his strange behavior. He was glad for that, knowing that if they had, they would ask too many questions, questions that he would be unable to answer without putting them all in danger.

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If his wife had noticed, she would have realized that he had set up a college fund for Lauren, enough for her to attend any school in the country. He had even made sure his insurance was up to date, knowing that once he was gone, Susan would need it. He fingered the gold band on his left hand, feeling the engraved words along the underside of it. Until the end… They were the same words that were inscribed on hers as well, the same words they had spoken on their wedding day. If he had any regrets, it was that he failed to keep his promise to her. He stewed in silence, wishing— “Daddy! Hide and seek!” Dr. Cameron blinked, smiling at his fiveyear-old daughter, Lauren, as she stood in the entryway, clutching a white and pink blanket in her tiny fist. She was tiny for her

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age, barely reaching his waist, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in energy. Between his hours at the hospital—and time spent worrying about his fate—he hadn’t seen much of Lauren and that brought another sharp lance of pain to his chest. To never see her beaming smile, to never read her another bedtime story, she was what he would miss the most. He had only just arrived home twenty minutes ago after a two day run at the hospital where he worked as the lead surgeon. Susan had run out the door to grab a late dinner, accustomed to his hectic schedule. Lauren had been occupied in front of the television, singing along to Blue’s Clues in her adorable high pitched voice. Dr. Cameron was tired, exhausted really, but he could never deny her anything, especially when time was running out. “One game,” he told her sternly but with affection, knowing that if she asked for ‘just one more’

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as she always did, he would cave. “It’ll be your bedtime soon.” With a quick peck on her cheek, he sent her off with a gentle push, making a show of covering his eyes and counting loudly. She scampered off, her giggles echoing through the empty house. He had no worries of finding her as she made a habit of always hiding in the closet near the front door, burying herself beneath their winter coats. When the sound of her running feet tapered off, Dr. Cameron stopped counting, stomping his feet loud enough for her to hear as he glanced around the corner. Sure enough, the door was cracked and he could almost hear her smothered laughter. “Now where oh where did my little Lauren go?” He called out, walking around the living room scratching his head. Out the corner of his eye, he could see Lauren’s brown hair for just a second before she scurried back out of sight, making him smile.

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Just as he circled around, intending to sneak up on her, the doorbell rang twice in quick succession, halting him in his steps. Dr. Cameron frowned, a number of possibilities of who might be on the other side running through his mind, making his heart race, but he quickly banished the thoughts. I kept my word. They might have been criminals, but the men he worked for were quite blunt with how they would handle anyone that crossed them. He had to believe, for the sake of his family that they would keep their word as well. Though he hadn’t been expecting any company, Susan might have invited someone over and forgotten to mention it. She was a local seamstress, and often did a lot of work for women looking to get their bridal gowns taken in or hemmed. More often than not, they came at all hours of the night, panicking

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when they thought they might walk down the aisle less than perfect. Dr. Cameron took one glance at the closet door, then pushed the curtains shielding the front porch to the side, gazing out the window to see who stood there. Two young men—probably in their mid to late twenties—one with a gleaming bald head, the other with a tiger head tattooed across his jugular, the skin still puffy and red from the new ink. They looked harmless enough, distinctly lacking the distinctive marks he had grown familiar with that might have sent Dr. Cameron into a panic. Yet anyone showing up at nearly seven in the middle of the night that he didn’t know was suspicious. He was tempted not to answer, pretend he wasn’t home and hope that they would leave in peace, but their gazes had already snapped to him, looking at him with a cold...was that determination? He knew then, without a

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doubt, that he was about to die. If he ran now, no one would be safe, not his wife, not his daughter, not even his coworkers. They never left any loose ends, it was their way. Tiptoeing back over to the closet, Dr. Cameron peered down at his daughter. “Stay quiet, Lauren,” he said in a hushed whisper. “No matter what you hear…no matter what happens, don’t make a noise, okay?” At her hesitant nod, he gave her a small smile. “Daddy loves you honey.” “Love you too, Daddy.” The words nearly brought tears to his eyes as he stared at her, committing her face to memory. If he were to die, there was a chance that he would lose all his memories of his time on earth, but he hoped that even in the afterlife, he would remember his daughter. With a heavy heart, he took a step back, pushing the closet door up to expel the crack, just leaving a sliver open that it wasn’t

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completely dark in there, knowing Lauren would be afraid. He quickly blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall, not wanting to show any weakness. He swallowed, clearing his throat, finally greeting his visitors with a tight smile. “How can I help you gentlemen?” He asked with a calmness he didn’t feel. “You’re wanted by the Boss,” the bald one said, his voice laced strongly with an Eastern European accent. Dr. Cameron stepped to the side, allowing them entry, angling his body in front of the closet. Thankfully, he was a man of above average height and build and was able to shield most of the door. “I didn’t know I needed escorts,” he said ruefully, keeping the men’s attention on him. Sure, it was not unusual for the Boss to call on Dr. Cameron. His job was to be available at any time, ready to fly out to New York at the drop of a hat.

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“You’re here alone?” The other asked, his eyes skirting the interior with a calculating gleam. He stopped on the television where cartoons were still playing then to the number of toys that were littered on the floor in front of it. “Yes,” he said quickly thinking on the spot, “my wife went out to grab dinner. She’s picking up our daughter from the sitter’s.” That answer seemed to placate the man. If Dr. Cameron was not thankful for anything else, he was thankful that the men here were dumb enough not to check. There was not enough time for him to take another breath before he was staring at the barrel of a gleaming silver handgun, a silencer firmly attached to the end of it. The one with the tiger tattoo smiled coldly, lowering the gun until it pointed at his chest. Dr. Cameron heard steps at the front door, a man entering the house, taking his bowler

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hat off and holding it in front of him. His eyes widened in recognition. He had assumed before, but now he had confirmation as to why he was about to die. With a sinister smile, the man said, “Suzhenogo konyom ne Ob’edyesh.” The enforcer pulled the trigger. As the first bullet slammed into Dr. Cameron, he stumbled backwards from the momentum of the bullet, clutching at his chest, blood seeping between his splayed fingers. Searing pain flared to life, the unimaginable agony taking his breath away. When the second bullet hit, he fell against the closet door, slamming it shut with a resounding click, but despite that sound echoing in his ears, he thought he heard Lauren’s soft gasp. Blood quickly began filling his lungs. He coughed it up, blood spraying past his lips as he tried uselessly to free his airway, even as his organs started shutting down.

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With an unwavering stare, he faced the man in charge that loomed over him, but his vision was growing hazy, his breaths shallow. Dr. Cameron didn’t beg. He didn’t ask for these men to spare his life because he wanted them to finish it, knowing that they would leave quickly once he was dead. He closed his eyes as the enforcer once again aimed the gun at his chest. He pictured his wife and daughter, smiling at him, remembering their love. His last coherent thought before the third bullet lodged itself in his heart was: At least they didn’t find Lauren.

Chapter one:

Welcome to New York 15 years later… “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay on campus?” Susan asked for the hundredth time since they had gotten on the interstate leaving Michigan. They had just passed the Welcome to New York sign and Lauren Thompson was secretly glad. Not just because she was eager to get out of the car after their nine hour long drive, but because her mom was more worried about this move than Lauren was.

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“It’s not too late to change your mind,” she went on. “I’m sure there are still some dorms left.” If there were, Lauren didn’t want to stay in them. She had read many a horror story about living in the suite style dorms at the universities in New York, so she didn’t want to chance the idea of paying a butt load of out of state tuition and fees, all to have a terrible roommate. “It’s fine, mom. Plus, if there were something wrong with Amber, I’m sure Ross would have found it when he did the background check on her.” Lauren smiled as Detective Thomas Ross stiffened in the front passenger seat, shrugging guiltily as all eyes turned to him. Ross was a Michigan police detective, working the job since before Lauren was born. He was of average height, and normally wore a stern frown when he was working on a case, but he had kind brown eyes

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with the standard army haircut that he refused to change long after he was out of the service. She wasn’t upset that he ran the background check, she wasn’t even upset that her mom was freaking out about her moving hundreds of miles away to attend the University of New York after being accepted after a year at Michigan State. For the last decade and a half, it had just been the three of them, a pseudo family brought together after the tragic death of her father. Ross had been one of the first responders, and from what they told her, he had been the one to find her. Since then, Ross had made a point of staying around in her life. At first, he would only stop by if there was a lead on the case, but he soon started dropping by just to make sure that Lauren was coping well. Soon, he was there every other day, maybe for dinner—he lived alone and his only sister lived two

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hours away—or if Susan invited him over. Sometimes, Lauren thought that there might be something more to their relationship, but Susan swore up and down that it was strictly platonic. He had been reluctant to come on the trip with them, always trying not to overstep any boundaries, but it took no time at all to force him into their van when Lauren guilted him by saying who would see her off and who would check the locks to make sure that no one could break in. “She has a point, Susan,” Ross interjected. “She knows what to look out for with strangers.” “I learned from the best,” she added, giving him a hi-five. Susan glared at him as they stopped at a red light, a sea of yellow taxis swarming around them. “Whose side are you on?”

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“Mine, always. Besides, I’ve been talking to Amber for weeks now and she seems pretty cool.” Susan still didn’t look convinced, if anything, her brown eyes seemed more terrified, but there was no arguing with Lauren when she had her mind made up. Susan always made a point to remind her that that was one of the traits she inherited from her father besides his eyes. Everything else, Lauren got from her. They were quite similar in appearance, both with light brown hair and high cheekbones, but Lauren always thought that’s where the similarities ended. Susan had a certain uniqueness to her features, the bow of her lips, the slant of her eyes, while Lauren just seemed...plain. She was not under the impression that she was ugly—she wasn’t one of those girls—but she didn’t think there was anything striking about her. She was just…normal.

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As they rode on, Lauren took out her phone, snapping a few photos here and there, feeling like the tourist that she was. They were so different, New York and Michigan. She had never left her small town in Michigan in her twenty years. With her mom working full time, Lauren hadn’t had the time to travel anywhere, though after graduating high school, she’d taken a year off. She took that time to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, though even now, she still wasn’t quite sure. The following year, she had enrolled at Michigan State, but even there, the past still clung to her and she wanted to escape it. So on a whim, she applied to NYU, always wanting to get out of her small town and start over in a bigger city. Breaking the news to her mom after being accepted hadn’t been as easy as Lauren thought it would be. She had sobbed about her, ‘baby growing up,’ and panicked a bit

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about Lauren being out on her own, but eventually she had caved and they began to go over the details of the move. Together, they scoured the internet for potential housing for her—after Lauren made it adamant that she didn’t want to stay in a dorm. She had eventually found a listing, advertising a brownstone apartment that wasn’t far from campus. Lauren had liked what she could see of the place, and after talking with Amber on the phone about potential costs, she had decided that it was the place for her. She’d done a Skype tour, Amber patiently going around the entire apartment with her laptop so she could see what the place looked like. “What if she’s very neat?” Susan brought Lauren out of her thoughts. “You know how you can be sometimes with all your junk.” “Untrue.” Very true. That was an understatement. Lauren’s room back home was cluttered with posters

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and knickknacks, clothes thrown all over the room, books stacked everywhere. If Amber was a neat freak, she would definitely hate having Lauren for a roommate. But then again, Lauren normally regulated her junk to just her room. “Mom, you’re freaking out more than I am,” she said on a laugh. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Susan gave her a watery smile as her eyes filled with tears. “Your father would be so proud.” Lauren smiled in return, feeling the familiar pang in her chest that bloomed whenever her father was brought up. She wished she could know if that were true. She looked back out the window, escaping into the bustling city life. New York City was just as beautiful in pictures as it was in real life. The city life did have a certain allure. Buildings seemed limitless in size as they stretched as far as the eye

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could see, flashing billboards called to tourists, so many depicting the best restaurants and the best hotels to stay at, models wearing the latest designs... But dear God the traffic. Nothing could truly prepare a person for the vehicles fighting for purchase along the busy streets, horns constantly honking, a few angry drivers yelling out their windows as they all waited bumper to bumper. After doing her research—mainly between the distance from her new apartment to school—Lauren knew that she didn’t really need a car, and now that she saw the traffic, she didn’t want one, knowing that she would be stuck in traffic for an eternity if she drove into the city. Another hour passed in silence—the time lengthened as they maneuvered through the throng of other cars, but blessedly they finally reached a row of brownstones, a small patch of manicured lawn with a tree planted

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in the middle lined in front of each residence. The street wasn’t too busy though they did have to park a few blocks up for lack of a better parking spot. Ross shouldered Lauren’s duffel bags, snorting when she offered to help. Climbing the steps, Lauren scanned the names along the buzzers, pressing the white button next to Amber’s name, waiting as it made a soft buzzing sound. “Hello?” A rather cheerful voice answered. “Hi, this is Lauren. I’m looking for Amber Lacey.” “Oh, come right on up. I’m on the third floor, first door on your left.” A loud whirring sound started at the door, then an audible click as the lock disengaged. Ross held the door open for them, making sure it was closed behind them before following. As they took the stairs, Lauren smiled at her mom.

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“See? You can’t get in the building without someone buzzing you in.” Susan gave her a droll stare. “And if a man just happens to look innocent and you’re coming through the door? He’ll act polite, maybe give you a coy little grin, and you’ll think nothing of it as he walks in behind you. Then…Bam!” She slammed her fist into her hand. “He murders you in the hallway with a golf club.” “How many episodes of CSI have you watched?” Susan sighed in defeat as they reached their floor. “Thomas, tell her what I’m saying is plausible.” “She’s right, Lauren. You have to stay vigilant when you’re alone. There are crazy people out here that won’t hesitate to hurt an innocent girl.” The seriousness of his words had Lauren nodding, but then he smiled and said, “But I do think I saw that once on CSI.” “Ha!”

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The door for apartment 33B was open, soft rock music carrying out into the hall. Lauren peered in, knocking as she caught sight of the girl sitting by the window. Amber was twenty-two and a junior at NYU, studying Art. She had warm brown skin, and a mass of curly hair that was dyed brown with blonde highlights. She smiled back at them, placing her paintbrushes in a tin of water as she brushed her hands off on paint stained jeans, stepping away from the easel. Tall and willowy, Amber had the look of an artist, dressed in a pair of boyfriend jeans and a white tank top, an artist’s smock tied around her waist. With a click of the remote, she turned the music off and approached them. “Nice to finally meet you, Lauren.” She had a light voice that had a slow drawl to it, not like the ones you heard in the South, but like the ones you heard on a beach in California. Her eyes were hazel, but a darker ring of

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brown encircled them. She gave a warm smile to Susan and Ross. “I’m Amber Lacey.” They each shook her hand, introducing themselves as they stepped further into the apartment, looking around. “This is it.” She said with a soft laugh, thrusting her arms out in a wide arc. “It’s not huge, but it’s bigger than most places in the city.” The walls were stark white, but the different eclectic pieces of art hanging around broke up the uniformity. How many of those, Lauren wondered, had Amber painted herself? There were books and art supplies scattered everywhere, some sitting in piles near the fireplace, others on bookcases, and even in random piles on the floor. Lauren liked it already. There was an L-shaped couch, large enough to fit six or more people comfortably

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set to face a giant flat screen that was mounted above the hearth. Dark hardwood floors were throughout the entirety of the place. In the kitchen were stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Ross, used to being a fix-it man, checked the water pressure and made sure everything was working in proper order, even going to work after Amber stated that a light switch in the kitchen wasn’t working properly. “I’ll show you your room.” Lauren and Susan followed Amber down a short hallway, where she briefly pointed out the bathroom that was just across the hall from her room. This room was also white, but the East wall was made entirely of exposed brick that Lauren absolutely loved. It was about the same size as her room back home, which was a detail that she hadn’t been expecting, but was ultimately pleased with.

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Back in the living room, the decision had been made. They hammered out the rest of the details, Susan handing over a check for the first four months rent, much to Amber’s surprise. “We’ll let you two talk and get settled,” Susan said as she and Ross were going out the door. “We’ll come by tomorrow when the truck arrives with your stuff to help you get settled in.” “Thanks, mom.” Susan smiled, drawing her into a hug that brought tears to Lauren’s eyes. “I guess it’s time for me to let you go.” Lauren touched the hand that Susan had on her face, seeing the fear and acceptance in her eyes. “You’re always just a phone call away. Ross too.” Ross smiled with a nod, taking his turn with a giant bear hug. “Go on,” Susan said. “Hang out and enjoy yourself. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

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Once they were gone, Lauren had a momentary surge of panic, knowing that everything was about to change, leaving the nest some would say, but as she breathed in theWell, air of her new home, she was ready and excited. “I was thinking,” Amber started when they were alone. “I was going to get your key made. How about we go sight seeing? I can show you around, that way you’ll at least know how to get to school before Monday.” “Sounds good.” *** New York was huge. This was a known fact, but to Lauren who lived in a city that was just fifty miles in either direction, she felt like she was in another world entirely. They had taken a cab to the inner city, Amber pointing out different shops and cafes as they went. They weren’t far from campus as Lauren had suspected, but she didn’t realize that they were as close as they were.

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Outside the cab, Lauren felt like a real tourist as she gawked at the sheer size of everything. Businesses were practically on top of each other, beautifully made signs trying to entice people inside. They followed the crowds, and Lauren breathed in the cool, crisp air. …Okay, maybe not crisp. Lauren could practically taste the exhaust in the air, along with the different smells that carried from the many restaurants that lined the sidewalk. Across the street, as she watched, a man flagged down a taxi, the cab coming to a rolling stop next to him, but another man rudely pushed him aside while yelling into his bluetooth. Welcome to New York, Lauren thought dryly. They found a place to get Lauren’s key done, which took no time at all, and since she hadn’t eaten since early that morning,

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they decided to stop at a pub Amber raved about. As they found a table, a clearly drunken man whistled at them. “Well, hellooo there, beautiful ladies.” He was slurring his words and it couldn’t be no later than—Lauren glanced down at her phone to check the time—ten minutes after five. “Chocolate and vanilla, just how I like it.” Lauren frowned, looking back at Amber who was rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” Amber said reading her thoughts, “happens all the time, especially when they’re drunk.” “And you just ignore it?” Lauren found that hard to believe. “I’ve lived here for five years. I’m used to it. Plus, it’s always amusing watching them make an ass out of themselves.” Lauren laughed as the waiter came over to take their orders. She found that Amber was

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easy company, enjoying the fact that they were becoming fast friends. As the day wound down, and they were back home at the apartment, Lauren was excited for what the year would bring. *** With help from Ross and the movers, Lauren was able to get all her belongings inside in less than a half hour, but getting everything organized was another matter altogether. Ross laughed, pulling out his toolkit to put together Lauren’s bedroom. “You have to be the laziest girl I know,” he said shaking his head. Lauren would have happily agreed, but Amber laughed, jerking her thumb back at her own room. “My mattresses are still on the floor because the frame is still in the box.” Ross looked to Susan. “Christ, there’s two of them.”

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“What happened to your last roommate?” Susan asked as Amber passed her a glass of lemonade. “She’s studying abroad in Italy for the year and after, I think she’s going back to stay with her parents after.” Susan shook her head, looking at Amber like she had been abandoned. “How long have you been alone?” With a shrug, Amber sat on the barstool across from them. “A little less than six months.” “That’s too long. A young girl like you shouldn’t be living alone. It’s not safe.” Lauren leaned in to stage-whisper, “She has a thing for Crime TV.” Susan reached for her, but Lauren darted out of the way with a laugh. “I’m serious. Promise me that you two will be careful. Lock the door at night, and the windows. No going on dates—Lauren I mean you—unless

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you give Ross his name for a background check.” “Mom!” But her shout of indignation was drowned out by Amber’s laughter. “If I give you names, can I have them checked out too?” “Absolutely.” “With that attitude, I’ll never be able to date anyone,” Lauren said with a huff. “No dating until you’re thirty anyway, young lady,” Ross said exiting her bedroom. “That’s like ten years of celibacy!” Lauren shouted, nearly laughing at the look of horror on Ross’ and Susan’s face. Amber seemed to find the whole matter hilarious as she collapsed back on the sofa. “Do we need to have the talk?” Susan demanded, not realizing that Lauren was joking. “She can’t be active, can she Thomas? I mean, there hasn’t been an opportunity, right?”

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Ross scratched his brow like he had been thrown for a loop. “I can’t answer that one. I would have known since I had a talk with a few of the boys—” “That was you!” Lauren cried glaring at Ross. “I wondered why Adam stopped talking to me.” “I never did like how that boy looked at you. Didn’t he have a reputation at school? I heard he was making his way ‘round.” “God, I hate small towns.” She scowled at the two of them. “Could you two be anymore embarrassing? I was just joking.” “Joking or not, you can tell me anything,” Susan declared climbing to her feet. “If you ever need someone to talk to.” Lauren looked to Ross, waiting for him to chime in as well, but he held his hands up, shaking his head. “No, thank you. Save that for your mother.”

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Hours later, Lauren walked them down, standing at the car as Susan immediately began sobbing, pulling Lauren into a hug. “I’m going to miss you. Promise to see me on all major holidays.” “I promise,” Lauren swore, her humor fading. This was it. It was her time to move on in the world and she was happy, but it was still painful to know that her mom wouldn’t be upstairs or waiting for her when she got home from school. “Take care of my mom, Ross,” she whispered as she was engulfed in his arms next. He pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. “You know I will and take care of yourself. Call me once in a while to let me know how you’re doing, okay?” “You got it.”

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With a final wave, they were driving off and Lauren was left standing there, smiling sadly, before returning to her apartment. Amber was waiting with a knowing look. “Do you want help unpacking? It’ll go a lot faster, then we can watch movies and eat ice cream.” Thankful that she had a pretty cool roommate, Lauren nodded. She definitely was going to love New York.

Chapter two:

Cafe Lauren’s alarm went off at 6:30. Reaching out blindly, she fumbled around until her hand landed on the switch to cut off the annoying racket. As the shrill ringing tapered off abruptly, she sighed and rolled back over, falling asleep within seconds. It went off again at 6:45, then at 7:00, and once more at 7:15, but she still didn’t make any move to get up. Her bed was too comfortable to leave, the warmth of her duvet wrapping around her like a cocoon. It wasn’t until a soft knock on her door made Lauren groan sadly, knowing that she

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should be getting up or her mom would come in there and force her up. She could vaguely hear someone speaking to her through the door, but the words were muffled through the wood and were gibberish to her sleep fogged brain. The door creaked open, soft footsteps bringing Amber to Lauren’s side. She reached out, tapping Lauren’s shoulder. Lauren asked for five more minutes, but the words came out in a series of monosyllables as she rolled over, squeezing her eyes tighter to keep out any more light. “Lauren!” She shot up, her heart racing as she stared wide eyed at Amber standing to her left. “What happened? Are you okay?” Looking amused, Amber shook her head. “I’m fine, but don’t you have class?” Lauren cursed, glancing at the clock on her nightstand, the one she had continuously pressed snooze on for the last hour. 7:25.

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Scrambling out of bed, she shot Amber a quick thanks—who was laughing in earnest at Lauren’s expense—and ran off to the bathroom, turning on the shower. As the water heated, she stood at the sink brushing her teeth. Normally, the minty foam helped push the remaining bits of sleep out of her head, but even that wasn’t helping this morning. There would definitely be no more watching sappy romance movies with Amber the days before my 8:15 class. Lauren showered quickly, deciding she just didn’t have the time to do anything spectacular with her hair, foregoing washing it in favor of rummaging through her closet for something to wear. Luckily, she had already packed her bookbag the night before, so as she returned to her room to dress, she was done and out the door fifteen minutes to eight. Scores of New Yorkers were out and Lauren finally understood why it was called

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the city that never slept. No one was moving at a sluggish pace—despite the unGodly hour—and there had to be triple the amount of people walking around than Lauren normally saw in her sleepy hometown. Just a few blocks from the art building where Lauren’s first class would be, she spotted a small cafe, nestled between a bakery and an office building. She might not have noticed it otherwise, but the glowing mug of coffee above the name of the place called to her. When the light changed, Lauren crossed the street, following the flow of traffic until she was just a few feet away. The heavenly scent of pastries and caffeine beckoned her closer and if someone were running naked across the street, she would not have noticed. The coffee shop was decorated in shades of taupe and ivory green, with tables lined along the walls, providing a walkway up to the counter. The display cases revealed

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buttery croissants, frosted tea cakes, and muffins that all looked fresh and appetizing. Lauren stood in line, turning her music down so the blasting song wouldn’t distract the businessman behind her as he spoke quietly into his phone. Her eyes flickered over the cases, trying to decide before it was her turn which pastry she would be getting. Pictures, some of coffee beans, others of inspiring quotes about the joys of the morning, were hung along the walls in black frames. Classical music played softly through speakers in the ceiling, a song she actually recognized from a favored movie of hers. She liked the place immediately, deciding that this would be her morning stop before classes, knowing she probably wouldn’t get up early enough to fix her own pot at home. When it was her turn to order, Lauren glanced over the menu—words scrawled in chalk along a board hanging from the ceiling. The cafe didn’t have the usual choices that

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were provided at places such as Starbucks, at least not that she could tell since the drinks were all named something unique. “What can I get you?” The girl asked giving her a friendly smile though she too looked exhausted. “Uh, I’m not sure,” she replied, a bit overwhelmed by all the choices. “What do you recommend?” “I’m a big fan of the Morning Ray—it’s an iced mocha and caramel frappuccino,” she explained at Lauren’s bewildered frown, “but if you want something a bit stronger, you can always go for the double shot espresso.” Lauren nodded, fishing out a bill from her purse. “Can I get the frappuccino then?” “Sure thing.” The barista rang her up, writing her name on a clear cup with the cafe’s logo stamped across the front. Paying, Lauren grabbed her change and stepped to the side, allowing the man behind her his turn.

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There weren’t many people in the cafe, a group of students in one corner, a woman with earbuds plugged into her ears typing furiously on her laptop, and on the other side, a boy that looked a few years older than Lauren typing on his Blackberry. Lauren took the time to glance down at her own phone, making sure she still had enough time. It was a few minutes past eight. Her name was finally called a few moments later. Grabbing her drink, she vaguely heard another name being called as well, but she was heading towards the rear where a small stand was set up with different addins. Taking a sip, she smiled at the decadent taste, but decided that she would prefer just a bit more milk in hers. Removing the top, she poured a small amount of half-and-half, tasting it again. Pleased, Lauren was turning to walk out, trying to put the top back on when she hit

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someone, a bit of the coffee splashing onto the crisp white shirt of the boy in front of her. “I’m sorry!” She blurted, hurrying back to grab a handful of napkins to blot at the saturation on his shirt, but she only seemed to make it worse. A warm, calloused hand covered hers, preventing her from rubbing further. He didn’t shove her away like she was expecting, but merely took the napkins from her. “It’s not a problem.” At the accent that colored his words, she finally looked up. It was the boy that was on his Blackberry. She blinked again getting a better look at him. A corner of his mouth curled up into a half smile at her embarrassment. A few days worth of facial hair dusted his cheeks and jaw, giving his boyish features a roguish edge. He was several inches taller than her

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and if she had to guess, he had to be around six foot four. “Happens to the best of us,” he went on, drawing her out of her thoughts. She blushed, realizing that she must have just been standing there staring at him. “I’m really sorry,” she apologized again. “Uh, I can pay you for the shirt?” He chuckled, waving away her offer. “No worries. I have plenty of these.” He tossed the wad of napkins she had been using to blot at his shirt into the trash. He didn’t seem angry and he looked like he truly meant what he said. Still she hesitated. “If you’re sure.” He turned back to look at her, eyebrows raised. “Positive.” Not knowing what else to say—or do—she started for the entrance. As she pushed the door open, she glanced back once more and to her surprise, he was standing in the same spot, smiling at her before turning and going

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back to his seat, returning his attention to his phone. *** Lauren found her Art History class with little fuss, though she had taken the stairs up to the top floor although her class was only on the second level. The room was nearly full with the twohundred or so people that had registered for the course. The auditorium style classroom could fit well over that amount with seats on the floor as well as two balconies where some students sat. Lauren found a place towards the middle of the room, choosing to sit next to the wall to access the outlet. As she was beginning to place her bag in the seat next to her, she paused at the last second, choosing to lean it against the wall instead. After her father’s death—especially in such a small town—people always stared, whispering whenever she passed them. If that

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weren’t enough, there was also the pity in their eyes, or the way they always used that soft tone with her, afraid that she might break if they were to treat her like any other person. During elementary school, she didn’t understand why people, mainly adults, treated her so differently. As a child, she felt like a freak, but as she got older, maturing and overhearing many a conversation about her as teachers gossiped, she heard the rumors. What they didn’t understand was that she didn’t remember the night her father was killed. Counselors suggested that she might have repressed the memory, saying that it was too traumatic for her to process, and for a while she was grateful for this. During her own readings, she read about how people couldn’t process the trauma, and that their minds would break. Back then, Lauren hadn’t wanted to brave the memories, afraid of what it might do, but

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now, she wished she did know. It seemed that in the last year, she craved more knowledge about that night, and it frustrated her that she was the only one that could provide answers. No matter how hard she tried to explain her lack of knowledge to the people she was around, they still thought she might suffer a psychotic break, so throughout middle and high school, she withdrew from everyone, finding solace within herself. But now in a new city, hundreds of miles away from where everyone knew her name, she could start over and make new friends who would know her for her and not for what happened to her family. Pulling her laptop from her bag, Lauren turned it on, drumming her fingers absently as she opened a new document, ready to take notes. Despite her fear that she might have been late, it seemed like the professor was the one that was running behind schedule.

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“This seat taken?” A pretty girl with inky black hair and gray eyes asked as she gestured to the seat next to Lauren. “No, go right ahead.” Professor Martin walked in then, hurrying over to his desk at the front of the room near the screen for the projector. He was a middle-aged man with dark stringy hair and wire rimmed glances. “Sorry, I’m late everyone.” He took a deep breath, digging through his satchel to pull out a stack of papers. He passed half of the pile to one side of the room, and gave the rest to the other side. “My name is Professor Robert Martin. In case you might be mistaken, this is Art History. If you’re in the wrong class, now’s the time to leave.” Only a few students left. “Good. We will not be doing much today, merely reviewing the syllabus and beginning the first section.”

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The syllabi reached Lauren and she took a stapled packet, passing the rest to her neighbor. She scanned the main bullets on the front, noting important dates that she would need to add to her calendar. “If you don’t already have it, I recommend that you buy your textbook as soon as possible. Tests and quizzes in this course will not only cover the lectures, but from the readings in the text as well.” The class went by quickly, Professor Martin going over the syllabus in its entirety and answering any questions. Their first powerpoint was on Mesopotamian Art, the pictures of crumbling stones with hieroglyphs etched onto them, Pyramid of Giza, and statues of animal headed gods and goddesses holding the class’ attention. When the seventy-five minute class was up, he dismissed them, hinting that their might be a pop quiz on the material he had covered in the near future.

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Lauren’s next class was American Literature which was well across the campus. It took nearly fifteen minutes to walk there, but as Lauren drifted through the crowds of students, not one gave her that worrying stare. For once, she was anonymous. Not the girl with the murdered father, just an average nobody and she couldn’t be happier. This particular class was eventful. Their professor—a woman that looked oddly like a gypsy courtesan rather than an academic teacher—asked them to introduce themselves and share a bit about their background. It was fascinating, seeing all the different students from all over the world in one class. Living smack dab in the middle of the USA, Lauren had never met such a diverse group before. With her classes over for the day, Lauren headed back to her apartment, speaking to Amber who was in her customary spot in

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front of the window, before retreating to her bedroom and collapsing on her bed. She would have to get used to waking up at the crack of dawn every other day, but until then… Lauren snuggled beneath her comforter and drifted off.

Chapter three:

The Group The end of the first week of school came sooner than expected, and Lauren was glad for the reprieve. She already had a paper due for her History class, and an upcoming quiz on Wednesday for Art History that she knew she would need to study for. But she was more nervous about meeting Amber’s friends than she was about the work for school. She could study for quizzes, research important facts for the paper, but there was no way to truly prepare to meet a group of people and get them to like you.

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Maybe she was psyching herself out early, but it was kind of important to her, especially since she would probably be seeing a lot of them at the apartment. Every week—or every other week when everyone couldn’t make it—Amber hosted dinner at the apartment. Whether it be takeout from one of the dozens of Chinese restaurants, or greasy, three thousand calorie burgers that the guys favored, they all got together to hang out. Amber was an excellent cook—learning all of her tricks from her mother who loved to browse recipes online. Lauren appreciated it, especially since the best she could do was make ramen noodles. Tonight she was making enchiladas, the kitchen smelling of ground beef and melted cheese, the entree waiting in the oven for the others to arrive. “Stop worrying,” Amber called from her spot on the couch, shaking her head as she

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watched Lauren leave her bedroom for the third time, her anxiety tangible. “They’re not all that amazing, believe me.” “I’m fine!” She wasn’t. She had changed her clothes at least a dozen times since she learned that’s Amber’s closest friends were stopping by. As she contemplated making one last dash for her room, just to make sure she looked okay, there was hammering on the door, like an army was trying to break through. Amber scowled, rolling her eyes. “The cavalry.” She pulled the door open, speaking warmly to everyone as she ushered them inside and over to where Lauren sat on the sofa, though one of the three guys lingered next to her. They all smiled and spoke before she made the introductions. “Guys, this is Lauren, my new roommate. Lauren, this is Matt.”

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Matt was lanky with a mop of curling brown hair and navy blue eyes, hidden behind a pair of black framed glasses. He was the shortest of the three boys and had a very endearing smile as he came forward to shake Lauren’s hand. He had on a graphic tee with a logo about computers, cargo shorts, and a pair of battered converse. “And my boyfriend Rob,” she said gesturing to the one standing next to her. Rob was the only one that was dressed up a bit, wearing a blue and white striped button-down and tie, with a pair of black slacks. His hair was expertly styled, with a part down the side, the wavy strands brushed back from his face. He looked a bit older than everyone else, maybe late twenties, and held himself a bit stiffly, but seemed friendly enough as he gave a short wave. “Tristan…” Now Tristan seemed to be the wild card of the group. He had that starving musician

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look: ripped jeans, scuffed boots, and a tshirt with an unreadable logo from too many washes across the front. Dirty blonde hair hung in disarray just below his ears, and the most peculiar feature about him were his eyes. One was green, but the other only had a spot of the color near his pupil, the rest a beautiful sky blue. When he moved forward to pull her into a hug, Lauren noticed the tattoos across the back of both hands, the bones perfectly outlined in black ink. “And finally, this is my cousin, Piper.” Piper was pretty in the classical sense with pale skin, a smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, vibrant ginger hair spiraling to the small of her back. If she wasn’t a model, Lauren would think that she was wasting her potential. She wasn’t overtly tall, but her heels made her legs appear longer. She had a perfect hourglass shape, and seemed to know just how good she looked by

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the way she carried herself. She smiled, but made no move to come near Lauren. “Food will be ready in a minute.” Rob followed Amber into the kitchen, offering his help. Piper picked up the remote to the flat screen and began flipping through channels lazily as she rested her chin in her hand. Matt and Tristan came around to sit, both collapsing down at the same time like it was choreographed, but while Matt tried to strike up a conversation with Piper, Tristan moved closer to Lauren. He stretched out , one booted foot kicked up onto the table, and began focusing his attention on his lap, whistling below his breath as he played an imaginary tune with his fingers curled slightly. “Do you play piano?” Lauren asked, indicating his hands with a tilt of her head. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, gazing at her appreciatively as he scratched at the slight scruff below his jaw. “Yea. Do you?”

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She shrugged. “I took a piano elective in high school. One thing I always remembered was the way she made us hold our fingers as we played.” “Oh God, don’t get him started,” Piper interjected as Tristan opened his mouth to respond, cutting off Matt as he was speaking to her. “Once he starts, he’ll never stop.” Matt looked a bit crestfallen as he lost Piper’s attention, making Lauren think that maybe Matt had a thing for her, but his expression cleared when a scowling Tristan lobbed a pillow at her, nailing her in the face before she could catch it. She threw it back with a smirk, starting a pillow war. Lauren tried to scramble out of the way without becoming a casualty, but Matt grabbed her, using her as a shield as the pillows began flying at him. It took Amber ringing a bell to make them stop. Everyone froze as they were: Tristan straddling Piper

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with a pillow in his fist, and Lauren holding one over Matt’s face, “If everyone is done,” she said amused as she looked to all of them, “the food is ready.” They scrambled up from their various perches, falling into their duties as they had done this plenty of times. One person grabbed plates, another silverware, glasses, and paper towels. Lauren fell in easily, the guys making it easy on her. Forming an assembly line of sorts, they loaded their plates full of food, then traveled back to the couch to start the movie that Rob had picked, though they hardly paid any attention to it as they started getting to know each other, or at least talking about themselves so Lauren could learn about them. It was easy talking to them, learning more about their individual personalities. They were quite an eclectic bunch, but their love for each other was clear.

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Rob—short for Robin, named by his grandmother who thought he was going to be a girl—and Amber had been together for a little over a year and a half. Rob attended law school for his final year, in hopes of becoming a district attorney one day. Not only that, but he was interning at a local firm forty hours out of the week as well. Despite the time constraint, he and Amber made time for each other. Piper and Amber’s fathers were twin brothers from Scotland, where Piper had inherited her red hair. Amber had had trace of red in hers before she took to changing the color with treatments at the salon. Piper was studying Journalism at the Art Institute, and was interning at a major magazine—thanks to her mother’s connections in the industry. As she spoke, Tristan had a habit of mocking, much to her irritation as she glared at him. Matt was the quiet throughout the meal, only speaking up when someone asked him a

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question directly. After a bit of prodding on Lauren’s part, she got him to divulge that he too was at Columbia—he shared an apartment with Rob—but he was hoping to transfer to MIT to study computer engineering since he was currently at the top of his class. That didn’t seem too surprising, judging by his shirt’s logo and the way his eyes gleamed with excitement when he talked about his new gaming system. Then, of course, there was Tristan who had to be the most laid-back member of the group, and the youngest at nineteen. And despite his predilection not to continue his education and with zero serious goal in his future, he and Matt were best friends. Whenever one or the other spoke, they had a habit of completing each other’s sentences, or understanding a joke that no one else understood. “I’m in a band,” he protested, taking a bite of his fourth enchilada, after Lauren asked

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what he planned to do with his life. “Me and three other guys. We play a few shows around the city, nothing major.” Piper coughed, like she was covering a laugh, but Tristan shot her a bird and continued. “When I’m not doing that, I work at my father’s shop over in Yorkville.” Unlike his father that drove an old school Harley Davidson with all the works, Tristan actually owned a car, though according to Matt, it was one crank away from being a dune buggy in Iraq. “I figure once I can’t do either of those anymore, I’ll work a boring ass nineto-five in a cubicle next Matt.” Matt chuckled. “We can be cube buddies.” “Kill me now,” Tristan complained, throwing a piece of bread at his head. Lauren found the attention on her after they had all finished. She didn’t know what to say really, but she did choose to tell them that her father had died when she was

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young—sparing them the details. When they asked what her major was, she said she was undeclared. “Then why are you in school?” Piper asked and Lauren could almost hear the condescension in her tone. Amber rolled her eyes, glaring at her cousin. “Not everyone has every single aspect of their life figured out at twenty, Piper.” “Next time,” Tristan said speaking to Lauren alone. “Tell her, ‘you do what the fuck you want.’” A little while later, after everyone had finished eating and were heading out the door, Lauren watched in bemusement as Piper and Tristan argued more though it seemed Tristan was just trying to get away from her as he flipped her off and brushed by her out the door. “What’s their problem?” Lauren asked when their apartment was empty again. She

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stuck around to help clean up, and straighten the kitchen. “Piper looks at Tristan like he’s her personal challenge. She’s used to getting whatever she wants, and right now what she wants is Tristan. But he won’t sleep with her.” “Because of Matt.” Amber smiled wistfully. “You noticed? Matt’s had a thing for her for a while, but either she just doesn’t care or is too preoccupied with her own life to see it.” They both stared down at the overflowing sink, then to each other. It didn’t need to be said. Rinsing them, they stuck them in the dishwasher. “He seems like a nice guy...” But even she could see that Piper wouldn’t normally go for someone like Matt. She didn’t seem like the type. “He’s a great guy, but...well you see how Piper is. She won’t give anyone the time of

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day unless you fit one of two categories. Be good in bed or able to further her career.” “Seriously? How does she even know if Tristan is...well, any good?” Amber laughed, looking at Lauren curiously. “We’re in New York. Everyone knows someone that knows someone. It doesn’t matter though. Tristan won’t touch her because of the bro code, at least that’s what he told me.” “You two seem so different,” Lauren said wiping down the countertop. “You seem so...mellow.” Amber shrugged one shoulder, hopping up onto the table. “Different upbringings, I guess. I was an only child and she has a little sister that’s like five years younger than us. Our fathers practically forced us to hang out. She wasn’t always like this, you know. Back when we were kids, we were inseparable, but sometimes life takes you in different

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directions. Everything happens for a reason, right?” That night, Lauren was still thinking over Amber’s words when she got the sudden urge to dig through one of the clear containers she had yet to unpack, retrieving the bubblewrapped picture frame. Taking her time, she ripped the tape off and unwrapped it, revealing the old photo of her and her father on her fourth birthday, set in a silver engraved frame, ‘Happy 5th Birthday’ in a cursive script along the bottom. She was sitting on his shoulders, grinning toothily at the camera. They were on the beach, the sun shining brightly in the horizon, reds and golds giving the water in the background a warm glow. It was the last present she had ever received from her father, one that he had wrapped and kept hidden in the hallway closet, the same closet she had been in

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that...clearing her throat, she blinked back tears, carrying the frame back to her bed. Lauren smiled, hugging the picture to her chest briefly before setting it on her nightstand so that it faced the bed. From this angle, it would always look like her father was smiling down on her.

Chapter four:

Diego’s Bar & Grille The following Wednesday, Lauren was hurrying across the street to the cafe, just avoiding getting run over by a taxi as it ran a red light. She had gotten up earlier than usual, wanting to have a short study session before the quiz in Art History. Reaching for the handle of the cafe’s door, another hand snagged it at the same time. She glanced up in surprise, spotting the guy she had spilled coffee on her first time here.

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He seemed to recognize her at the same time, his smile growing wider as pulled the door open for her. “So we meet again.” She smiled back, the warm scent that seemed to cling to him enveloping her as she stood close to him. Outside, his blue eyes seemed lighter, like cerulean, but now, under the low lamps, they were almost turquoise in shade. She must not have noticed just how pale his blue eyes were the last time she had run into him. They contrasted the darkness of his lashes and wavy hair. “Hopefully this time I won’t spill anything on you.” He chuckled, following her inside. “Then I’ll have to think it’s your way of getting me to take my clothes off.” Instead of standing behind her, he stood to her right, his chiming phone capturing his attention. While he was occupied with his Blackberry, she peeked over at him, taking a good look.

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He had that lazy, put-together look, a gray knit T-shirt, dark slim-fitting jeans that were cuffed over a pair of boots. The dark clothing only seemed to make his eyes appear brighter. He had the same amount of scruff that he’d had the week before, a square jaw, chiseled cheekbones. In all honesty, he was gorgeous, like take your breath away and just stare for a while, gorgeous. Yet, there was something a bit dangerous about him that Lauren couldn’t put her finger on. It seemed like his presence was magnetic, and she felt compelled to be near him. “I would hope to think you like what you see.” Lauren snapped out of her thoughts, blinking rapidly as she realized she had just been standing there, staring at him…again. Clearing her throat, she tried for a smile, extending her hand. “I’m Lauren.”

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A corner of his mouth tipped up as he pocketed his phone. He took her hand in his much larger one, his hold gentle as he swept his thumb across her knuckles. For a moment, it felt like they were the only ones in the cafe as she stared up at him, captivated by the sheer curiosity she saw in his eyes. Was this what it was like? That instant attraction? She had never felt breathless before, had never felt more than a casual interest in a boy, but right now, standing in front of him, blood rushing to her face, this was definitely more than a casual interest. “Mishca Volkov,” he answered softly, like it was only meant for her to hear. A throat cleared behind them, a man appearing to be on the razor’s edge as he gestured for them to move forward. Lost in the moment, Lauren hadn’t noticed that the line had gone up. Smiling apologetically at the man, she withdrew her

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hand and stepped up. She could still feel the press of his skin against hers. “So...I’ve never heard your accent before,” she said once she was sure the man wouldn’t be mowing her down to get to the register. He chuckled. “It’s Russian.” “Really? It’s not like any of the Russian accents I’ve heard.” He looked amused “If you’re talking about that angry barking you normally hear in movies, not all of us sound like that, I assure you.” That was true enough. His accent was smoother, it flowed easily with his words. “Besides, I’ve lived here for years.” They stepped forward as two people stepped out of line after ordering. “I wager you’re not from here either.” She shook her head, smiling ruefully. “What? Is it the accent?” He grinned, revealing a set of charming white teeth. “Just so.” “I moved here from Michigan.”

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“Seems pretty far, no?” Mishca asked. She shrugged. “NYU is a great school.” Mishca didn’t have a chance to respond as it was Lauren’s turn to order. She thought about trying out another of their drinks, but thought better of it, ordering her usual, but asking that they add more milk. She didn’t want a repeat of what happened the last time she was here with him. Though it had seemed like she had been in the cafe for a while, only ten minutes had passed since she walked in, still plenty enough time for her to go over her notes. She found a table in a relatively private corner, going over the pictures in the slideshow, but ever so often, she glanced up at Mishca over the top of her screen. He was still up at the register, leaning against the counter, with his arms folded over his chest, oblivious to the girls all swooning over him. She couldn’t fault their blatant attempts to get his attention because

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she knew that if she was a bit more confident in her looks, she might have tried something more with him, but she was satisfied nonetheless because for her, having a conversation without tripping over her words with a guy that looked like that was good enough. Shaking her head, she turned back to her computer, focusing on the images, trying to pinpoint one specific element of the photo to remember it by, a trick she had picked up on in middle school. “Do you mind?” Lauren blinked up in surprise as Mishca stood just across from her, gesturing to the empty seat at her table. Butterflies fluttered to life in her stomach, but she shook her head anyway. There was something different about standing in a line and talking to a stranger, but they were no longer amongst a crowd of other people. This felt slightly more intimate, sitting together, a few tables away from anyone else. Maybe it

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was for this reason that her momentary bravery in talking to him was wavering because as he sat across from her, she felt consumed by his presence at a loss for words. “So you’re a student then?” He asked, taking a sip of his coffee, steam billowing from the lid. “Yea. Are you?” She kind of hoped he was, thinking that she might see him around on campus. “No, I graduated a couple years ago.” So that would make him about twentythree? Twenty-four? Not that much older than her. “You’re up so early though.” He traced the rim of his cup with his finger, and just on his inner forearm, she could make out a line of script inked into his skin. “I can sleep when I’m dead.” She nearly choked, making him smile. “That’s a bit morbid.”

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He laughed, glancing at her computer screen. “ Hammurabi’s Code. Let me guess, Art History?” “You knew that just by glancing at it?” “My step-mother insisted that I take a few art courses. I actually hated Babylonian art because on every test dealing with it, I always got the question pertaining to him wrong.” “Seems fair enough that you remember him now,” she replied. He rolled his eyes, looking over the rest of the photos in the slides. “You have no idea.” He drew closer, using his hand to point out different things about the slide that she committed to memory, but as she tried to stay focus, her attention was stolen by the whiff of the cologne he wore. At least, she thought it was cologne. He had a warm, musky scent, like sandalwood and it was hard not to just lean into him and inhale

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deeply, but even with her lack of social skills, she knew that would probably creep him out. So instead, she paid diligent attention to his tips as they went over each, glad that he was pointing out certain details that she might not have paid attention to otherwise. He was easy enough to talk to, making her lose track of time until her bell rang when a young couple walked in. She glanced down at her phone, almost saddened that she had to leave. “Oh, I’ve got to go,” she said grabbing for her bag. Mishca leaned away, giving her space to pack her things away. Once she was finished, he stood as she did, making her blush at his attentiveness. “It was nice to meet you, Mishca.” They stood just outside the cafe, facing one another. He seemed just as reluctant to leave as she felt.“Maybe I’ll see you around, Lauren.”

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Before she could walk away, he took her hand in his and kissed the back of her knuckles lightly, then turned and strode off in the opposite direction. Lauren didn’t think her feet touched the ground on her way to class. *** Classes were over relatively quickly and Lauren was sure she passed the quiz with a high B, if not an A. Afterwards, though, instead of going home, she took a cab into the city putting her hair up into a high ponytail to give it some semblance of order. It was nice that her mom had offered to pay for everything, even with the sizable college fund that her father had left behind, but since she refused to talk about it, Lauren wasn’t sure how much was actually left. Not wanting to be a burden, Lauren had told Susan that she would try to get a job to help out, despite her protesting. When she wouldn’t give up, they came to an

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agreement—reluctantly, that if Lauren was able to find a job where she was only working part time, and it didn’t interfere with her studies, she could get one if she wanted. So job hunting it would be, but she wasn’t prepared for the sheer number of people that were also looking for jobs, and the sheer number of places to hunt for one. Hours passed, and several ‘we’re-nothiring-right-now-but-we’ll-take-an-application’s later,’ Lauren was frustrated, knowing that their declinations were no doubt because of her lack of job experience. They wouldn’t care that her mom had been too afraid for Lauren to leave for so long that she had never bothered with trying to find a job. She had only given up on her stronghold after Ross had talked to her. Ready to give up, she was hailing a cab when she spotted a lone restaurant on the corner, its name written in perfect cursive letters on a black and white banner.

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Diego’s Steak and Grille. She stood there for a moment as the taxi was rolling to a stop next to the curb. She could assume they would say the same things about not hiring at the moment and take the taxi home, or she could hope for the best…the latter won out. Stepping inside, Lauren smoothed a hand over her ponytail as she approached the waitress standing at the podium. Her name tag read Tara. She was pretty with mocha skin and long black hair. She wore a fitted black dress that reached her knees and a small black apron over it. At Lauren’s approach, she smiled warmly, asking, “Hello, how may I help you?” “Hi, I was wondering if you all were hiring?” Tara’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked around the corner towards the bar. “I’m not sure. Diego might be since a few girls quit recently. I can ask if you want?”

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She nodded eagerly. “One moment.” Tara sauntered from behind the podium, hurrying over to the bar where a towering, muscular man with a mohawk stood pouring shots. She spoke softly to him, pointing back to where Lauren waited. His gaze flickered up to Lauren briefly then he nodded, sending Tara back over. “Diego wants to talk to you.” Lauren followed her over, trying to keep a smile on her face as she mentally went over a checklist of how to act. True, she had never been on a job interview before, but there were certain things a person just knew. Stay calm. Be polite, respectful, and be sure to make note that I’ll be a hard worker. The bartender, Diego, wiped his hands on a white dishtowel, slinging it over his shoulder as he gave her a pleasant smile. “I’m Diego, owner and bartender. What’s your name?”

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“Lauren Thompson.” She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. Have you ever worked as a waitress before?” Lauren shook her head, remembering the way the others had asked this, and it going downhill from there. “No, but I’m a very quick learner.” He smirked, scratching at his graying beard. Tara was hovering nearby and seemed to be trying to convey a message to him with her eyes. “How often can you be here? I need someone available most nights and weekends, and no requesting off on Fridays or Saturdays.” “That’s fine.” It wasn’t like she would be going out much. “Don’t say that,” Tara said with a laugh. “Or he just might keep you here.” “Nope, she agreed.” Diego arched a brow, sticking out his hand again like a challenge. “The job is yours if you want it.”

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Tara was shaking her head, but was smiling. Lauren narrowed her eyes on Diego. “Can I get one Saturday?” “Negotiation. I like it. Two Sundays.” “One Friday and one Saturday, but neither in the same week.” He laughed heartily. “Deal.” They shook on it and he produced an application for her to fill out. “We’ll get you set up for next week to train with Tara. If you think you can handle it, we’ll have you on the schedule and go from there.” Grinning with triumph, she thanked him for the opportunity, even thanked Tara who she felt had a hand in helping her get the position. Lauren stuck around for a while longer, filling out the necessary paperwork then taking a cab home. Amber and Rob were on the couch watching a documentary on rain forests when she walked in.

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“Where’ve you been?” Amber asked. “Job hunting.” She collapsed on the couch, waving over at Rob as he threw a piece of popcorn at her. “How’d it go?” “I found this place called Diego’s that I’ll be waitressing for.” “Good for you! We should celebrate with ice cream and cake this weekend.” Lauren snickered as Rob stood shaking his head. She thought she heard him mutter, ‘women,’ as he headed into the kitchen. “Don’t mind him. He’s just grumpy because mama ain’t putting out.” “Amber!” Rob shouted making Lauren and Amber both double over in laughter.

Chapter five:

Table Sixteen Diego’s was a relatively new restaurant, opening its doors in 2008. Its owner was a former running back, but due to an injury to his knee, he had to give up his favorite sport. But it wasn’t in vain. He soon started learning a new trade, and with the money he had earned from football—and an investment from his wife—he was able to open a restaurant in one of the hardest cities to maintain one. Business started out slow, but it soon picked up, known around the college campus

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as a great place to get food without having to pay over thirty dollars a plate. He had his fair share of upscale cuisine, but it didn’t overshadow the rest of his rather modest menu. Lauren’s week of training in the restaurant passed in a blur, the job easier than she had been expecting. Tara was patient with her, going over every aspect of her duties, sometimes twice if Lauren needed it. Every member of the staff was quite pleasant, mainly because their boss didn’t ride them for joking around when they weren’t in ear shot of the customers. She had learned the menu her first night, able to stay late in the night to taste the dishes so she could be honest with the guests when they asked about a particular item. At first, she had been confused with the way the tables were set up and which ones she would be servicing. “Think of it this way,” Tara explained on her first night. “It’s just a big square. To the

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right of the door, tables one through ten in order from wall to wall. To the left of the door, tables eleven through twenty-one, then just follow it around the room. Easy enough?” “Yes, but,”—she pointed at the bar—“what about the bar?” “Most nights they rarely order food, but if they do, Diego will probably have someone from the kitchen handle it since it’s so close.” Besides the tables, writing in shorthand came quickly enough. Thankfully, she plugged in her own orders because if anyone had to interpret the random scribbles along her notepad, she would have to rewrite it. This was, officially, her third day of work, and it was turning out to be a good night. They got paid their regular salary weekly, but each night, whatever tips they made were their own. While she had trained, Tara had been generous enough to offer up a portion

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of her tips each night, though Lauren had felt a bit guilty taking it. “Hey L?” She peered up at the sound of Tara’s voice as she came out of the break room, struggling to pull on her jacket as she held her cell phone to her ear. “Would you take table sixteen for me? I have to pick up my son from my sister’s.” “Sure, go on,” Lauren said waving her off, hopping down from her perch on the barstool. She had met Timmy, Tara’s son, a few days ago when Tara had to bring him in for the lack of someone to look after him. Diego didn’t seem to mind, letting him sit at the bar with a coloring book and crayons, spoiling him with juice and desserts, much to Tara’s annoyance when she had to take the hyper active boy home at the end of the night.

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Tightening the apron around her waist, Lauren pushed through the double doors into the dining room, smiling at the guests she passed. During the mornings to mid-afternoon, they took in the elderly crowd, Diego’s lunch special a hit with them. Around one o’ clock and into the later hours of the day, they attracted the college crowd, and the couples that were out for a romantic dinner. There were two reserved spots, what Diego considered the special tables, in the restaurant. Table sixteen on the left and table eight on the right. They both sat beneath intricate, handcrafted chandeliers with real candles. They were made by Diego’s wife, who was an interior designer, and designed the layout of the restaurant. These tables were only given to select guests, sometimes reserved in advance when a man was proposing to his girlfriend, or if Tara knew they would be great tippers.

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Tonight, it was a table of four. Two girls, two boys, possibly a double date judging by the way the seating was arranged. When she was just a few feet away, Lauren recognized the disheveled hair of one of the boys, though she couldn’t say how she knew. He seemed engaged enough as he spoke to the other boy at the table, but when his date laid an affectionate hand on his arm, leaning over to whisper in his ear, he lost his easy smile. Seeing them together, she couldn’t ignore the slight hurt in her chest. She had no right to feel this way, hell the only thing she knew about him was his name, but she did think they’d had a connection the other morning. Wanting not to intrude—and wishing she hadn't been given the table—Lauren shifted on her feet. It didn’t matter what she thought. Maybe she had misread their interaction at the cafe, not just the first time, but again a few days

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ago when he was there again. They sat together, talking mostly about her, though she had tried in vain to learn more about him. This could be why he kept the conversation steered clear of him. For the first time since she had begun working here, she felt awkward, not just because she was stalling to walk over there, but because anyone could see that the girl was obviously into him, but he seemed rather cool and detached. Deciding that she didn’t have anymore time to waste, Lauren forced a smile and walked over to the table. “Hello, I’m—” “Lauren, always a pleasure.” Mishca seemed to draw further away from the girl at his side, turning until he faced her. Before she could protest, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, a habit, it seemed, that he reserved for when they ran into each other. She couldn’t help but wonder if he did the same thing to every girl he came across.

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She couldn’t fight the blush if she tried. “Mishca, hey.” The girl to his right cleared her throat dramatically and Lauren winced, knowing that if she was on a date with a guy and he had done this, she would be upset as well. “You know her?” The girl asked waving a dainty hand in Lauren’s general direction though her eyes were solely on Mishca. And just like that, Lauren’s guilt vanished at her snide tone. The way she made it sound, Lauren wasn’t up to par. Though, with one glance at her, Lauren could see why she thought she was God’s gift to all men. She had dark hair, twisted up into a bun. Her eyes were outlined with smoky black eye shadow, and her boobs—were those fake?—were threatening to spill over the almost immodest cut of her top. “Of course,” he went on easily, shooting her a frown, but didn’t offer her an explanation. He turned back to Lauren. “This is

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Jonathan, my business parter and close friend, and his girlfriend Tiffany Montgomery, and I believe this is her good friend, Rebecca Turner.” Maybe it was a jab at Rebecca, but even Jonathan tried to hide a smile by running a hand over his mouth at the way Mishca had introduced her. From the way Rebecca was now glaring daggers at Mishca, she thought there was more to them than just friend of a friend. “If you’re ready,” Rebecca said coldly. “I’d like to order.” Lauren pulled out her pad and pen. Still. Smiling. “What can I start you off with to drink?” This time, it was Mishca who spoke up.“Can we get a bottle of ’93 Merlot?” Lauren hid her surprise, knowing the menu well enough to know that that particular bottle of wine cost one of her paychecks. “We only sell that by the bottle.”

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“That’s fine.” She cleared her throat, hoping this wasn’t going to get any more awkward. “Can I see your, um, id?” “For what?” Rebecca asked as though Lauren was the dimmest person she had ever met. Lauren took a deep breath, looking to Mishca for help. “We do not serve minors here. I can lose my job if I don’t ask.” “No doubt you need it,” Rebecca murmured. Lauren didn’t know how to react to Rebecca’s obvious attitude since she had never been put in a similar situation. The girls at her old school just avoided her altogether, choosing to make a target of others. She knew she would eventually run into someone like Rebecca—New York was known for people like that—but she at least expected them to have a reason—no matter how

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skewed it might be—to look down their nose at someone. “Here.” Mishca pulled out his wallet, flashing her his license. She smiled gratefully at him before peering down and reading it. Born April 10, 1988. Twenty-four years old, right around the age she had guessed. The others followed suit. Both girls twenty-two, and Jonathan the same age as Mishca. With the way Rebecca had been acting, Lauren thought she would be below the drinking age. Now, she realized she was just being catty. “I’ll be right back with your order .” As Lauren was walking away, Rebecca cleared her throat again, the sound already grating on Lauren’s nerves. “Also, could I have a glass of sparkling water, light ice?” “Absolutely.” With a tight smile, Lauren walked as fast as her feet would carry her towards the bar

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where Diego was polishing glasses, whistling a soft tune below his breath. Diego was a rather intimidating looking man at first glance. He was in his mid thirties, with a mohawk he kept shaped and sticking up. He treated most of the staff like his kid siblings, especially the waitresses since they were all at least a decade younger than him besides the two chefs. “What can I get ya, darlin’?” He asked with his trademark grin, holding a hand up to the man at the end of the bar that was trying to get his attention. “They want a bottle of ’93 Merlot.” He gave her a look. “Yes, I asked for id, and yes they know you only sell that by the bottle.” She swatted his hand as he ruffled her hair playfully. “Good girl.” He reached beneath the bar, opening the small case to retrieve her order. As he did this, she grabbed a tray from the stock

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behind thee bar, crouching down to get a bottle of Perrier from the mini fridge, and filling a glass with ice. “You know how to pop the cork out?” Diego asked placing the bottle and a gleaming silver corkscrew on the tray. “I can manage.” At least she thought she could. It always looked easy enough. “Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered seeming to read her mind. “Just ignore them and be pleasant. They’re normally good tippers.” “Easy for you to say,” she said already in a better mood. “The most you do is tell them they’re being cut off for the night and call them a cab.” He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Pays to be the boss.” She walked back towards the table, giving herself a mini pep talk along the way. The likelihood of her seeing Rebecca again was slim to none. She could make it through one

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night without an incident and the risk of losing her job. The customer is always right. The customer is always rights. Maybe if she said it to herself enough times, she might actually believe it. Balancing the tray against her hip and the table, she set Rebecca’s glass and water in front of her, then went about trying to open the wine. It proved harder than she imagined, especially with Rebecca snickering in the background. Either she wasn’t getting the screw in deep enough, or the bottle was plotting against her. “Allow me.” Mishca was out of his seat, his hand on hers as he expertly popped the cork out—the showoff—but allowed her to pour the drinks. Remembering the way she saw Diego do it, Lauren poured a small amount into Mishca’s wineglass, allowing him to be judge

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whether or not he liked it. Taking a tentative sip, he nodded once and winked at her. Jonathan was looking between the two of them with an odd expression on his face, but he didn’t say anything as Lauren poured the rest of their drinks. “Are you all—” “Ew, this glass is dirty.” Rebecca held the offending glass up, frowning at Lauren. “I want another.” Lauren’s smile was slowly fading. “Sure thing. Would you all like to—” “I would prefer,” she went on, cutting her off again, “if I got my drink order now.” Tiffany laughed, though it sounded forced as she turned glacial eyes to her friend. “I’m sure it can wait until after we order dinner, right?” It seemed, even Rebecca’s friend was tired of her. “I’m ready to order, Lauren.” At that moment, Lauren decided that not all friends were of the same company. “Okay.”

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She wrote down their consecutive orders: steak for Mishca, medium-rare with a side of asparagus; rare burger with all the fixings and fries for Jonathan; a house salad with a side of olive oil vinaigrette for Tiffany; and for Rebecca, the night’s specialty, Ratatouille. Lauren read their orders back to them, making sure she wrote down everything correctly, then left for the register to put the orders in. She felt a migraine beginning behind her left eye, but Lauren pushed through it, returning to the table to give Rebecca a new glass that she double checked before bringing it over—this time without incident—and retreated to the kitchens. Tara was back, sitting in the break room with her son as he showed her his school work for the day. At Lauren’s arrival, he smiled and waved, running over to hug her legs, as he did whenever one of them came to the back.

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Speaking to him quietly, Tara ushered him back into the room, pulling the door up as she left, promising to check on him in a bit. Something about that seemed oddly familiar to Lauren, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Misunderstanding Lauren expression, Tara guided Lauren over to the doors. “Why do you look so sour?” Snapping out of it, Lauren glared at her. “I hate you right now.” Tara gasped in mock outrage. “Me? What did I do?” “Table. Six. Teen.” Through the small windows in the doors, Tara peered out, whistling low. “It’s that table, isn’t it? You have to ignore Rebecca, she forgets to take the silver spoon out of her mouth when she retreats from her castle in the sky.” “You know them?” She almost sounded as disbelieving as Rebecca had when she asked Mishca about her.

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“Not personally, but I’ve seen them around enough to know about them.” She pointed at the guys. “That’s Jonathan and—” “Mishca. Yea, I know him.” Tara lifted a perfectly arched brow, grinning mischievously. “Do you now?” “Not like that. I met him a few times at a coffee shop near my school.” “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays? Besides, I would totally understand why you would. He’s so swoon worthy. I’d sacrifice chocolate for a month for a night with him. ” Lauren giggled softly, but made no comment, just turned back to where the chefs were placing the orders up into the serving window, ringing the bell. “Would you mind helping me carry this?” She asked, then added, “It was your table after all.” Tara laughed. “You’re guilting me already.”

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With her help, Lauren carried the table’s food out to them, careful to avoid laughing out loud as Tara whispered something along the lines of, ‘licking Mishca’s chest.’ Once the food was delivered, and they were heading back to the kitchen, Rebecca gasped, loud enough to garner the attention of the few people in the restaurant, even Diego. When they had left from the kitchen, Lauren saw that Rebecca had looked even angrier than before, but she had just assumed she was still putting on an act because of Mishca, but as she rushed back to the table, in an instant she knew that she should have sent Tara instead, since it seemed that most of Rebecca’s anger was directed towards her. Lauren was expecting to fetch new silverware, or fresh linens, but instead, Rebecca pushed away from the table. “There’s a hair in my food.”

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Jonathan was rubbing his eyes, Tiffany was glaring down at her phone, but Mishca was frowning, his lips pressed in a firm line. He no longer looked amused as he regarded Rebecca. Lauren was polite, though reluctant, to believe her since all the chefs wore hairnets and bandannas. “I’m sure we can get you something fresh, on the house of course.” Rebecca grabbed the plate, thrusting it towards Lauren, not giving her enough time to reach for it, effectively sending the potatoes and sauce all over the front of Lauren’s dress, dripping down the front onto the floor. This time, Lauren did lose her smile and she knew she had to be the shade of a tomato since her face was so hot. She was glad that the other diners had returned to their meals so they wouldn’t witness one of the most embarrassing moment in her life.

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She couldn’t think of what to do. She’d never had a tendency towards violence, though in this moment, she was tempted. Lauren was just rooted in place, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. When she heard the wet slap of potatoes hitting the floor, her anger mounted, her hands curling into fists. Tara and Diego appeared, Diego standing with his chest out as he pointed at the lot of them. Tara grabbed Lauren’s arm, pulling her back before she could do something she would regret. “I think it’s time for you all to leave. Don’t ever come to my restaurant again.” Diego’s voice was hard and laced with authority. Tiffany looked embarrassed, shooting Lauren a sympathetic glance and as she and Jonathan hurried out, Rebecca grabbing her purse and trailing happily behind them. Mishca stood, taking his time as he pulled out a number of bills from his wallet, placing

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them on the table. As he passed Lauren, not caring that Diego now had his arms folded across his chest, he said, “I’m sorry.” Then he was gone. Diego sighed. “You can go home early. Money on the table is yours.” “That’s not—” “Trust me,” he said with a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You deserve it.” Lauren didn’t care about the money. She didn’t even want it, but she pocketed it anyway, heading back into the break room to grab her things. The next time she saw Mishca, he would be getting his money back and a piece of her mind.

Chapter six:

Club 221 “He apologized, but she still ruined my dress,” Lauren finished, recounting her horrific evening at work to Amber as they lounged in the living room. Since that night, she hadn’t seen Mishca at the coffee shop, but the money she kept in her wallet was starting to burn a hole in it. “Bitches. I would’ve hit her in the face with a paint brush.” Lauren laughed as Amber held out one of her largest brushes, wielding it like a weapon as she jabbed it at the air. Trust Amber to

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make light of the situation to make her feel better. “Yea, I’m past it now…” She trailed off as Amber’s phone blared to life, playing catchy song that she had programmed for Piper. Amber listened intently after answering, then covered the bottom half of the phone as she turned to smile at Lauren. “Want to go out tonight? There’s a new club that the guys want to go to.” “Count me in.” *** Lauren and Amber met Rob, Piper, and Matt around the corner from Club 221, wanting to go in together—Tristan surprisingly absent because of band practice. A long line wrapped itself around the giant building, a black carpet leading to the frosted doors at the front. Two bouncers in dark suits stood at the entrance, formidable and unmoving as

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people clamored around them, begging to be let inside. With the sizable crowd, Lauren doubted they would be able to get in for at least a few hours, but Piper didn’t hesitate, sauntering in her high heels to the front of the line, giving her name to one of the guards. He looked her up and down, with a calculating gleam in his eye, muttering something in her ear that made her smile coyly. With a laugh, he allowed them in. From the outside, you could just see the strobing lights flicking through the shaded windows, but inside, the heavy bass pounded the speakers, the place nearly filled to capacity. It took careful maneuvering to get through the people on the dance floor. It was an exclusive spot, that much Lauren could tell from the way it was designed. Track lights beamed down from the ceiling, bathing the walls and white furniture with a blue glow. In intervals, the color changed, flickering to red, green, yellow,

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then back to blue. Bottle girls dressed in barely there white skirts and midriff tops breezed by in a flurry, carrying sparkling bottles of champagne and trays of shots. The DJ was up in his booth overlooking the dance floor wearing giant headphones, his hands busy with his laptop. To the right of him was an office. No one was inside, but when the door swung open, the glass frosted, creating privacy. They found an empty booth near the bar and got comfortable, but Piper remained standing, shouting over the pounding music, “I’ve got the first round.” As the throngs of people parted for her, it became perfectly clear how she was able to get them all in. She wore a skin tight red dress with crisscrossing panels across the back, and another set just barely concealing her chest. That, coupled with her heels made her look like any man’s wet dream.

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But it wasn’t just her. It was amazing just how attractive people were in New York. Sure, there were attractive people wherever you went, but she imagined this was what it looked like in Hollywood, men and women alike hoping for the chance at fortune and fame by being scouted by talent agents or for modeling gigs. Piper reappeared with a tray of Vodka shots, as well as shots that she called lemon drops. When they were all distributed, Amber held up hers with a smile. “To new friends,” she began, looking at them all. “And epic beginnings.” Toasting, Lauren hesitated, then tossed back her first shot, nearly spitting it back out as the burning alcohol slid down her throat, settling like lead in her stomach. “How do you drink this?” She demanded to no one in particular, coughing and waving at her eyes as she grew suddenly warm.

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Matt laughed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Years of club hopping, grom. You’ll get used to it eventually.” More rounds of shots found their way into Lauren’s hand, and after the second—or third—she could hardly feel the burn anymore, a pleasant warmth filling her. She felt euphoric, laughing at a joke Matt was telling though for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why it was so funny. Piper sauntered off to the dance floor, grabbing the first guy she saw to dance with. Rob and Amber were lost in their own world, leaving Matt and Lauren to themselves. She looked out to the dance floor, watching how people lost themselves in the music. Though she wasn’t brave enough to venture out there on her own like Piper had, she was enjoying herself all the same just sitting and talking with Matt. He had ventured off a few minutes ago, returning with a beer for himself and a water

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for her—explaining that the shots would catch up to her. “Are you enjoying it here?” Lauren asked, leaning over so he could hear her over the music. “Oh yea,” he said rolling his eyes. “Having a blast.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Why did you come if you don’t?” He shrugged, looking out to the dance floor where Piper was making out with one guy, while simultaneously dancing with another. “You have a thing for her, right?” He grimaced. “Is it that obvious?” “Maybe a little,” she said not wanting to embarrass him, remembering her conversation with Amber nearly a month ago. He shrugged, taking his glasses off to wipe the lenses with the hem of his shirt. He looked considerably older without his glasses on, the angle to his jaw more prominent. It

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was almost shocking to see the difference it made. Matt was attractive with glasses on, but without them, he was far past attractive. “I like to think if I give it time, she’ll notice all of this,” he said when he had his glass back in place, waving a hand at himself. Lauren laughed. “If she’s lucky.” As they talked more, Lauren found that she had more in common with Matt than she thought. He also came from a small town in rural Alabama and decided that if he ever wanted to get out of there—and sense he was smarter than everyone there—he left without ever looking back. He met Rob their first year at school,when he’d found himself in a precarious place with his living arrangements, Rob let him crash at his place, ultimately the pair moved in together. After an hour, the drinks had finally caught up with her. She excused herself, thinking to ask Amber to come with her, but

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changed her mind. Growing up with a cop watching over her, she knew basic self defense and had a bottle of pepper spray in her purse if she really needed it. It took a minute to get through the crowd, but she was pleasantly surprised at the restrooms. She had been expecting typical public restrooms, the kind that made you seriously contemplate if you couldn’t wait. These, however, were clean and clearly designed with women in mind, from the mirror that spanned wall to wall, giant lightbulbs outlining it, to the baskets set up on the counter with scented hand soaps and other things. Girls stood in front of the mirror, reapplying their makeup, talking about the owner of the club though Lauren couldn’t catch a name before they were exiting. She finished her business quickly, washing her hands in the basin, drying them with paper towels. It

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had all been relatively quick, making her feel silly for panicking. Damn Ross. She headed back onto the floor, wondering if the crowd had grown bigger in the little time she spent in the restroom, before a man blocked her path, his hands in the air as he thrusted his hips, trying to—in his opinion—entice her to dance. She smiled politely, trying to move past him, but he latched onto her wrist, pulling her forward until they were nearly touching. “Just one dance, sweetness,” he beseeched, smelling strongly of alcohol and something bitter. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” She tried to pull free, but when that didn’t work, she tried reason. “No, thanks. I need to get back to my friends.” “Come on,” he said with a smile, his grip tightening just a bit.

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Calm, she needed to stay calm because if she panicked, it would only make it worse. “I don’t—” “I think she said no.” Relief flooded her at the sound of that Russian brogue, already feeling the heat of his body behind her. Now, it wasn’t her trying to get free, but the guy snatched his hand back like he had been burned, apologizing profusely before hurrying off and disappearing into the crowd. With him gone, she breathed deeply, turning her attention to the one person she hadn’t been expecting to see tonight. His eyes were still on the disappearing man, at least until he was well enough away that he was appeased. Then he turned those blue eyes on her, not seeming to care that he was in her personal space, but who was she to complain? It wasn’t like she was making any effort to get away from him.

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Se held her clutch with both hands, looking up at him. He really was tall. “Thanks.” Mishca inclined his head, his serious expression melting away. “Not a problem.” “Of course you’re here of all places,” she said fishing for an explanation. She really hoped he wasn’t one of those guys and considering most phones had GPS tracking nowadays, he could very well have tracked her here. “It might help,” he said fighting a smile, “that I own the club. I might be inclined to think you came here for me.” She might have called bullshit, at least until a group of people walking by gushed about the new renovations he had made. Her cheeks colored as he winked at her. “I didn’t know,” she said quickly, “that this was your club, I mean. You don’t really look like a club owner?” “Oh? And what do club owners look like?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Sleazy?”

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“I’ll take that as a compliment.” “Right.” She glanced back over her shoulder, trying to see her table. “I should get going.” “Wait.” He touched her hand, that familiar warmth that radiated out of him making her shiver. “I wanted to apologize again for the other night. Sometimes favors become more than you plan for.” “S’alright. Misunderstanding?” He smiled and nodded. “Can I walk you back to your table?” “Sure.” The crowd seemed to part easily now that Mishca was with her, making the trip back a lot smoother. She could just see the tops of her friends’ heads when Mishca pulled her to a stop. “Will you be at the cafe Monday?” He asked. “More than likely.”

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“Perhaps I’ll see you there, then we can talk.” Inside, she was thrilled at the prospect, but she kept her cool, playing coy. “What if I don’t want to talk to you?” “Then I’ll be greatly disappointed. How will I ever make amends if you refuse to see me?” She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Sudden shouting broke out on the other side of the floor near the bar. Mishca jerked the walkie-talkie from his belt, barking what sounded like orders in Russian. “Until Monday, yes?” “I’ll see you then.” With a wink and a quick kiss to her hand—the gesture always making her swoon inside—he was off, leaving Lauren to look after hi for several seconds before returning to her booth where everyone was waiting.

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Piper actually looked astonished as she regarded her, asking, “You know Mishca Volkov?” It reminded her of the way Rebecca acted back at Diego’s. “Um, yea?” to Amber, she said, “That’s the guy I was telling you about.” Amber laughed, much to the bemusement of their friends. “If he’s the reason that girl spilled food on you, hey, toss some on me too.”

Chapter seven:

Amends Sunday night, Lauren couldn’t sleep. Every time she looked over at the glowing red numbers on her alarm clock, her heart raced just a little bit faster. What would she say when she saw him? She could make a big scene, throw the money in his face to make sure she got her point across, but that wasn’t who she was. She wished she was tough, and could speak her mind the way she wanted without always biting her tongue to keep her feelings to herself.

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Would he even care? Sure, he was the one that said he would be there, but what she couldn’t figure out was why all of the interest in her? It’s not like he had a hard time attracting attention—just look at him—but she seemed to be the focus and she didn’t know whether to be thrilled by this, or suspicious. He seemed interested enough when they were at his club, but she had a habit of reading too far into things without any good evidence. Rolling over, Lauren shut her eyes, wishing she could calm her racing thoughts so that she could go to sleep. At this rate, she’d be up half the night going over the different possibilities. Ten minutes passed…fifteen…twenty. Sighing, she finally got up, grabbing her throw blanket to watch television in the living room. If she was going to be up all night, she would at least spend it watching a movie.

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To her surprise, Amber was in the living room, sitting on the windowsill, staring up at the night sky, looking between her current painting and the starry night she was replicating. She looked exhausted, her usual abundance of energy lacking. “Hey, what are you doing up?” Lauren asked. She tried for a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. It seems like the only thing I can do right nowadays is paint.” Foregoing the television, Lauren gave Amber her undivided attention. “Do you want to talk about it?” She sighed, dropping her brushes in water, setting the canvas on the easel. “I’ll get the ice cream.” She returned with a half a gallon of cookies and cream and two spoons. Handing one over, they sat Indian style on the couch, the bucket between them.

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“This,” Amber started gesturing towards her work, “means everything to me. It’s what I live for. I was fortunate enough to have parents that didn’t care what I wanted to do as long as I put forth an effort to do something.” “But…” Lauren prompted when she paused. “Rob…he’s a great guy, but he doesn’t see art the way I do. He thinks it’s more of a hobby and I should start thinking about what I want to do in the future.” She gazed down sadly, scooping up another big spoonful of ice cream. “I don’t know him that well, but I think I know you…at least a decent amount.” That got a laugh out of her. “If you want to be an artist, then that’s what you should do. Don’t let him make you doubt yourself.” “Everything else is great between us though.”

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“But he has to accept you for you. Everyday you’re painting something new. Hell, look around our apartment. It’s like living in a museum in here. If he loves you, and I’m not saying he doesn’t, wouldn’t he love this too?” Amber gave her a watery smile, wiping her cheeks. “I’m older. I’m supposed to be giving you advice.” Lauren laughed. “I get it from an overprotective mother and having a cop for a father.” Lauren never said it when she was around Ross, the notion always made him feel like he was overstepping, but that was really what he was to her. Her earliest memories—at least those that weren’t blocked—were of her and Ross, going for hotdogs in the park, kite flying. She cherished those moments with him, even if he was always worried that he might offend her. “So...what are you doing up?”

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Lauren winced, not really sure if she should divulge her crush when Amber was having relationship problems. “Let me guess, he’s a six foot tall Russian?” She laughed at Lauren’s expression. “It was pretty obvious the other night when the two of you were all over each other.” She gasped. “We were not. He was helping me back from the restroom.” “Ooh, kinky.” She swatted her arm, even as she was fighting her own smile. “I’m serious. I was nearly accosted while you were busy sucking face with Rob.” “Yea, yea, don’t change the subject. What’s he done that has you so nervous?” “Well, you remember what I told you about the night at Diego’s? He’s supposed to be meeting me tomorrow, I guess to talk.” “And you like him...” She nodded.

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“But you’re worried about his relationship with that girl?” Again she nodded. “Then the answer is simple. You have two choices, either jump his bones, or make him sweat.” Lauren laughed, dropping her spoon in the now empty carton. “I’m not sure I like either of those choices.” “I’ll break it down. For option A. In my experience, most guys are pretty straight forward. If he wanted to have sex with you, he’d probably have put the moves on you prior to now, right? I doubt you’ll just jump into bed with him though, Ross might kill him.” That was true enough. “Since we’re not going with option A, there’s option B. If he asks you out, which I’m ninety percent sure he will, decline the offer.” “But—”

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Amber raised her hands. “No, let me finish. Your job is to let him know that you’re not going to forget what happened and if he is interested, he has to work for it.” “And what if that doesn’t work? What if that’s the only time he’ll ask?” “Then he wasn’t worth it in the first place.” *** Mishca was sitting alone at a table in the cafe, alternating between sending out orders on his Blackberry and drinking coffee, another cup resting on the table in front of him. It was a particularly girly drink, but it was more than just that. It was a peace offering for the shit that went down the other night. He had been sitting there for the last fifteen minutes, looking up whenever the bell rang, expecting to see Lauren walk through. He couldn’t remember the last time he made a conscious effort to try to meet a girl, and it

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didn’t help that he didn’t know when she would be arriving and he lived across town. The first time he had stopped in this cafe was purely coincidental. A night with Rebecca was exhausting, and he needed the extra caffeine the morning after. Originally, she had agreed that it would only be one night—it was a stipulation he made clear long before he entertained taking her to bed—but she was used to having everyone answer to her every beck and call, but Mishca didn’t take orders from just anyone. And a girl as annoying as Rebecca? He could only stand one night. A few nights later, Jonathan had called in a favor and though he was over Rebecca’s high maintenance, he agreed to accompany them. She was as pretentious as he had been expecting, but he could tolerate it, knowing that it would be the last time he saw her, but

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his night had looked up when Lauren appeared. There was something about her, something that peaked his curiosity. The women he had gotten used to in New York were vain creatures, especially the ones that frequented his club, hoping to entice him, using their expensive good looks to garner his attention. Yet, there she was, almost shy in her approach. He smiled faintly, remembering the way she reacted when she saw him. There was something so innocent about her, and he couldn’t help but feel the need to corrupt her. The front door opened, and this time it was Lauren who walked in. He watched her scan the cafe, her mouth moving before she finally stopped, her eyes widening gradually when she spotted him, then narrowing. When she didn’t look away, he held up his offering, hoping that she would come over.

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She didn’t seem to realize just how appealing he found her. She had a sensual sway to her hips that was accentuated by the low riding jeans she wore. She hadn’t come here trying to impress him, but she easily held his attention without much effort. When she was next to the chair, her fingers tightened around the back of it, making a mental decision before she dropped down, strands of wavy light brown hair escaping from the messy knot at the top of her head. Mishca pushed the extra cup towards her, waiting until she accepted it before he smiled. “Good morning, Lauren. Mocha and caramel frap, yes?” “Thank you.” Her words were soft, barely above a whisper, but whatever she had been planning as she walked in with that determined look on her face drained away. “You didn’t have to do this.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “It wasn’t a problem.”

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Lauren took a tentative sip, arching a delicate brow as she swallowed. She seemed to realize that he had noticed how she preferred it fixed. It became a battle of wills, Mishca studying her, Lauren trying not to react to him studying her, but she couldn’t hide her reaction to him. Mishca could tell she didn’t want to like him, but she found him attractive all the same. Her cheeks flushed as she looked him over, just as they had the first day they met. She had wide expressive eyes that were currently closed off, but just beneath that mask she tried to keep up, he could see something else lurking in their depths. Clearing her throat, she began rooting through her bag, pulling out an envelope and pushing it towards him as he’d done her coffee. He glanced down at it for a second before meeting her eyes again.“What is this?”

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With a subtle arch of her brow, she practically dared him to open it. Flipping it over, he opened it, spotting several fifty dollar bills inside. He could guess where they had come from, but as he closed it, he gave it back to her. “This was for you” he said. She shook her head, trying to hand it back, but he placed his hand over hers, stilling her movements. She looked from their hands to his face. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she began before he cut her off. “Not sentiment, amends. Your dress was ruined.” “You didn’t ruin it.” “But my date did,” he countered. “It wasn’t your fault.” “I insist. I want you to keep it.” “Mishca…” “Lauren…”

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She glared at him, refusing to back down, but she had never come across anyone like him, of that he was sure. And more times than not, he got what he wanted. Her hand twitched beneath his. “I don’t need your money.” Mishca quirked a brow. “Never said you did.” Rolling her eyes, she finally nodded, pulling her hand free and putting the envelope away. “Fine.” “Fine.” His lips twitched before finally blooming into a smile. “Are we good?” “We’re cool.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “I want to apologize for what happened. I didn’t think she would take it out on you.” Brows furrowing in confusion, she asked, “What?” “It was something I said to her before you came back.”

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“And what was it…I think I have a right to know after getting potatoes dumped on me,” she said with a laugh. “Jonathan asked who you were. I said you were a girl who refused to go on a date with me.” The straw was poised at her lips, but when he stopped speaking, she stared at him like he had grown another head. He chuckled. “You look surprised.” “Well…uh, I never refused to go on a date with you.” “Oh, so are you saying you will?” She smirked, shaking her head. “Does that line ever work?” “I’m not sure. Once you answer, I’ll know.” She checked the time, and could see in her eyes that she wasn’t ready to leave, but she sighed anyway. “I’ve got class.” Standing, he offered his hand. “I can walk you.” Surprising him, she took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

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Vlad was waiting for him outside, standing idly by the car as he waited for Mishca to finish his business. They had a meeting with an arms dealer across town, a big investment that Mishca’s father was relying on. But he wagered he had enough time to see her off before he left. As they left the cafe, Mishca nodded at Vlad, a silent message for him to stay put until he got back. He only blinked once before settling back, going back over the newspaper he had been reading for the last half hour. It was one thing Mishca could appreciate about his position in the organization. *** Outside her classroom, Mishca pulled Lauren to a stop, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ignoring the curious on-lookers as they walked around them to get inside. “What will it take for you to go on a date with me?”

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She met his eyes, the sparkle in them making him smile “I’m not going on a date with you.” Seriously? Mishca couldn’t remember the last time someone had turned down a night out with him. “Why not? I make excellent company.” She mumbled something he couldn’t hear, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. He always did like challenges. “What do you say? I can show you I’m not all bad.” Lauren shook her head, adjusting the strap of her bag as she looked just past him to the door. “I never said you were.” He arched a brow. “Then that is a yes?” “No,” she said laughing. “That’s a no.” “Ah, come on Lauren. You’re breaking my heart.” He touched a hand to his chest, pouting like she had taken away his favorite puppy. She smiled shyly. “I have class, Mishca.”

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He knew she wouldn’t be changing her mind today, but he had never been one to give up easily. Taking her hand, he kissed the back of her knuckles. “Ty khochesh', chtoby presledovat' vas?” He asked in Russian, watching her eyes dilate, her fingers trembling. He smiled. If she did want him to chase her, he would. *** Lauren had actually thought that if she avoided him, or feigned disinterest, Mishca would lose interest in her, but if anything, he grew more determined. He dutifully walked her to class every Monday and Wednesday, though he didn’t ask her out again, he didn’t mask his interest in her. It was the subtle things he did that had her defenses crumbling. The way he was attentive to everything she said, how he always, even if he had just seen her a few hours prior, kissed her hand.

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It seemed, at this point, he was just waiting for her to cave. But she quickly learned that it was hard not to like Mishca. He was charming, often having her keel over in laughter during their short walks, and every morning when she arrived, he was there waiting for her with a special cup of coffee just for her. She had begun looking forward to it, excited to see his wry smile and the warm blue of his eyes. It was a slow Wednesday night at Diego’s, work passing at an agonizing pace as Lauren and Tara stuck to the kitchens, laughing with the chefs since the restaurant was all but empty. “Well, look who it is,” Tara suddenly said, her attention suddenly snagged by something outside the kitchen windows. Lauren frowned, following Tara’s line of vision to the bar where none other than Mishca was seated, chatting amicably with Diego. She ignored the fluttering of

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butterflies in her stomach, not wanting to believe that he was actually there because of her, but as Diego pointed towards the kitchen doors, Lauren shrank back, her heartbeat escalating. “I guess it’s safe to assume that someone has a thing for the infamous Volkov.” “I don’t.” She really did. Tara was still looking through the glass. “Diego is coming back here.” “What!” Sure enough, Diego appeared seconds later, looking positively cheerful as he stuck his head on, his gaze zeroing in on Lauren. “I have a guest asking for you, Lauren.” “No, thanks. Send Tara.” Diego whispered something to Tara. “Sorry, L. I’m on break.” “You’re supposed to be on my side!” “I am. You like him, which means that I’m supposed to act in your best interest.” “Fine. I’ll send him away on my own.”

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Holding her head high—ignoring the soft laughter of her coworkers—Lauren headed for the bar, reminding herself that she was not going to go on a date with him, no matter what he said or—he turned to her when she was just a few feet away, his eyes sparkling with happiness and she knew she was a goner. Damn those blue eyes. “Hi, Mishca. What can I get you?” She was glad that her voice wasn’t as shaky as she felt. “I would like to think that you and I are friends, no?” She shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe.” “And in my country, you take your friends out for a good time.” Lauren walked right into that one. Time for a cop out. “I would love to, but Diego has me working the weekend shift, and you know I have classes during the week.” “Don’t worry L,” Tara said as she appeared at the end of the bar where she and Diego

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were doing an awful job pretending not to eavesdrop. “I can take your shifts.” Mishca looked back to Lauren with both eyebrows raised, looking boyish and charming. “What do you say? Will you have dinner with me?” She was shaking her head, but her lips said, “Yes.”

Chapter Eight:

Date Night “Piper can be a bit of a headache, but when she’s feeling generous, she always gives me the clothes that are too big for her,” Amber said as she reentered the room carrying a few garment bags. Lauren had been freaking out about what to wear on her date and was about to throw on a pair of jeans when Amber had said she might have something. The first dress was a slinky black number that made Lauren feel old than she was. Though it was nice, she didn’t feel strongly enough about it to wear it tonight.

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The second was orange, with zigzagging white lines across the front, but what made Lauren hand that one back was the none existent back that dipped so low, it barely covered her butt. Now the last, she knew she would like it with just a glance. It was a soft lilac, with a fitted bodice and an A-line skirt. Small sections were cut out along the sides, replaced with patterned, black lace. “Oh, this one is perfect,” she said holding it up in front of her as she looked in the mirror. “Where are you going?” “I have no idea, only that we’re going out for dinner. He said he’d be here around seven.” Amber glanced down at her watch. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” By the time Lauren was showered and dressed, her hair thrown into a high bun, Mishca was knocking at the door.

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Amber jumped up, racing past Lauren in a blur of curly hair to yank the door open. “Oh, I want one.” Mishca smiled sheepishly, the boyish grin charming. “Mishca Volkov.” “Priyatno vstretit’sya s vami, Mishca.” Mishca looked impressed as he started speaking to her in Russian, laughing between words when he noticed she didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Once he returned the sentiment, Amber smiled and shook his hand. “I only ever went there once and, ‘nice to meet you’ was the only thing I remember how to say. I’m Amber.” “The artist, yes? Lauren told me a lot about you.” Clasping her hands together, Amber blew Lauren a kiss, stepping to the side to let Mishca in. “She’s secretly in love with me.” Lauren didn’t think Mishca had any notion of what it meant to dress down—except

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the few occasions she saw him at the cafe. He was in a three piece suit that was tailored for him, a blue button-down that matched his eyes, and a navy tie. His hair was in some semblance of order, the wavy strands pushed back out of his face with some kind of gel. As she was looking him over, he was doing the same to her, starting at her feet and working his way up to her face. As he looked her over, there was something predatory in his gaze that made her feel naked under his heated stare. It was like he was caressing her without the physical contact. Lauren broke eye contact first, feeling her face heat up as she looked over at Amber who was watching them curiously, fanning her face. Grabbing her bag, Lauren was heading out the door when Amber pulled her to the side. “Remember what I said. Just because he’s hot and he does that thing when he speaks

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Russian, doesn’t mean he gets the goods. No means no and if you need to, mace his ass.” Mishca coughed from the doorway, the girls looking up to his amused smile. Amber smiled back. “No offense. Anyway, have fun you two.” She closed the door behind them. Walking down the stairs, Mishca looked back at her and asked, “What is this thing I do?” “You know…the whole sexy, ‘listen to the way I drawl words and roll Rs,’” she said trying to mimic his accent. Both of his eyebrows rose to his hairline as he laughed. “Is that what I sound like?” Mishca’s Mercedes was idling at the curb, smoke billowing out from the exhaust pipe, snaking up into the night air. “You just left your car running?” Lauren asked looking around They weren’t necessarily in a bad neighborhood, but still…

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“Extra set of keys,” he said showing her a remote, hitting the locks, and opening the passenger door for her. The interior of the car was just as smooth as the outside, all black leather, the surrounding lights and dashboard shining red lights instead of white. It still had the new car smell. Mishca slid easily into the driver’s seat, closing them in together. When he was this close, she could just smell the cologne he wore, part musk and something warmer. They didn’t pull off right away and as she grew conscious of this fact, she looked over at him. He had a slight smile that made her duck her head self-consciously, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong?” A corner of his mouth tipped up further before he leaned across the console, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath her ear. It could

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not have lasted more than a few seconds, but it was enough to make her heart race and the nearly irresistible need to return it. He knew the reaction he caused in her. She could feel him smiling against her skin. “Ya dumaya, vy seksual’nyy,” he whispered, the deep timbre of his voice making a chill run down her spine. “Is this the thing you meant?” He asked pulling on his seatbelt. Like he really had to ask. *** There were so many great restaurants in the city that Lauren couldn’t particularly choose one that she wanted to go to more than another. During the ride, their hands had rested side by side between them, at least until they both seemed to get the same idea. As their hands came together, she thought of how easy it felt, how her initial fear of being awkward around people seemed to vanish.

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They found a space across the street from the park, walking the short distance to the restaurant. It was undeniably a spot for couples since it had that romantic air about it. Lantern lights strung around the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property, each of the ten tables outside were occupied with couples enjoying a private dinner. When Mishca gave the concierge his name, it was almost comical watching the man snap to attention as he waved two men over to follow them. “Is it always like this for you?” Lauren asked, peeking over at the other waiters that were watching them past. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said with a wink. They were led out onto the terrace of the restaurant, a single table occupying it. A clear glass bowl sat on top of it, tea candles and white rose petals floating in the water. Once they were seated, the concierge

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wandered off, but returned soon after, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Compliments of the house, sir,” he said displaying the worn label of the bottle proudly. Mishca nodded in approval and with expert precision, the cork was plucked—a trick that Lauren was determined to learn—and menus distributed. “And to think I asked you for id,” Lauren joked as the waiters excused themselves. “My father and I come here often. I’m a familiar face.” “Is that why we’re getting the special treatment?” “Or maybe because you look amazing in that dress.” She smiled. “Smooth, Mish. Very smooth.” She picked up her menu, looking over the different selections. “What do you recommend?” “Vegetarian?”

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“No.” “Vegan?” “I’ll eat just about anything. Except snails, I can’t bring myself to eat them.” He shuddered. “Tried it, hated it.” He closed his menu, leaning forward. “Do you want to hear a secret?” Intrigued, she matched his stare. “Sure.” “I’ve only ever ordered the steak.” “Seriously? How many times have you been here?” He laughed. “I have no idea. More times than I can count.” The waiter returned.”What can I start you all with this evening?” Mishca handed back his menu. “I’ll have my usual.” “Very good, sir. And for the lady?” “I’ll have the caesar salad and the stuffed chicken with the sides of the day.” “Right away.” He took their menus and gave a slight bow.

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“What say you to a friendly game while we wait,” Mishca said, taping his thumb against the table as he reclined back in his chair. Lauren arched a brow. “Oh? What kind of game?” “Twenty-one questions.” “What are the rules?” “There are rules?” “There are always rules.” “Hmm.” Steepling his fingers, he rested his elbows on the table, gazing at her. “You can skip a question—but you have to answer it later in the game. You can plead the fifth, but you forfeit your turn. And you can force the other person to answer the question. Agreed?” He had a sneaky grin that made her wonder what she had just gotten herself involved in. “Agreed. Ladies first, right?” He smirked, but inclined his head. “You’re twenty-four, right? I think I remember that from your license.”

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He nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Right, how old are you?” She shrugged, looking down at her plate to hide her smile. “Seventeen. I graduated early.” She laughed when he paled, his eyes going wide, choking on his wine. “Twenty. I took a year off after I graduated.” “Good to know,” he said still trying to clear his throat. Their appetizers were delivered a few minutes later, Lauren’s salad drizzled in dressing, for Mishca, a baked potato and a miniature salad. Taking a bite, he asked, “Are you seeing anyone, besides myself of course.” She laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I was seeing you yet.” “There it is, you said it. Yet. It’s only a matter of time.” “What about Rebecca?” Lauren asked looking down her plate as she stabbed a

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crouton. “Does she know you’re here with me?” “We don’t have that kind of relationship.” “No? What kind of relationship do you have?” “I wouldn’t consider it a relationship at all. We had sex.” She coughed, water going down the wrong pipe. At her look, he smiled and shook his head. “It was only once and that’s all it was supposed to be.” “So you had sex with her then took her out on a date where you blatantly flirted with me…” He cleared his throat, rubbing his jaw. “Not in so many words.” “Uh huh. So are we skipping the sex, or is that for after the date?” A corner of his mouth tipped up, giving him that charming little smile that made her smile in return. He reached across the table to cover her hand with his, the warmth of his

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touch seeping through her. “Not my initial idea, but I would love to get you in my bed.” Now, it was Lauren’s turn to clear her throat, sliding her hand from beneath his. “If not for sex, why did you ask me out?” “Because I wanted to know more than your favorite type of coffee?” She smiled. “Is that a question?” “That’s a statement. I wanted to know you better.” The nearby waiter refilled their glasses, asking if there was anything else he could get them. They both declined. “Why NYU?” She shrugged. “I wanted to get out of Michigan. I’ve never been out of the state before so I thought, why not? I didn’t actually expect to get in, but here I am.” “And what do you think? Was it worth it?” She thought about her classes, her new friends, and the particularly fascinating guy sitting in front of her. “It was. What part of Russia are you from?”

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“Moscow.” “Do you go back often?” “I still have family there, but I don’t go back as much as I would like.” “Have—” “I believe it’s my turn and I get two questions, yes?” Rolling her eyes playfully, she nodded. “What are you studying?” “I thought about Pre-med for a while,”—an homage to her father—“but I’m undecided at the moment.” “Pre-med?” He looked impressed. “Why didn’t you choose that?” This time, she didn’t smile. “I plead the fifth.” He gazed at her for a while before nodding, accepting it. “Fair enough.” “How many languages do you speak?” “Fluently? Three, but I can read Latin.” He shrugged as if that were some small feat.

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Their main courses arrived, the waiters clearing away their used dishes, but they continued on with their questions. “What can you speak?” “Russian and English, you know. I also speak French.” “Can I hear you speak it?” Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he never broke eye contact as he said, “J’aimerais vraiment à vous metro dans moon lit.” Goosebumps erupted over her arms and when she thought him speaking Russian was an experience, him speaking French topped that. “What did you say?” “I said I think you look beautiful.” He looked down, but she could just see his smile. “Somehow I doubt that.” “You’ll never know.” They went on like this for hours, even after they had finished eating. They stayed at the table, asking each other every question

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they could think of, and then more. Time flew by and unconsciously, they had drawn closer to one another, leaning towards each other. It was only when Lauren noticed the last couple inside heading towards the exit did she realize that they were the last ones. “I think they’re closed,” she said with a smile. Mishca paid their tab, giving her an outraged look when she offered to split the bill. Instead, he told her, “When you ask me out, then you can pay…and that’s still highly debatable.” Outside the restaurant, the stars shining in the night sky, Lauren looked to Mishca who was watching her. “Want to go to the park?” It seemed even he wasn’t ready for the night to end. Intertwining their hands, he led her across the street to the park, still explaining his ideas for the club until they reached a

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secluded pot beneath a giant oak tree, in direct view of the Alice in Wonderland statue. Shrugging out of his jacket, he laid it out on the ground for her to sit on before sinking down beside her. “What was your first date like?” He asked reclining back against the tree. “I can’t answer that,” she said. Technically, this was her first date and it wasn’t over yet. “I’m forcing that one on you.” He grinned, looking away. “I was fifteen, attending a boarding school—my step mother thought it was best though I came back the following year. Her name was Olivia Janis, you never forget their names. She was a year older, though you wouldn’t have known that by looking at her. She was older in demeanor. Everyone at the academy thought she was the greatest girl there.” “Sounds like she was pretty awesome.” “Oh wait,” he said shaking his head. “It gets better. I thought I was somebody

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because of my father’s money and, uh resources. I was sure that by the end of the night, she would be coming back to my rooms.” Lauren wrinkled her nose. “Ew.” He rolled his eyes. “Back then I was desperate to get laid.” She thought of Rebecca and the number of girls she had seen whispering about him. “I guess you’re not desperate now?” He smirked, shooting her a wink. “We’ll get to that in a second. Anyway, I take her bowling of all things—I’m a terrible bowler. We’re having a good time when this hulk of a man is making his way to our lane. At first I’m thinking he’s just passing, but what I didn’t know was that Olivia liked to date older guys and this one was her exboyfriend.” Mishca’s is silently laughing now, his eyes growing animated as he tells the story. “I was scrawny little guy back then and the last

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thing I wanted was to fight this guy, but I had to stand my ground. The beating from my father would have been worse than his if he heard that I had backed down. He’s yelling at Olivia, and I walked over to him, still holding a nine pound bowling ball. I say, ‘hey, leave her alone.’ Then get creative, cursing him in Russian, thinking he won’t understand shit I’m saying. Turns out, his mother is Russian or something and he can understand everything I’m saying to him which, of course, pisses him off more. So, what do I do? I try to back up, slip, and drop the fucking ball on my foot.” Lauren covered her mouth as a giggle escaped, but he didn’t seem too embarrassed by the story. “My foot is fucking killing me, but in my head, he’s still after me. I’m telling myself, get up, get up. I try to, but my foot gives out and I stumble over my own damn ball—the

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same one I dropped on my foot—and I land awkwardly, knocking the breath out of me.” Lauren couldn’t hold back her laughter at this point if she tried. She held her side as she fought to breathe, only laughing louder when he glared at her though he was fighting a smile. “How did you kick your own ass, Mish?” “It was shaming, I know. The guy felt so bad for me, he called an ambulance and rode to the hospital with me. I broke a toe and bruised my ribs. Sad part was, she had only gone out with me to piss him off. I avoided her for the rest of the year.” She laid her head on his shoulder, still laughing softly. “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or laugh more.” He feigned hurt. “I was a traumatized child.” “Thanks for telling me though.” “I needed to tell you before my sister does. She’d tell the whole world if given the

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chance. When you meet her, you’ll see what I mean.” He said it so casually that it didn’t register at first, then Lauren smiled. It wasn’t an if she met his sister, it was a when. She didn’t know whether everyone met his sister, or that she was special in some way, but she liked to think it was the latter. “I guess it’s only fair that I share an embarrassing story.” Mishca laid back in the grass, his hands folded behind his head. She matched his position, except she laid her head on his chest and fiddled with a cluster of flowers. “I was twelve and thought that I was old enough to have my first kiss.” Mishca looked from her eyes down to her lips then back up again. “You didn’t have your first kiss until you were twelve?” She cringed. “Yea, if you can call it that. I wasn’t very popular back in my hometown.” Especially when everyone her age treated her

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like having a murder father was some kind of disease. “Maybe I should have waited longer,” she went on, “because it was definitely not what I was expecting…So there was this guy, Stephen. He wrote poetry, wore all black, and sometimes wore thick black eyeliner.” Mishca snorted. “Seriously?” Slapping his chest playfully, she smiled. “Stephen was a babe, okay? He sat next to me in Health and on that day, he was wearing these black glasses. Now like I said, I wasn’t very popular in school. I was a bit gangly and had awful bangs as a result of my clever moment with a pair of scissors, but he didn’t care about any of that. He was always nice to me.” “I wager you were just as beautiful then.” She could feel his gaze on her, but was too embarrassed to look up. “I had made it up in my mind that I would just do it, walk in class and lay one on him. I’m at the door and he’s

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sitting by himself at his desk, drawing in his notepad. I take a deep breath, go over and tap him on the holder.” She buried her face in the crook of Mishca’s neck, could almost imagine his reaction. “When he looks up at me, I close my eyes, pucker my lips and go in for the kill really fast. I must have calculated the distance wrong because I pretty much slam my forehead into his nose.” Mishca isn’t making a sound, but his entire body is shaking with laughter. “That’s not so bad.” She groaned, her mortification growing worse as she finished the rest of it. “He had this medical condition though, his blood didn’t clot or something. Meaning, if he ever got the slightest hit or anything that made him bleed, it could go really bad really quick. Though it only felt like I tapped him, he’s like gushing blood. Hell, I thought he was dying.” Now he’s laughing earnestly, holding onto her before she could roll away. “Come…come

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on…I’m not,” he’s trying to get the words out. “I’m not laughing at you.” “Everyone thought I attacked him and went running and screaming from the classroom. The police were called,”—Ross hadn’t been amused at the time, but he nee let her live that day down since—“and even the fire department came down to the school. It was a big deal for months. No one talked to me, just give you that look. I didn’t find out until a year later that he was gay.” Mishca laughed so loud, the birds in the tree above them scattered. “That trumps mine, love.” Yea, that trumped everyone’s. “Hoe about something a little less embarrassing, yes?” Mishca suggested. For hours, they stayed in the park, talking, laughing, confessing this to one another that they might not have told on a first date, it being easy because they stayed on safer topics. He didn’t bring up her father again and she

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was thankful for that. By the wee hours of the morning, Lauren felt like she knew more about him that she did her own mother. It was around four when she got a text from Amber asking if she was all right. Mishca glanced at his own phone, noting the time. “I should be getting you home.” She thought of protesting, enjoying herself too much to have the night come to an end, but when she thought of seeing him in the next few days for their usual morning coffee, she thought better of it. They went back to his car, driving out of the city and back to her brownstone. On the way, Mishca reached over and held her hand, sweeping his thumb over the sensitive skin of her wrist. It was almost a passive act, like he was unaware that he was doing it, but to Lauren, it made her feel something more, a feeling that she had no idea how to describe. By the time she was home and Mishca was off after walking her u to her door, Lauren

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could feel the fatigue setting in. She changed into her pajamas, finishing up in the bathroom before hitting the lights, climbing into bed. Her phone lit up with a new message. Our usual spot on Wed, yes? She smiled, already feeling too excited at the prospect, texting back an affirmative. Lauren couldn’t keep the stupid grin off her face.

Chapter Nine:

The First Time Three weeks came and went as Lauren adjusted to her new life in New York, balancing work, school, and her time spent with Mishca. Since their date, they had gone out two more times, following a sort of routine mot mornings before her classes. They met up at the cafe and whoever was there first—more than likely Mishca—would grab the coffee, then together they walked to her class before he was u=off to work for his club. Today was no different.

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Mishca was waiting for her at their usual table, typing away on his phone. It was moments like these that made Lauren smile. It wasn’t the fact that he always looked amazing without trying, but because she knew he traveled all the way from Manhattan just to meet her. She had learned of it one morning when he was running late, complaining about the ever present traffic. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Lauren crossed over to Mishca’s side. “Why do you look so serious?” The furrow in his brow disappeared as he handed over her drink. Grabbing the seat of her chair, the muscles in his bicep grew taut as he pulled her over, draping his arm across the back. He showed her the screen of his phone. Alex: The ballet gala is like next week. Not optional, I want to see you.

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Oh, and bring the girlfriend. I want to meet her. :) “Ballet gala?” Lauren asked looking up at him. “My sister was going to a special school in France for ballet. Sadly, she’s moving back. Since dance is her thing, we always attend the annual gala here.” “That sounds…fun? You don’t sound very excited about it.” “Because it’s the most boring thing I have ever attended, but my sister loves it so I have no choice.” He smiled canting is head to the side. “I would be honored if you would accompany me.” “How can I say no to an invitation like that.” Lauren looked to the front of the cafe, noticing the same man that was always waiting outside when they were here, following them at what he probably presumed was a discreet distance when Mishca walked her to class.

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“Do you know him?” She asked nodding her head in the man’s direction. Mishca followed her gaze. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Mishca led her out the cafe, waving to get the man’s attention. He didn’t look alarmed that they were nearing him, though his eyes did flicker to Mishca for a brief second before settling on Lauren. “Lauren, meet my right hand, Vlad.” He was several years older than Mishca with angular features. He had gleaming ebony strands, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Lauren,” he greeted with the thickest accent she had ever heard. She smiled and poke, “Just Lauren.” Mishca grinned. “She made you.” It wasn’t very hard, Vlad was a big man. As they started for her class, Lauren kept the conversation going with Vlad since he stayed

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by their side instead of walking behind them. Lost in conversation, none of them noticed the photographer across the street snapping shots of them. *** Lauren peered up at the gym, Knockdown, stepping out of the toasty cab as she reread the address Mishca had given her. The front of the warehouse was made of windows, allowing a clear view of the welcome desk, but not the interior of the gym. Paying the cabbie, she stepped onto the curb, loosening her scarf as she entered the humid building. Despite the chilly temperature outside, it felt like summer inside, the sweltering heat nearly suffocating. The sounds of fists and feet connecting with sand filled bags carried around the large space, but a wall with trophies and certificates prevented view into the gym. A brunette wearing dark purple lipstick sat behind the front desk, her legs kicked up

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on the top in platform boots. She was dressed entirely in black, despite the heat in the place, with a dog collar fixed tightly around her neck. She hardly acknowledged Lauren’s approach as she thumbed through a magazine about tattoos. Lauren took a moment to look around, hoping she could find her own way without disturbing the girl, but when she didn’t find any signs pointing her in the right direction, she stepped up. “Hi, could you tell me where the fight’s going to be?” Blowing a bubble with her gum, the unfriendly receptionist rolled her eyes, pointing behind her without looking up. Okay… Lauren walked around the barrier—feeling stupid for not having realized it at first—until she could see the entirety of the warehouse. There was a large octagon ring in the center, rows of punching bags hanging from hooks in the ceiling, and a spot for weightlifting

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over against the West wall. Most of the floor was covered in green square mats where men, and some women, were grappling on the floor. She tried to find Mishca amongst the sweaty bodies, but it was hard to see clear faces with the crowd surrounding the octagon. In her brief look around, Lauren hadn’t noticed the two guys inside, circling one another, both wearing knee length shorts. One had a buzzed head, tattoos covering the majority of his torso and back. His shorts were white with black flames, and the mouthguard protecting his teeth was also white with a word written across it that Lauren couldn’t make out from her distance. His opponent, however, was the tiger to his bear. He was tall, his muscles cut and defined like he was specifically molded that way. Tape was wrapped around his ankles and the heels of his feet. Fingerless gloves

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protected his knuckles, but they hardly looked like they had any padding. Mishca looked like a born fighter as he wiped the sweat from his brow, pushing the inky black strands of his hair out of his face. His gaze found Lauren’s, his pale eyes brightening as he smiled and winked at her. She gave a slight wave, walking over to the edge of the cage so she would have a better view of the fight. Up close, she could see the slight sheen of sweat on his chest, some droplets descending down his chest. It was hard not to stare at the perfection he hid beneath his clothes. Two eight-pointed stars were inked on either side of his chest, just below his collarbone, another set on his knees. Across his forearm was a setting sun, and a line of script on his bicep. There were also two more tattoos on his shoulders, but Lauren couldn’t remember what they were called.

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Mishca came over with his usual slow stroll, crouching down until they were eye level. He smiled, revealing the fluorescent green mouthpiece before he removed it, wiping his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. “I’m glad you could make it for my last fight.” “Wouldn’t miss it.” She glanced around, noticing they seemed to be the object of everyone’s attention. “You must be pretty popular around here,” she said jokingly, gesturing around at all the people with a wave of her hands. Mishca’s eyes shifted from hers to just above her head. He barked something in Russian, his expression turning agitated for only a second before it cleared and he returned to her.“Ignore them. They’re not used to someone so pretty. ” She rolled her eyes. “They see you everyday.”

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He chuckled, touching a hand to his chest. “You flatter me.” The sudden clamor of the audience clapping made them look to where the referee was climbing into the cage. He was a squat man, who seemed to look genuinely afraid although Lauren was sure he was in no danger of the actual fighters. “Time to defend my title.” Before heading to the center of the ring though, Mishca removed one of his gloves, fitting his hands through the fence to draw her forward. When she was close enough, he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. Lauren felt warm at his touch, wishing that she didn’t blush as much as she did where he was concerned. “Good luck, Mish.” He strapped on his glove. “Who needs luck when I have you, moy dorogoy?”

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With a two finger salute, he stepped forward, his demeanor shifting from cool indifference, to a predator. The referee began citing the rules, telling the two to touch gloves before the fight was to begin. The crowd surrounding the cage grew and from their excited whispers, Lauren could hear they were excited to see Mishca fighting after his brutal win against a former opponent. The bell rang and the surrounding people exploded with cheer, egging them on. Somehow, during the course of the first round, Lauren had lost her spot at the front, towering men obstructing her view. She wasn’t short by any means—about five-eight—but with these men, she felt petite next to them. “Perhaps this will help, no?” Vlad appeared in her peripheral carrying a chair for her to stand on. Unlike everyone else that was dressed in workout gear, he was still dressed in his customary suit, looked

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extremely out of place, not that he seemed to care. “Hey Vlad,” she said as she climbed onto the chair with his assistance. “I didn’t see you when I came in.” “I was around.” Lauren waited, looking back at him, expecting him to elaborate, but as he stayed stonily silent, she looked back to the octagon. She had learned that he was a man of few words. As she turned her attention back to the fight, she wondered whether or not he would have the night off. Last Friday, Tristan had made a point of asking, ‘so when are we going to meet the Russian bastard?’ while snatching a bowl of popcorn away from her, plopping down in his usual spot. It was true enough that she had opted out of the last three nights they had all come over, instead spending her time with Mishca. Because of it, they had all given her the ‘special

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treatment’ as they called it, mostly letting Tristan pelt her with food. But that hadn’t been the turning point. It was Amber who had casually mentioned that she might disclose that Lauren had a boyfriend to Ross the next time she talked to him if she didn’t bring him around for them to vet. So there were her choice, introducing Mishca to her harebrained friends or knowing that Ross was going to do a background check as well as make a couple of calls to ensure he was legit…it was a no brainer.Despite her nervousness about it all, Mishca was surprisingly open to the idea, despite how secretive he seemed at times. In fact he was the one who had picked tonight—a fact that worked easily since it was their weekly hangout. This was the easy part, but not knowing what kind of stuff Tristan was going to pull made her more nervous than anything else.

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Mishca jerked back suddenly as his opponent threw a wild punch, grinning in satisfaction as he blocked another hit with his elbow and slammed his fist into the man’s face, spinning out of the way before he could retaliate. Lauren had always found the art of MMA intriguing, the years in which the fighters’ perfected their craft a testament to their dedication. The fighters she had seen on television in various UFC fights moved with an animal like grace as they expertly moved around the ring, dodging hits and landing their own as they fought for purchase against their opponents, and though she didn’t know whether or not Mishca had any formal training, he was just as skilled as he effortlessly beat down his opponent. “He’s good,” she commented to Vlad. “He is alright. His guard is too high. Mishca is always protecting his face,” he responded and Lauren thought she saw a hint

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of a smile on his normally impassive face. “See what I mean?” Mishca’s opponent was able to land a blow to his stomach, rushing forward to send Mishca to the ground. Lauren winced as they both landed, Mishca on his back, the other guy on top of him, straddling his waist, but Mishca didn’t seem affected as he made quick work of the other man, doing a complicated maneuver to lift his legs and lock them around the other man’s waist, shifting their positions until Mishca had him in a headlock. He held tight, the muscles in his arms pulling taut as he cut off the man’s air. In no time at all, he began tapping Mishca repeatedly on the side and the referee called it. They climbed to their feet, albeit sluggishly, and clapped each other on the back. The referee declared Mishca the winner, lifting his arm in the air.

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Lauren clapped just as loudly as the others, grinning as he climbed out of the ring, ignoring the scores of people congratulating him as he reached her, wrapping his arms around her waist and picking her up. Vlad whispered something in Russian before walking towards the octagon where another man was waiting, his mouth pensive. She made a soft sound of protest, wiggling out of his arms to stand on her own two feet. She wrinkled her nose and said, “You’re sweaty.” “This is nothing. I hardly put up a fight.” “You did good out there,” she said as he grabbed a towel and wiped his face, draping it over his shoulders. His brow quirked up as led her over to the locker rooms. “Then you were impressed, no?” “Of course I was. You were great.” “Spasibo.” “Thanks?” She asked.

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He seemed to appreciate her quick translation. “Give me one minute, then we’ll go.” *** “What are you thinking about?” Mishca asked, breaking the silence as they rode towards her apartment. “My friends can be a bit…weird, and I’m not sure how to do this introduction thing.” He pretended to be shocked. “No boyfriend to introduce?” She smiled shyly. “No, I haven’t.” He looked pleased as he kissed her cheek. “There’s no need to worry. As long as you care for me and I care for you, everything else is inconsequential.” At his comforting words, Lauren was looking forward to the meet-and-greet, expecting it go off flawlessly…that was until she opened the front door. Matt was consoling Piper as she sobbed about her new Christian Louboutin’s which were covered in some type of goo and red

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paint. Tristan was sitting on Amber’s stool, a towel draped around his neck, covered in the same substance that coated Piper’s shoes, but he was also covered in white powder, glitter, and feathers. Sticky, red paint was stuck throughout his hair, making him look like he jammed his finger in a light socket. To top it off, he was dressed only in a pair of Superman themed boxer-briefs. “I didn’t even see the fucking cat!” Tristan complained as Amber tried not to laugh as she worked on his hair. At their entrance, all eyes swung over to them and Lauren contemplated making a run for it, dragging Mishca with her whether he liked it or not. “Lauren, we weren’t expecting you so soon,” Amber said, her eyes bright with mischief. “Good to see you again, Mishca.” Narrowing her eyes on Tristan’s smirk, she was inclined to believe that he

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planned…well whatever the hell it was that happened to him. “Should I…” “Nope, don’t even ask,” said Rob coming out of Amber’s bedroom. “You wouldn’t believe him if he told you.” “Well,” Lauren said drawing the word out as she clapped her ands together, thinking it couldn’t get any worse. “Everyone, this is Mishca. Mish, this is my roommate Amber, her boyfriend Rod, Matt, Piper, and the idiot with the glitter is Tristan.” They all spoke consecutively, though Tristan scowled and stuck his tongue out at her like a toddler. Piper seemed to have forgotten all about her shoes as she flicked her hair over her shoulder, giving Mishca a flirtatious smile. Lauren frowned, a sliver of irritation filling her as she tried to unsuccessfully justify the other girl’s actions. Choosing to believe that she was like this with every guy,

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Lauren cleared her throat and looked to Mishca. “Want a tour?” There wasn’t much to show, but it allowed her to get Mishca away from Piper. “So this is your bedroom?” Mishca said looking around her space. “In all its glory.” Luckily, she had cleaned it before leaving for the gym. He touched her hand. “I’m not interested, in the redhead.” She shook her head, about to deny that she had even thought of that, but changed her mind and said, “Good to know.” “I think you’re cute when you’re jealous.” “I…what? I wasn’t jealous.” But she looked to the right of him, her tone a fraction higher. “It’s okay if you were,” he said chuckling. “My ego appreciates it.” “Whatever.”

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His phone rang, an insistent tone he couldn’t ignore. Picking it up, he spoke rapidly in Russian, his expression changing from amusement to annoyed and back again. After hanging up, he looked at her. “What’s wrong?” “I think I should be asking you that. Sounded serious.” He pocketed his phone. “Running a club is not easy.” “I thought it was just long nights and loud music,” she said jokingly, walking with him back out into the living room. This week’s food of choice was burgers from a place in Brooklyn. Eight-ounce patty, pretzel buns, tomatoes, lettuce, with varying toppings that made them an experience all on their own. Tristan finally put on some pants, abandoning hope for his hair for the moment while he indulged in the food. Mishca fit in easily with the guys, finally get the full story

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out of Tristan as to what happened to him. In the shortest sense, an angry body builder came home to find Tristan in bed with his girlfriend. According to him, he barely escaped with his life. After eating, they all crashed on the couch. When Lauren made to sit next to Mishca, he tugged her down onto his lap. He turned her hand over, tracing the lines there as Tristan was popping the DVD in. The screen went dark for a few seconds then turned white, the feature starting. “What the fuck? Seriously!” Matt exclaimed as the first few seconds of Tristan’s selection began. Lauren hadn’t noticed at first, too busy enjoying the way Mishca was rubbing his thumb across the palm of her hand. At Matt’s outburst, she blinked up at the screen and immediately focused her gaze on Mishca’s

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shirt, blood rushing to her face at the sight of the couple on the screen. Mishca looked from her to the screen, his lips curling slowly when he realized what made her blush. “Don’t be a fucking prude, Matt,” Tristan shouted back at him, but from the way he was biting his lip, he was trying not to laugh. “This is the last time we let you pick the movie,” Lauren said dryly, fighting past her embarrassment to sound normal. “I love this movie!” Tristan complained. “It’s a classic and shit, I got the lite version, you don’t even see the good bits.” Yea, he definitely did this all on purpose. “Is anyone going to actually change the movie?” Tristan booed and threw a pillow at her, throwing his hands up when Mishca caught it easily. He did eject the movie, preparing to put another one in when Matt shoved him

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out of the way, checking the disc before putting it in. But no one was watching the movie. “So how did you two meet?” Matt asked. “I spilled coffee on him,” she said at the same time as Mishca said, “She spilled coffee on me.” Tristan chuckled. “Classic.” “Then, your friend spilled food on me,” Lauren said smiling at him. “I think we’re even.” Piper looked confused. “Wait, what?” For the next two hours, Lauren launched into the tale of how they had met and the weeks following, Mishca interjecting his side of things every so often, launching a back and forth argument between Amber and Rob about who was wrong. “It wasn’t his fault this Rebecca girl decided she wanted to make a scene.” “Exactly,” Mishca agreed, holding his bottle of beer up in salute.

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Amber rolled her eyes. “How was Lauren supposed to know she was psychotic and what does that say about him—no offense.” Mishca was too busy laughing to take offense. “Are they always like this?” Mishca asked in her ear. “Normally.” “For the record, I find their courtship to be quite romantic.” Everyone stopped and looked at Matt, his unexpected outburst making them smile. “Aw, Matt. I didn’t you were so romantic,” Tristan said in an unusually high voice. “Wanna pour some of that charm on me? I’m an easy lay.” *** At the end of the night, Lauren walked Mishca out, pulling the door up behind them so they could talk privately. He had his hands tucked into his front pockets, an easy smile on his lips. “How did I do?”

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She shrugged a shoulder. “I liked you.” “Good.” She hesitated, not ready for him to leave yet. “Same time and place as always?” He seemed to notice her reluctance, taking a step closer to her. She met his eyes, saw the curiosity in them and it was enough to make her do something she had never done before. Going up onto the tips of her toes, she kissed him. When he gave no reaction, she pulled away. She took a step back, feeling the blush in her cheeks, not sure what else to do after doing something so bold, but he didn’t let her get far, tugging her back by the front of her shirt until they were flush against each other. Cupping her cheek, he tilted her face up until they were just a whisper apart. She wanted to think that because she initiated the kiss, he would have known that she wasn’t going to back out of it now, but he still hesitated, giving her the chance to back out

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before he kissed her. First, he pressed his lips to hers gently, then pulled away like she had done, but in the next moment, he was coaxing her lips to part, twining his tongue with hers. Lauren fisted her hands in his shirt, just above his waist, holding him against her, but she couldn’t seem to get close enough as she arched against him. He returned the sentiment, one hand sifting through the heavy fall of her hair, gripping the strands. His other arm went around her waist, his hand at the small of her back. Neither of them cared that they were in the hallway of her apartment building, open for all to see. Lauren sighed, the sound lost in his urgent kisses, the way he expertly took control of the kiss, the way they fit together and moved like they had done this thousands of times before. She was too caught up in the moment to notice Miss. Carter, her elderly next door

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neighbor as she appeared at the top of the stairs. She cleared her throat dramatically, looking at them disapprovingly as she shuffled to her apartment, shaking her head. Mishca’s chest rose and fell with his laughter, and as Miss. Carter disappeared behind her door, Lauren joined in. “I’ll see you later, yes?” She nodded, feeling shy all of a sudden with the way he was looking at her. He seemed just as affected by the kiss as she felt. “Good night, moy dorogoy.” She smiled, releasing her hold on his shirt. “You know I don’t know what that means.” He gave her another quick kiss, heading towards the stairs. “My darling.”

Chapter Ten:

Black Tie Shopping Three days before the gala opening, Lauren was at her desk, slaving away over homework when her door was shoved open, Piper and Amber standing in the entryway. “Get up,” Piper demanded as she crossed her arms over her ample chest. “We’re going shopping.” “Uh.” Lauren looked down at the mountain of work that she needed to get done before the following week. “Do I have to?” “Amber tells me you’re going to the gala opening this weekend.” Her lip curled as she gazed around Lauren’s room. “I doubt

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anything in your closet is good enough to wear around that crowd.” “What she means,” Amber interjected glaring at her cousin, “is these events can be very…black tie and I know you’ll probably want to look the part.” “Right, give me ten minutes.” Shopping with Piper was a special event all on its own. It seemed there wasn’t a boutique owner she didn’t know and by association, they treated Lauren and Amber with the same gushing attention that they laid on Piper. However, this shopping extravaganza wasn’t just about finding a dress for Lauren, but also help Piper find something suitable to wear to a party she was attending on the Upper Eastside. The first few stores they went in were dead ends—though Piper found at least one thing to buy in each store.

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She was walking with arms full of shopping bags while Lauren and Amber trailed behind her. “Have you had one of these yet?” Amber asked, pointing out a hotdog vendor at the corner. Piper wrinkled her nose. “Those are foul.” “No, but I’m willing to try it.” They ordered two hotdogs with the works—because Amber said there was no other way to have them. Taking her first bite, Lauren was expecting the usual taste, but was surprised at how different it tasted from the ones she bought at the grocery store. “Good, right?” Amber asked smiling around a mouthful. With food, they took their time, finding a comfortable spot on a bench instead of following Piper in every store. “Did you ever talk to Rob about…you know.”

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Amber tossed her wrapper at the trashcan a couple of feet away, cheering when it bounced off the rim and sank inside. “Yea, but…it didn’t really make a difference. He doesn’t understand my love for painting.” Lauren frowned, still holding onto her own wrapper. “What are you going to do?” She sighed, seeming sad all of a sudden. “Nothing.” “But—” “One day I might look back on this and say how stupid I was for staying with someone that didn’t support my dreams, but for now, I’ll take what I can get.” “I’m ready.” Lauren didn’t get another chance to talk with Amber, Piper whacking them away to another store. They were nearing Broadway when Piper suddenly stopped. “I guess you’re not having sex with the boyfriend,” Piper said with a wry grin, gazing

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through the windows of the Calvin Klein store. “What the hell kind of question is that?” Amber asked, just as Lauren asked, “What do you mean?” Piper pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the glass, pointing past the stylish mannequins to where Mishca stood, chatting amicably with a sales associate who was far too close to him for it to be professional. Lauren couldn’t help the spark of jealousy she felt at seeing them like that. It was unwarranted, she knew, especially when she had no idea what they were talking about or who the girl was to him. She had never so much as seen him gaze more than a few seconds at a girl since they had gotten together, but of course she had no idea what he did when she wasn’t around. No…No, she trusted him. He had never given her a reason not to, but when the girl laid a hand on his bicep, the gesture innocent

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if she hadn’t been staring up at him like he was a god, she made her decision. “We should go in and say hi,” Amber suggested already opening the door. The store was very anesthetically pleasing and even the associates that worked there were well dressed and carried themselves the way Piper did, though they at least pretended to be friendly. The chiming of the bell drew the associate’s attention, her brown eyes flickering over to them briefly as she smiled, then dismissing them. She actually touched Mishca’s arm lightly, guiding him towards another set of shirts a few feet away. “Don’t worry,” Amber whispered as though they could hear them. “I’ll help you bury the body later.” Lauren bit back a laugh, shaking her head as Amber held her hands out, pretending to triangle the girl. “You know, you’re pretty violent when you want to be.”

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Mishca’s guard stood off to the side, looking entirely out of place as he waited stoically. “Vlad,” Lauren called with a wave, watching his stony expression melt for just a second as he nodded at her. “Mishca’s bodyguard,” she explained at the confused looks from Piper and Amber. Amber frowned. “Why does he need security?” Lauren had often wondered the same thing, but never commented on it. Maybe all successful club owners had one. “No idea.” The sound of Lauren’s voice brought Mishca’s attention around to them, and she was pleased that he didn’t have that guilty look on his face that most guys wore when they were caught doing something they shouldn’t. Instead he looked pleased, and her momentary doubt was wiped away as he turned his back on the associate, striding forward to kiss her cheek.

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“Hello love.” He turned pale eyes to her roommate. “Always a pleasure to see you, Amber. Piper.” Piper smirked, like she had never been so casually dismissed by a man in all of her life. Lauren was inclined to believe that. Amber, on the other hand, batted her eyelashes—just as the associate had done not too long ago. “Does he always sound so—” she imitated his accent. “—Throaty?” Mishca laughed in good humor. “Only on Thursdays.” Realizing that Mishca was off the market—or at least not bold enough to make a move with Lauren there—the associate cleared her throat, making her presence known. “Mr. Volkov, I’ll go and get your selections ready.” She walked away in a hurry, not nearly as flirty as she had been when they first arrived. “What are you doing here?”

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“We’re dress hunting for the gala and saw you through the window.” Amber was gazing at a row of pastel men’s dress shirts when she chimed in. “We thought we’d save you from the succubus.” “Thank you for protecting my virtue.” He said with a smile. “Have you found anything?” “Not yet.” Piper leaned a hip against the display case, twirling a loose curl between her fingers. “What are you wearing?” “Gray.” He didn’t take his eyes off Lauren. “Do you like gray?” “Yea.” The associate came back out carrying a large black container with a glass face. Displaying it in front of Mishca, she lifted the lid, gesturing to the assortment of bow ties inside. He looked to Lauren. “Ladies’ choice.”

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She looked at the different colors, trying to match it together with the gray of his suit. She pointed at the navy one. Mishca nodded. “I’ll take that one.” “Of course, Mr. Volkov. Your items will be delivered tomorrow morning.” With his business completed, Mishca looked back at Lauren. “I know a place my sister likes to shop, if you don’t mind the extra company.” She intertwined their fingers. “I would love your company.” *** Ten dresses, six pairs of shoes, and a number of stores later, Lauren was surprised Mishca was still sitting out in the lobby, waiting to see her in Piper’s latest selection. To be honest, Lauren had never gone dress shopping in her life, having skipped all of the major dances in high school. She really hated small towns.

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But she did enjoy Mishca’s reactions. He would be staring down at his Blackberry, his eyebrows pinched in concentration as he typed, but as soon as she stepped out, his expression cleared, replaced with a soft smile that made Lauren feel warm all over. “Come on, L. We’re dying out here,” Amber called from the other side of the curtain. Smiling, Lauren held the dress to her chest with one hand as she swept the curtain to the side, stepping out. Mishca was waiting and at the sight of her, he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Want me to zip you?” He asked although he was already moving towards her. Giving him her back, she faced the trio of mirrors, watching him draw the zipper up with ease. “I like this one,” he murmured next to her ear. The dress was form fitting, a shimmering shade of silver. It was rather simple in design

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with long sleeves, the skirt pooling at her feet, trailing behind her. It had a modest neckline, but what made the gown truly special was the plunging back, stopping at the center of her spine. Even without Mishca’s approval, she was sold. Mishca glanced down at his watch. “I have to get to a meeting. I’ll call you later, yes?” She nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her just beneath her ear and hurried out of the store. Lauren redressed quickly, taking the dress out to the register to hold while she went up to the shoe department. With all the selections, Amber’s eyes lit up. She was a shoe person. “I’m kind of glad you moved in with me,” Amber said sitting on one of the suede chairs, rolling up the legs of her jeans. “Now, I can justify buying shoes because of the gala.”

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Lauren smiled wide. “Are you and Rob going?” Amber sucked her teeth, waving her hand. “Of course not, but since you are, I can live vicariously through you.” “Do you have any tips?” Piper appeared with two pair of shoes, the first nude, the other the same color as the dress, both with heels that made Lauren’s feet hurt just looking at them. “They’re like any other party, just better clothes and better food.” “Have you ever been to one, Piper?” Lauren asked trying on the first pair. “Not since last year when was with David.” Lauren looked to Amber. “David?” “He was a trust fund baby. They dated for like two months.” Piper sighed, studying her manicure. “Until I caught him in bed with someone else.” Lauren winced. “I’m sorry.”

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“Oh, it wasn’t because he cheated that she broke it off with him,” Amber said. “It was because he was secretly gay.” “He could have at least waited until I was out of the city before shacking up with that whore.” Amber and Piper bantered back and forth between trying on shoes, and after another half hour, they were ready to check out, Lauren having chose the silver pair. The line was relatively short, the wait going by faster than expected. When they reached the front, Lauren set her shoes on the counter, pointing out the dress that was hers. The cashier—her name tag reading Tasha—retrieved the dress, then looked at Lauren appreciatively as she rang her up. “Was that your boyfriend?” She asked sounding positively giddy. “Uh, yea.” “I totally know his sister. Doesn’t he own that club over on Fifth?”

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Lauren never got to answer any of the girl’s questions, she just kept talking, gushing about her friendship with Alex and how hot Mishca was. By the time she took a breath, there was a line of people behind Lauren. “How much is the dress?” Lauren asked as nicely as she could, ignoring Amber’s snickering beside her. “Oh, it’s already been taken care of.” She handed her the garment bag. Mishca. He never ceased to amaze her. “Well, thanks.” “Can you get me in?” Tasha called after them as they were leaving.

Chapter Eleven:

Vory v Zakone Located on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 55 Street was the Peninsula New York, a premiere hotel that provided luxury accommodations, along with the privacy the men in the Peninsula Suite required. Mishca Volkov stepped out of his Mercedes, nodding towards the doorman that hurried to open the door for him. Inside the lobby, a woman dressed in a black pencil skirt and pale pink blouse, greeted him with a smile, holding a tablet in her hands. She had worked there for as long as Mishca had th

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been brought in, and even longer since she worked for his father. Heather, he thought her name was though he never cared enough to verify. She was nice enough, but artificial in every sense of the word. He doubted there was anything on her that wasn’t altered or implanted, and despite her attempts at trying to get near Mikhail—and once at Mishca—she was still just another trinket that was passed around. Anya never let any female close enough to Mikhail to do any harm. “Mr. Volkov,” she greeted him formally though she stuck her chest out to get his attention, “your party is awaiting your arrival.” Mishca and Vlad took the elevator to the th 19 floor and entered the room where the Four Families were meeting. In the living area, the drapes were drawn back, allowing a view of the bustling street below and the sights of Manhattan. A grand piano of polished black stood in the corner of

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the room, tying together with the upscale furnishings in the center of the space. But more than the surroundings, the men—and a single woman—drew attention even though they all sat in silence. It was a rathe large gathering, three members from each family. It might have been less, but since Mishca and Viktor were both in attendance—as well as Mikhail—it was only fair that each family was even and had a fair say. When Mishca entered, they each stood one by one, greeting him with a handshake and a kiss to either cheek. The practice was a bit outdated, in Mishca’s opinion, but being Mikhail’s son afforded him the respect. He took up his usual spot, a warm, butter colored leather chair near the piano. It was situated in the corner of the room, not in direct view of the windows, but far enough away from the door. He had been around long enough to know that there were some that

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coveted power and would not hesitate to take him out. The Four Families consisted of the Volkovs, the Zolnerowiches, the Pavlovs, and the Kaminskis. They were spread out along the Eastern seaboard, ruling their prospective states though they all answered to Mishca’s father. Mikhail Volkov was as much a law abiding citizen as he was a career criminal. He owned a chain of successful restaurants in Brighton Beach where he also conducted most of his business. Although as Pakhan—the Boss—he had control over all the designated territories, he normally stuck to Brighton Beach, leaving the other cities to his officers. He was as charming as he was deadly, with a head full of graying black hair, and hard gray eyes. He might have been nearing sixty, but he had the physique and attitude of a man in his thirties. Whereas Mishca was

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lean, Mikhail had at least a hundred pounds on him. Tattoos covered a large portion of his body, some visible of his fingers, around his wrists, and on his arms. He had earned each of them, spending a good thirty years of his life behind bars in one of the cruelest prisons in northern Russia. Viktor Volkov did not pretend to be law abiding, earning his fortune in arms smuggling, human trafficking, and the drug trade. If it was illegal and deadly, he had a hand in it. Out of the lot of them, he had spent the most time in prison. While he was brother to Mikhail, he did not have the same level of esteem, mainly because people often viewed him as a bit unstable. To be a good leader, at least one that these men would follow, you had to put the good of the Vory v Zakone first, but Viktor cared more about personal gain than the men he governed.

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It was no secret that Viktor wanted his position. They each played a role in the grand scheme of things. There was the Pakhan, the head thief-in-law who controlled everything. It was a coveted position, but not one that could be taken by force. It was earned through bloodshed and war. Two Spies—the Sovietnik and the Obshchak—they were the right hands to the Pakhan, the former being more of an advisor while the latter collected debts and the dues of the rest of the Bratva. Brigadiers or simply, Captains. That was Mishca and Viktor’s position and one he had fought to get. The Captain led a small group of men—often called Boyeviks meaning warriors—who answered to him, then he answered to the Pakhan. In New York, they each had their own designated area, a territory of sorts that they ruled over individually. Viktor was in

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Brooklyn, Mishca had Manhattan—a spot that Viktor was constantly trying to have—due to his profiting legal business that helped mask is shady dealings. While Mikhail could work anywhere, he normally stuck to Brighton Beach, for similar reasons as to why Mishca stayed in Manhattan. When Mikhail entered, they all stood, following him to the table set up in the middle of the room. When they were all seated, drinks were poured, a tumbler of Vodka set in front of each of them, a tradition they followed at every meeting. Mishca held his glass in a calloused hand, studying the scars that dotted the back of his knuckles, almost imperceptible unless he was looking for them. There was nothing particularly different about each one, but he could remember how he acquired them. Many of the thieves used their men to handle their affairs, but before Vlad started working

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for Mishca, he had settled his disputes himself. Mishca wasn’t lying when he told Lauren that Vlad was his right hand man, but Vlad’s job was much more than that. At first, he had started out as a Byki—bodyguard—but as years passed, he earned the position of Kryshas, an enforcer. Mishca trusted no one as much as he trusted Vlad because his loyalty was not to Mikhail, but to him. “How is business?” Mikhail asked pleasantly, pulling a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and lighting it. All at once, each member seated withdrew an envelope—whether hidden in their jackets, briefcases, or carried by their guards—and set them in the middle of the table where the Obshchak collected them. Even Mishca tossed a heavy envelope in the pile. Contrary to what people thought, Mishca wasn’t awarded any special privileges because he was the Pakhan’s son. He paid

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his debts like the other soldiers, answered for his every action, and treated his father like every other member when he was in their presence. Outside these walls, their relationship was not that different from the one they led here, but there as a different dynamic o it,one that Mishca had learned to accept from a young age. Business and personal relationships didn’t mix well. There was a time and a place for everything. Back when he was twenty-one, still in college, Mishca had taken out a loan from his father—the money coming from the obochek, a limitless fund for the Bratva—and with it, he had accepted the principal amount as well as the interest that went along with it. Only once was he ever late for a payment, and as a result, his father had broken two of his fingers. Since that day, he had never been late again.

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“Did any of our friends stop by for dinner?” That was a code, just like most things his father said during these meetings. If at any point the feds were able to bug them—and they tried often—they would only hear pleasant conversation. Of course, they could interpret their talks anyway they wanted, but those ‘interpretations’ would never stand up in court. Mishca had witnessed that over the years, watching his father skate by on technicalities. The meeting didn’t last much longer, Mikhail adjourning them much sooner than Mishca was expecting. Not questioning it—rather eager to get out of there and maybe drop by Lauren’s—he pocketed his phone, swallowing his shot of Vodka before heading towards the elevators. Viktor stopped him.

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“Mishca, how is my favorite nephew?” He asked, blocking his way to the elevator. Breathing deeply for patience, he faced his uncle. “Good.” “I hear there is a new girl in your life, is she from one of my stables.” Mishca worked his jaw, remembering where they were and that Mikhail was probably not far away. Viktor was a calloused old bastard that treated women like cattle. The ‘stables’ he was referring to were his whorehouses in Brooklyn, five houses that held at least ten girls each. They were hooked on heroin and barely knew their own names less than what they were forced to do night after night. While Mishca didn’t agree with how Viktor made his money, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And the fact that Viktor knew this, and had the audacity to ask him, Mishca knew he was purposely being disrespectful.

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“I have places to be, Viktor,” Mishca said boldly looking him in the eye, letting the other man know he didn’t fear him in the slightest. “Well…give your uncle a call next week.” Meaning he had a business proposition he wanted to discuss. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever made that call. Smirking, he said, “Will do.” Before he could continue their small talk, Mishca boarded the elevator, watching the doors close.

Chapter Twelve:

Kiss Me Breathless In Piper’s world, getting ready for a black tie event was an elaborate affair. Lauren only wanted to shower, shave, maybe do something fancy with her hair and makeup, but it was going on five o’ clock, and they had been at it for the last four hours. She had been plucked, waxed—berated for asking for breaks—and pretty much moved around like a rag doll, not that she complained. She wasn’t entirely sure why Piper was going out of her way to help her, but she was thankful all the same.

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“Luckily for you,” Piper said zipping up her dress, answering Lauren’s question about wearing spanx. “You won’t need it. There,” she said taking a step back to admire her handiwork. “We’re all done.” “Finally,” Amber called from the other room. “I’ve been waiting ages.” Clutching the skirt of her gown, Lauren lifted it as she walked. Though ripping the stubby hair from her legs with hot wax was a bit painful, she couldn’t help but admire the way the silk brushed against her skin. As she emerged from the bathroom, and if Amber’s reaction was any indication, she looked like an entirely different person. She felt like an entirely different person. “You look amazing, Lauren, really. Let me grab the mirror.” Carrying a large oval mirror from her bedroom, Amber held it up. If it hadn’t taken hours to do, Lauren might have asked Piper for tips on how to do this everyday.

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Her hair was piled high with numerous bobby pins, wavy strands free from the messy bun to frame her face. Black eyeliner accentuated her eyes, just thick enough to resemble the cat eye Marilyn Monroe was famous for with a matching red lip. The strapless black gown hugged at the waist, falling around her hips, then pooling at her feet. “Let me grab my camera,” said Piper as she rooted around in her large tote bag, producing a bulky black camera that any photographer would be proud of. “I’m on deadline and what better to cover than the Meta.” Piper snapped a few shots, telling her how to pose, which ways displayed the dress the best. “And where’s the other half? Sorry, but he’ll be more of a headline than you.” At this point, she was more concerned with what Mishca was going to think than being offended. He had left so suddenly when they were hunting for dresses that he hadn’t gotten to see the final result.

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She glanced at the clock. “He’s always right on—” The doorbell rang. “He’s like freakishly on time,” Amber said with a laugh. Mishca stepped inside, carrying a bouquet of tiger lilies, the sight of them making her laugh. He never forgot anything. “Ladies.” He presented the flowers to her with a kiss on the cheek. “Seriously?” Tristan called from his spot on the couch, eating a handful of popcorn. “Dude, you’re making us look bad.” “Don’t blame him,” Lauren said. “You do it all on your own,” Amber added. “Disloyal bastards.” “Anyway,” Piper said above Tristan’s starting rant. “I need to get a few shots of you before you leave.” Obliging Piper, Lauren and Mishca posed around the apartment, giving her enough shots—and Mishca answered a few

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questions—before they were out the door and into the town car Mishca had rented for the occasion. “You clean up nice, Mish.” “Trying not to embarrass you, love.” She rolled her yes, smiling as she looked out the window. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re…you.” He laughed, kissing the back of her hand. “Just a man.” “Not just anybody,” she said looking over at him. “You’re special, Mish.” “Behind every great man,” he said giving her another kiss, “is an extraordinary woman.” And just like that, he won her over all over again. *** Lauren expected the gala opening to be a quiet affair, just a few photographers to snap pictures before the guests went in, but as they pulled up alongside the curb, she

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gulped, spotting the swarm of photographs the hovered like vultures to get shots of the number of celebrity that were walking the carpet. Mishca seemed to notice her hesitation, squeezing her hand as the car came to a complete stop, Vlad cutting the engine. “You look lovely,” he whispered. She smiled. “You’ve said that.” He kissed her hand as Vlad opened the door. “I can never say it enough.” Mishca kept one hand on the small of her back, guiding Lauren towards the doors. She could barely hear the photographers clamoring for Mishca’s attention with the blood rushing in her ears. “Do you think the camera will add ten pounds?” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “I’ve been trying to watch my figure.”

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Lauren smiled up at him, laughing at his humor. He smiled and winked in return, strobing lights flickering in the background. Continuing forward, they entered the building, the heavy doors closing behind them. It was a flurry of commotion inside the Opera house as waiters dressed in black floated by, carrying several flutes of champagne on silver trays. They expertly maneuvered around the room, being attentive and making sure there wasn’t an empty glass. Grabbing two, Mishca passed her one and as she took a tentative sip, she was pleasantly surprised at the taste. Ross had once told her that he had been served champagne at a police benefit, but complained that it had tasted like expensive beer. Whatever he’d had, Lauren thought, probably wasn’t as good as this, but it probably wasn’t as expensive either.

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The room they were in was bustling with designer clad patrons, some Lauren had seen on reality TV shows and in movies, others she knew to be designers from Piper’s chatter earlier. No one wore anything that could be called mundane. It was almost a contest on who could wear the most outrageous, but fashionable gown. One woman swept through the room in a gown that was nearly transparent, only feathers shielding her important bits. “Mishca!” Lauren turned at the sound of a girl’s high-pitched voice. The owner was tiny, barely over five feet, with shimmery blonde hair and stunning green eyes. Her shoes gave her the illusion of height, thanks to the five inch heels. They were nude in color, with spikes set all around them, and when she turned just slightly, the red soles of the heels could be seen.

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She wore a soft pink gown that was high in the front, but carried along the floor in the back, the gauzy material flowing behind her. The top fit snugly with overlaying lace and sparkling crystals encrusted along the entirety of the material. She paid no mind to the other guests as they glanced at her curiously, continuing forward until she could throw her arms around Mishca. Chuckling softly, he returned her enthusiastic embrace before setting her away with a grin. “I’m glad you could make it,” she said glancing just to his right where Lauren stood waiting. “Lauren, this is my sister Alex. Alex, Lauren.” Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise as Alex stuck out her hand, grasping Lauren’s before she could move. She couldn’t be any older than sixteen, though there was something older about the way she carried herself. She

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didn’t have the same accent as Mishca, hers softer and lyrical. Alex must look like her mother, Lauren thought, not seeing the resemblance between her and her brother. Whereas Mishca was all dark and brooding, Alex was all light. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Alex said, ignoring the look Mishca was sending her. “He talks about you all the time.” Mishca grumbled something in Russian, but it only seemed to amuse her. “I’m just being honest.” “Your name is Alex?” Lauren asked. She nodded, understanding what Lauren was asking. “It doesn’t sound Russian, right?” Her face grew serious as she cleared her throat. “But it’s a lot easier than telling people my name is Aleksandra Mikhailova Volkov.” Even as she said it, her accent grew more pronounced, making Lauren laugh. “Definitely Russian.”

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“Aleksandra, how lovely to see you this evening,” a man in his late forties greeted as he approached them with a very thin brunette on his arm. “Mr. McCalvin,” Alex greeted pouring on the charm. “I’m sure you remember my brother, Mishca, and this is his date, Lauren Thompson.” Mishca was polite as always, but when Mr. McCalvin turned an interested grin on Lauren, blatantly eyeing her, he narrowed his eyes on the balding man. Lauren watched in bemusement as he turned beet red, stumbling over his words as he faced Alex again. They spoke about the upcoming season—Roger McCalvin was a director for the ADT—a conversation that went right over Lauren’s head, but she did learn that Alex was a ballet dancer and was studying at a school in France—that explained the accent—and was hoping to get into Juilliard.

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Lauren and Mishca excused themselves and he led her around the room, mingling with the other guests as they awaited Mishca’s stepmom’s appearance. “Mishca, darling.” As they neared a small cluster of people, Lauren didn’t have to ask which woman was Anya. With her effortless good looks and poise, she was in a class of her own. Anya Volkov was beautiful in every sense of the word, but there was something cold about her that made her seem almost unapproachable. She had pale, alabaster skin without a single blemish, white-blonde hair styled in an immaculate french twist at the nape of her neck. Her nails matched her lips, a stunning blood red. But these things weren’t what made Anya seem untouchable, it was her eyes. They were emerald, a green that sparkled like leaves blossoming in the spring. In her

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eyes, Lauren didn’t see kindness, she saw something darker, something a bit terrifying. Alex was definitely the splitting image of her mother. Anya hugged Mishca, air-kissing both of his cheeks as he did the same. Pulling away, her gaze dragged over Lauren, judging everything about her with a single glance. She might have flinched under Anya’s scrutiny, but Mishca reached for her hand, offering her support. “And I see you’ve brought a plus one?” Despite her apprehension, Lauren smiled, extending her hand as Mishca made the introductions. “Anya, this is Lauren Thompson. Lauren, my step-mother Anya.” Anya shot Mishca a disapproving scowl and Lauren assumed that she was upset by his use of ‘step-mother.’ Though it looked like it pained her, Anya took her hand, shaking it for a second before dropping it in the

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excuse of grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Is my father here?” Mishca asked wrapping his arm around Lauren’s waist. “He couldn’t make it. I’ll be sure to let him know you were able to attend.” And judging from her expression, she would also be telling him about Lauren’s presence. It was odd the way she was acting. She was trying her best to be cordial, but Lauren could see that she was blatantly studying her, like she was searching for something, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what it was. “If you’ll excuse us,” Anya said politely, turning for a group of men wearing tuxedos. Before Alex followed her, she rolled her eyes dramatically, shooting a conspiratorial wink at Lauren. *** Socializing with New York’s elite was exhausting. Some made it a point to exclude

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her from conversations, excusing it by continuously asking, ‘what’s your name again dear?’ Lauren couldn’t understand why anyone actually enjoyed these events. Mishca had ventured off a moment ago, in search of a restroom, leaving Lauren alone in front of a painting that she was actually familiar with. She read the little white card attached to a miniature podium just to be sure. The soft click of heels was the only inclination that someone had joined her. “It is one of the best here, is it not?” Anya asked sipping her champagne. “Though I am not sure what all you would know about fine art.” Her tone was practically dripping with condescension and though Lauren was rather passive when it came to this sort of thing, she felt a need to prove she could handle their crowd. Not for Anya, but because she realized that if she wanted to be

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with Mishca, she would have to show them that she was not to be looked over. She raised her chin, taking a sip of her champagne. “I thought it was rather good. Perhaps it’s the post-modernist brushwork that I like, but I think Gustav Klimt is still my all time favorite.” Lauren had to admit, a thrill shot through her at Anya’s surprised expression. She tried to hide it, taking a sip of her champagne, but Lauren was pleased. “Are you torturing my date?” Mishca asked reappearing. “No,” Anya said not looking away from Lauren, like she was trying to see past the surface. “In fact, we were discussing this piece. Perhaps not all Americans are barbaric in their knowledge of fine art.” She smiled at Lauren though it didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll speak again soon.” She moved on and the mood lightened with her departure. Lauren bit her lip,

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fighting to keep her amusement contained as she waited for Anya to get out of hearing distance, but Mishca wasn’t helping as he folded his arms across her chest, looking impressed. “Does she know your expertise is on account of an hour and a half long class?” She held her glass up in cheers. “And the barbaric Americans have the last laugh.” *** It was finally time for the performance and Lauren was excited, more so as Alex began explaining the complicated maneuvers she would be seeing. They had some of the best seats in the house, located in the Chairman’s Box, where the president would be seated whenever he chose to attend the opera. Anya and Alex sat together, while Lauren and Mishca sat in the front corner, Mishca taking the aisle seat. A waiter brought another round of pink champagne, coupled with fresh strawberries.

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Lauren accepted hers with a soft thanks, chiming bells beginning to echo around the hall. The flickering lights on the chandeliers dimmed and the soft chatter coming from down below silenced as spotlights turned on and centered on the stage. Lauren set her glass down as the maroon and gold curtains parted, men dressed in elaborate costumes moved fluidly across the stage as act one began. Since this was her first ballet, she appreciated the experience so much more than people who had seen dozens of these. With each jump, pirouette, or leaps across the stage, she grew more enthralled. The ballet dancers made it appear simple as they balanced on the tips of their toes though it would probably hurt like hell for anyone that was trying it for the first time. She felt Mishca’s arm brush hers as he rested it on the armrest between the two of

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them, looking casually sophisticated as he watched the ballet unfold. Lauren had been anxious about attending, not sure how well she would fit in, but now she had zero regrets about accepting the invitation. Slipping her hand into his, she gave him a tentative smile as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth tipping up into a grin as he squeezed her hand in response. They stayed for the entire performance, and at the end, Lauren was in tears, watching the dancers weave tales with their movements. As the curtains closed, Lauren clapped, occasionally wiping away a stray tear. “You’re almost as bad as Alex,” Mishca said looking over to where Alex was on her feet, probably clapping the loudest. “That’s because she gets it,” Alex responded looking back at them. “You’re too much of a guy.” “I would like to think so.”

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Mishca helped Lauren up, her feet protesting from the heels she’d been in for the last few hours. Saying their goodbyes—and promising to see each other again in the near future—Lauren and Mishca made their exit, slipping out into the night. Mishca called for Vlad to bring the car around and they stood beneath the shelter of an overpass, keeping the falling rain from soaking them. “I doubt you can make a run for it in those shoes,” Mishca said nodding towards them. “Want me to carry you?” She looked bemused. “Won’t we move slower if you’re carrying me?” “Want to put a wager on that?” She tapped her chin. “What are the terms?” “You give me a time and I beat it, you stay the night with me.” Her breath caught as he turned the full force of those blue eyes on her. “And if you lose.”

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He tucked her hair behind her ear, following the gesture with his eyes. “Then whatever you want is yours.” In this moment, the only thing she wanted was to spend the night with him. “You won’t win,” she whispered back. He chuckled, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I love a challenge.” She yelped as he dipped low, picking her and throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing more than a bag of feathers. “I haven’t given you a time yet.” His hand settled on her thighs. “Thirty seconds.” Like she would fall for that. “Fifteen.” She blocked her phone, setting the timer and showing it to him. “And…go.” Mishca shot forward and as she mentally kept track of the time, a part of her was surprised that she wasn’t being jostled up and down too badly from his movements. He

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actually kept a firm hold on her, and they wee in the car before her phone even reached ten. “Remind me,” Lauren said once Mishca had the door closed. “Never to bet against you again.” “It’s a part of my training, but I normally carry three times your weight. You, my darling, were a welcome change.” Despite their leaving early, they were soon engulfed in traffic. Lauren tugged off her shoes, sighing in relief as she wiggled her toes, easing the stiffness in them. “Let me.” Before Lauren could protest, he swept up her legs, her feet in his lap. He shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up his sleeves to give his arms more freedom. “Mish, you don’t have—” Her words were cut off as she moaned, his thumbs massaging the arch of her foot. “Never mind. Keep going.”

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He chuckled, continuing his ministrations until she was like putty in his hands. For a while, she just enjoyed what he was doing, but the atmosphere changed gradually. His touch turned from methodical, to lingering, his fingers drifting up her ankle to her calve, slowly kneading the muscles, alternating between each leg. Lauren swallowed, wishing the rain was louder than her pulse racing in her ears. She glanced up at his face, finding his eyes on her rather than what he was doing. His lids were at half mast and she could only imagine what he was thinking as he reached for her, pulling her onto his lap, her dress riding up as she straddled his lap. The windows were darkly tinted and dark paned glass obscured Vlad’s view of them. With her hands on his shoulders, she leaned down as he leaned up, kissing him softly. Mishca shifted beneath her, his arms going around her to press her closer.

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His hands continued to skim up her dress, along her outer thighs, gripping her tightly like he never wanted to let go. He made a rough sound in the back of his throat, one that made her respond in kind, deepening the kiss, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue. She drew back to take a breath, panting slightly as he moved from her lips to her neck, biting gently on the chord of her neck. He locked eyes with her as he sat back, whispering words in Russian, explaining his meaning by drifting his hands down her body, starting at her throat, between her breasts, down to her stomach, until he reached her thighs. “You can change your mind,” he whispered, this time in English. “Like I would change my mind now,” she said with a laugh. He smiled, wrapping a hand in her hair before pulling her down for another kiss,

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losing themselves in each other, not realizing that several minutes later, they had come to a stop outside Mishca’s apartment building. They hurried through the rain, hand in hand, calling good night to Vlad on their way in. There was a doorman at the entrance who tipped his hat in their direction, speaking to Mishca by name and giving Lauren a warm smile. Taking the elevator up to the twentieth floor, Mishca drew out his keys and opened the door. “Wow.” As they entered the apartment, the first thing Lauren saw was the glass. One entire wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows, broken up by sheer gray curtains that. It was quiet, just the sound of the rain pelting against the glass. She followed him into his bedroom, going over to gaze out at the park that his apartment overlooked as he fiddled with the thermostat.

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It was a spectacular view, even if it were hard to see out. The little she had seen of his apartment reminded her of him. If someone had told her that in just a few months, she would be in an upscale apartment, dating someone that was more fantasy than reality, she would never have believed it. Lauren turned back to look over her shoulder, surprised to find Mishca leaning against the wall, studying her. He wasn’t shy with his perusal of her, pale eyes raking over her slowly. He’d taken off his suit jacket and vest, his nearly transparent white dress shirt sculpting to his chest, the ink of his tattoos showing through, but Lauren had a hard time not focusing on the sculpted planes of his abdomen. He came towards her, slowly, like he was trying not to scare her. Lauren took a step back, dropping her hands to press against the glass, feeling the coolness against her palms. He stopped just a few inches away

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from her, hands going up to sift through his hair, the material of his shirt stretching taut over his chest. She thought of reaching forward to touch him, wondering about his reaction, wondering if he would touch her as well. “Lauren.” Her gaze snapped up to his amused one, realizing that he had been speaking to her while she had been too busy ogling him. “Sorry, what?” “I asked if you wanted to change.” Breaking eye contact, she nodded. She was just as soaked as he was. “Can I have a shirt?” He reached into his wardrobe, pulling out one of his customary white T-shirts. “Your bathroom?” Lauren thought she saw a look of disappointment before he schooled his features, gesturing behind him to a closed door. She quietly excused herself, brushing by him,

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escaping to the confines of the bathroom, taking a calming breath as she shut the door and leaned against it. Finding a washcloth, she scrubbed her face clean of makeup, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “You want this,” she reminded herself. That much was true. She had thought about it plenty of times over the last few weeks. But was she ready for that? There was nothing for her to be afraid of. She could just go for it and if she changed her mind, she wouldn’t let it go any further…but he had bought her dress, and maybe he would expect something, even if she didn’t want it to happen. Then, what if he thought she was just— “Lauren?” Mishca called through the door, “Are you alright?” “Fine…just a second.” With one last glance in the mirror, she hit the light and stepped out. Mishca was seated

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on the edge of the bed, his shoes in a corner, his fingers fiddling with his bow tie. He paused at the sight of her still dressed. “Can you unzip me?” She asked turning to give him her back so he wouldn’t see the blush rising in her cheeks. “I couldn’t reach.” She blew out a breath as she heard his footsteps behind her, perceiving his body heat as he stood at her back for several seconds. But instead of going for her zipper, his hands were in her hair, removing the pins holding her hair up, sweeping the wavy strands over one shoulder. Lauren dropped her head forward as his hand closed around the nape of her neck, not tightly, just a soft caress before he continued down. His touch was gentle, branding her as his fingers slid along her bare skin, stopping at the clasp at her spine. He slipped the button free with a twist of his fingers, pulling the zipper down and following the parting

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halves with skillful fingers, his hands warm against her skin. Goosebumps erupted over her flesh as she held the material to her chest, the straps sliding off her shoulders. As he took a step back to give her space, Lauren had a decision to make. She could either don the shirt he’d given her and play it safe, or she could do something she had never done before… Steeling her resolve, Lauren faced him, loosening the constricting hold she had on the material in her hands. The shirt fell and the dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in just the lingerie she had picked for this night. Mishca’s breath caught as she turned to face him, playing with the ends of her hair in nervousness. He met her eyes for one second…two…three, but finally his focus skirted lower, drinking her in. His pupils dilated and he rubbed at his jaw, but he made no moves to come towards her.

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Instead, she came to him. Lauren reached up, touching the bow tie around his neck, waiting for his nod before untying the knot and dropping it to the floor. She next started on his shirt, following his example as she traced the path with her fingertips, feeling his heart beat inside his chest, his velvety soft skin, and down past the ridges and contours of his stomach. He shrugged out of his shirt without comment, adding to their growing pile of clothing on the floor. As Lauren placed her fingers at the waistband of his pants, he stopped her, pulling her hands away so he could step closer until they were nearly pressed together. She drew her head back so she could see his face and what she saw there made anticipation flare to life in her stomach. He was just as affected by this as she was, his pupils like saucers as he regarded her. It was different, seeing it in

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person than reading about it. She could see the strength of his desire, could feel it. Careful, gauging her reactions, Mishca cupped her face in his large hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks, just watching her until neither of them could stand it any longer. At first, it was just a light brush of his lips against hers, like it was the first time all over again. He drew back, just for a second, tracing her lips with his thumb before setting in again, no longer hesitant. Wrapping an arm around her waist, slowing sliding his hand over her lower back, Mishca drew her close until she was flush against him. She sighed into his mouth, looping her arms around his neck to pull him down. It became desperate a moment later, like they couldn’t get close enough. He maneuvered her back with ease, and when the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, she laughed softly as he gave her a slight push.

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Now, Lauren understood the difference in thread counts as she grasped fistfuls of the sheets covering Mishca’s bed. He soon followed her down, easing between her legs as he loomed over her on straightened arms. He took his time with her, pressing lingering kisses along her jaw and lower until he was nuzzling her neck. Lauren drew in a startled gasp as she felt his tongue flicker out against the sensitive spot just below her ear, an area that she had no idea could illicit such a response from her as she released the fabric in her hands to clutch at him. Mishca’s hand slipped between them, trailing down the front of her body, over her throat, pausing to skim between her breasts, down her stomach, playfully dipping into her navel, until he stopped where the curve of her hip met her thigh. As his hand drifted precariously towards her inner thigh, Lauren felt a sudden rush of panic.

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“You’re tense,” Mishca whispered, stilling his movements, his accent the thickest she had ever heard it. “I’m…uh…well, I’m a virgin,” she rushed out before she lost her nerve. “Are you?” His question was innocent enough, but when she felt him smile against her neck, she smacked his arm lightly, making him laugh. “I already knew, moy dorogoy.” She huffed. “How does everyone know that? It’s like it’s written on my forehead.” Mishca rested his weight on his elbows, still smiling at her. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want you still. ” Lauren glanced away, feeling embarrassed. “But I don’t want to disappoint you. You bought my dress and—” He frowned, cutting her off, “Why is that noteworthy?” With a curled finger beneath her chin, he brought her face around to meet his eyes.

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“You thought I would want sexual favors in exchange for the dress? You insult me.” “I never meant to.” Mishca sighed with a wry grin. “Perhaps we moved too fast, yes? Next time we’ll go slower. God knows what you would think if I bought you diamonds.”

Chapter Thirteen:

Unexpected Complications Bright rays of sunlight streamed through the cracks in the navy blue drapes, waking Lauren as she turned over, feeling the heat on her face. She stretched out, feeling around the bed beside her to where Mishca had been the night before, but his side of the bed was surprisingly empty, the sheets slightly cold. She sat up wiping at her eyes and looking around the room. It was quiet throughout the apartment, and when she called out to

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Mishca, he didn’t answer. She then spotted a folded note on the table next to her. Went to get breakfast, be back soon.-M With that reassurance, she climbed out of bed, heading into the bathroom. It was spotless, much brighter in the daylight. Bulbs outlined the mirror, flaring to life at her entrance, even the tiled floor heated up beneath her bare feet. There was a double vanity sink with silver fixtures, a large walk-in shower with multiple shower heads, and an enormous bathtub that looked more like a jacuzzi. She found a stack of clean towels and washcloths in a cabinet, and even a number of travel size toothbrushes in a drawer. She tried not to think too much into this, wondering how many people—namely women—he entertained. She stripped out of her clothes, turning the numerous knobs in the shower.

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If she ever got rich and was free to design anything in her dream home, she would definitely be getting this shower. Once she was done, she hunted through his massive closet, hoping he wouldn’t mind her borrowing his clothes. She found a loose pair of sweatpants and pulled them on, rolling the waist a couple times to get them to stay up. He really did have a multitude of white T-shirts in one of the drawers, and they all smelled like him. Dressing, she took a tour of the apartment. Unlike the cooler color scheme that was throughout Mishca’s bedroom, the living and dining rooms were both decorated in warmer shades. Matching brown leather recliners, red throw pillows, dark brown wood flooring, and the occasional knickknacks that looked like they had never been moved from the spot they were in now. There was also a state of the art kitchen that rivaled any she had ever seen.

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Deep red drapes hung from the floor-toceiling windows, held away from the glass by bronze hooks, revealing a spectacular view of the park and water below. The doorbell rang suddenly, followed by two sharp raps at the door. Thinking it was Mishca needing help with the bags, Lauren hurried over, a smile already in place, but it quickly melted away at the sight of the man in front of her. He was older, possibly in his late thirties, with a beard and oily black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He might have looked less intimidating if he were not built like a professional wrestler, with a jagged scar running from his temple around to the corner of his mouth. He scowled at her, scratching his face. She noticed the tattoos inked across the back of his hands. Small X’s along his knuckles—a few with double the number—and, of all things, a cat in a hat.

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“Who are you?” He asked, dark eyes looking her up and down. He was Russian, his accent much grittier than Mishca’s, but she didn’t see any resemblance between the two. “Um, I, uh…” Lauren couldn’t finds the right words as her gaze darted to the bedroom and back to his face, contemplating whether or not she could make it to her phone before he caught her. “Are you one of the girls?” He asked when she didn’t respond. “Girls? What girls?” He narrowed his eyes on her, reaching out to grab her, but Mishca’s voice and sudden appearance made him draw back. He was carrying a plastic bag full of food and a cup holder, more importantly, he didn’t look pleased to see the man. *** Mishca was stepping out of the elevator when he saw Gerard, one of his father’s men, reaching for Lauren. Her fear was tangible to

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him and he couldn’t blame her. Gerard was a big man, and unknown to her, an experienced killer with zero remorse. “Ostanovit’!” He dropped his hand without question, moving back when Mishca moved to stand in front of her. “What are you doing here?” He asked in Russian, conscious of Lauren still waiting behind him. “The Pakhan wants to see you at his place on 43rd.” Mishca’s jaw tightened as he turned and handed the food and drinks to Lauren, saying softly, “Could you give me a minute please?” As far as dismissals went, this one was clear. She eyed him oddly looking past him to where Gerard was standing. She needed no other convincing, turning on her heel and heading into the kitchen. “I did not know you ordered a suka. She is rude, no? Shall I teach her rules?”

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Mishca pulled the door up behind him. Fisting the man’s shirt, he jerked him forward until they were inches apart. “Call her that again and I’ll put a bullet in your skull.” He shoved him back, reeling in his temper. Gerard had at least a hundred pounds on him and was known for his fighting skills, but Mishca had rank, and in their world, position held precedence. “Izvini, Captain.” Nothing annoyed Mishca more than being summoned for a meeting like one of Mikhail’s well trained dogs. He knew his father kept him under constant surveillance—as he did most of the men under his rule—but he should have known better than to send one of his enforcers to his door, especially when he wasn’t around…Unless that was his intention after all. Sending Gerard on his way, with a quick message to the Pakhan, Mishca entered his

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apartment, thinking of the best lie to tell Lauren. He wasn’t naïve, he knew anyone in their right mind would not just let this roll off their shoulders, and judging from the look Lauren had given him before leaving, he knew she would have questions. She was sitting at the bar, dressed in his shirt and pants, the sight of her like this making him smile for reasons he wasn’t ready to contemplate. He shouldn’t care about her. His world didn’t afford him the luxury of staying monogamous with a single girl. Most of the Vors chose women that already knew the lifestyle, the ones that hung around and got off on it, or they didn’t take a woman at all, instead spending their time in one of their many stables where the women were a lot less willing, but had no choice but to comply. It led for fewer questions and less mess to clean up in the long run.

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Mishca was happy with his current arrangement. Most girls happily climbed into his bed, his reputation preceded him. He fucked, he moved on. That was how it worked. Until Lauren. He wasn’t ready to walk away from her, not until he got more from her. It wasn’t lust, it was deeper than that. He wanted to see where it would go, despite knowing the consequences his actions might bring. Yea, he was fucked. “Who was that?” Lauren asked turning golden eyes to him. He had always found the color peculiar, the shade nagging at a memory that wouldn’t quite form. He thought it might have been another occasion that he’d seen eyes like hers, but it was so long ago that he could be mistaken. “My…uncle,” he said simply, pulling the containers from the bag. It was the closest to the truth as he could get. Gerard was family, just not in the classical sense. “Sometimes

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my father forgets that cell phones exist and he sends him over to remind me of our lunch meetings.” She smiled absently at his attempt at humor, but he could see the wheels turning in that pretty little head of hers. She was too damn inquisitive. “How did you sleep last night?” He asked in a ploy to change the subject. This time she had a genuine smile. “Good.” More silence. “I didn’t know what you would like.” “I’m not a picky eater. Thanks, Mish.” He stepped around her to grab a couple plates, forks and knives, setting them out. An awkward silence fell on them as they fixed the food and by the time they were seated, he was trying to think of anything to say to lessen the tension. She took a bite of pancakes and he gestured to them with his fork, asking, “Are they good?”

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“You can never go wrong with breakfast, Mish,” she said smiling sweetly. She waited a beat, then asked, “Do you have a lot of family?” One rule of the Vory v Zakone, forsake all family. The Vors became your new one. “You could say that.” She looked wistful as she sipped her orange juice. “I wish I had a big family. It’s just been me, my mom, and Ross.” “No grandparents?” “As surprising as it sounds, both sets of my grandparents died when I was younger, and I have like one aunt on my mom’s side who lives over in England.” “Then you must be pretty close with your parents.” A pained look crossed her face, but she nodded, staring down at her plate. “Yea, I am.” “I—”

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Lauren’s phone rang, cutting him off. She apologized, hurrying back to his bedroom to grab her phone. While she was in there, Mishca sent a quick text to Vlad, telling him where to meet. It was only minutes later that she came back out, looking a bit green “That’s was my mom.” “Oh? She’s doing well?” She turned fearful eyes to him. “Not good?” “She wants to meet you when she comes up here for Thanksgiving.” He coughed, resting his elbow on the table as he smiled. “And you’re nervous?” She scowled, but didn’t deny it. “Not nervous at all, just…you do want to meet her?” “Of course. She’s your mother.” “But—” “The question is, do you want me to meet your mother?”

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Lauren smiled and when she did, her entire face lit up. When she did, it felt like his heart constricted. Seeing her like this, in his clothes, smiling at him with such happiness, he wanted to put that smile on her face everyday. “Of course I do.” “Then that’s all that matters.” *** Mishca found Mikhail in his usual hunting grounds, a secluded spot in the back of the restaurant where he could neither be overheard or interrupted. A napkin was tucked into the collar of his expensive shirt as he cut into the perfectly cooked steak in front of him. Despite his rather pleasant demeanor, with only a glance at him, one would know that there was something different about the man, something that made him stand out in a crowd despite his age. It might have been the number of tattoos that covered his body,

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though most were tastefully done, making it appear that he only had a few when good portion of his body was covered, like the ones that were inked on his fingers like permanent rings. If not for the fact that on the side of the restaurant they were seated on, it was empty, Mishca might have been inclined to believe that this was not a business meeting. He slid into the seat opposite him, ordering a drink from the waiter hovering anxiously nearby. Mikhail didn’t bother trying to make small talk, choosing instead to wait for Mikhail to start, not sure where this impromptu meeting was headed. “Did she get home safely?” Mikhail asked after swallowing another bite of steak, delicately wiping the corners of his mouth with the end of his napkin. Mishca arched a brow, tamping down his irritation as he turned a coin over between

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his fingers. “Of course. Was I followed there as well?” Waving his fork, Mikhail shook his head. Mikhail was an animated talker, always using his hands as he spoke, emphasizing his words. The waiter returned with Mishca’s drink, setting it on the table before scurrying away. “I do what any father would to protect his son.” Rolling his eyes, Mishca switched to Russian to ask, “Or a Pakhan monitoring his Captain, no?” He shrugged. “Ah, just so.” “There is nothing to protect me from. I have never made you doubt me before, why now?” Mikhail took another bite, cool gray eyes drilling into Mishca. “Women can be a blessing and a curse in our world, Mishca. What do you know of this girl?”

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“If you’re asking if I checked her out, the answer is no. She’s from a small town in Michigan. No extended family, but I doubt you brought me here for that. What did you find?” Mikhail smiled, but didn’t comment as he signaled for one of his men to hand over a large envelope. Using a butter knife, Mishca unsealed it, dumping its contents onto the plate in front of him. There were photos, hundreds of them—most of Lauren—and a few scanned pages, one of a news article that was at least a decade old, and a number of documents. Ignoring the pictures for the moment, he read the article. “Her father was murdered?” He asked feeling a pang in his chest for what she must have gone through. Losing a parent was hard, having them killed was brutal. No one’s past was pretty—even his was ugly when he thought about it—but he didn’t

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see that in Lauren. Painful memories like this ate at you slowly, and sometimes the person you became was merely a shell of the person you used to be, but Lauren seemed rather well adjusted. It normally wouldn’t have bothered him, but as he looked over Lauren’s birth certificate, school history, and practically everything there was to know about her, it all felt…wrong. Dropping them, he moved on to the pictures. There were a few where he and Lauren were together, laughing, unaware that someone was shooting them, but majority of them were just of her, walking to class, eating, even a few at her apartment, shot through the window of her bedroom. “Yes,” Mikhail said answering his question. “But do you recognize the father’s name?”

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Mishca picked back up the article, searching for a name and nearly cursed when he read it. “Doc was her father?” Mikhail nodded once. It was nearly twenty years ago when Mishca met Dr. Cameron Thompson for the first time. He had been his and Alex’s private physician. He had never made the connection between Lauren and the doc, mainly because had never known where the man was from, or any other aspect of his life. Whenever they called, the doctor just showed up, no questions asked. “Does she know of us?” Mikhail asked. This was what this meeting was about, not about Mishca’s personal life. Mikhail didn’t care who Mishca was with, but if it compromised their business, then it became a problem. “I don’t think so. She would have been what…five when her father was murdered, yes? I doubt he would have announced his

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side job. Besides, any connection we had with him was buried as soon as he went in the ground.” Mikhail dropped his napkin n the table, withdrawing a number of bills from his pocket. “Talk to her. Find out. I am allowing you to handle this situation on your own since this is your territory after all. Do not make me regret it. You know the consequences.” Mishca nodded, stuffing all of the photos and documents back into the envelope, placing it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Was his murder our doing?” Mishca asked looking back at his father. Clapping Mishca on the shoulder, giving him a small smile, Mikhail and his men left.

Chapter fourteen:

Never Back Down “Whose fucking idea was this anyway?” Tristan asked as he plopped down on the couch in indignation. For Halloween, Mishca was throwing a themed party at his club and invited them all to go. Instead of being able to pick their own costumes, different ideas were written down, folded, and thrown in a clear bowl to pick from. The idea wouldn’t have been so bad if there were separate bowls for the guys and the girls, but instead, they were all thrown in together.

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Amber was dressed like a student from Hogwarts, complete with a cloak and wand that she had specially ordered for the occasion. Piper was a Playboy bunny, with height defying heels, Swarovski crystals encrusted around the shoes—Tristan claimed she rigged it. Lauren, with a bit of liquid encouragement, was a sexy nurse, a white hat with a red cross pinned to her hair. Their costumes were rather decent, not exactly what they had hoped for, but they were definitely better than what the guys ended up with. Matt was a fairy, with glittery silver shorts and iridescent wings. Rob was the luckiest of the three, going as a pirate, but as soon as Tristan stepped into the apartment, the catcalls started. He had on skin tight, red leather pants with a matching corset, his blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Amber had

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used her skills to paint his face with varying shades of purples, blues, and reds. “Who the fuck writes, ‘dying hooker’ as a Halloween costume?” He turned narrowed eyes on Lauren. “It was you, wasn’t it?” She laughed, holding her hands up. “I never thought it would actually get picked. If it helps, I think you look sexy.” “Yea, well.” He stood, turning so his back was to her as he struggled to tug down his jeans a bit. “Kiss my ass.” “Do you seriously have a cupcake tattooed on your ass?” “What?” He actually looked shocked by the revelation. They were all trying hard not to laugh as Tristan rushed over to the mirror, looking over his shoulder. “Dammit! I’m going to kill Phoenix.” “His bandmate,” Matt explained, his eyes bright with amusement. “They’re always

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doing shit like that to each other. I’m surprised there aren’t more.” “How did you not notice?” Tristan threw his hands up, going over to pour a shot of whiskey. “He probably did it one night after I was passed out. I never remember shit the morning after.” After his third shot, he slammed the glass down. “Let’s go before I change my mind.” *** There were werewolves, vampires, a man in the best Jack Sparrow costume Lauren had ever seen. He even had the walk down that only Johnny Depp could master. Spider webs hung across the ceiling like a giant tapestry, fake spiders dotted throughout—at least she hoped they were all fake. The track lights weren’t interchanging tonight, instead bathing the room in red. Smoke billowed out from a machine, the fog pouring out onto the floor.

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“Hey there sailor,” a man in his late thirties said to Matt. He was short and wide, but decided to wear daisy dukes and cherry red suspenders, his chest hair on full display. Matt’s eyes widened comically, making both Tristan and Lauren smother laughter. The man trailed a hand over Matt’s shoulders, sauntering off as he mouthed ‘call me.’ “If I didn’t like you, I’d kill you,” he said to Lauren. “Can’t blame her,” Tristan said slinging an arm across his shoulders. “You’re just so damn sexy as a fairy.” “Fuck you.” “No worries, we’ll get to that later.” “Where are your bandmates?” Lauren asked Tristan before Matt could fire off another retort. Tristan had got a call after they’d left the brownstone, his bandmates asking where they would be hanging out.

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He scanned the crowd, a smile growing as he pointed to the bar. If she had looked herself, she would have been able to guess which guys were part of the band. All three of them were in costume, all wearing red onesies. Not until they turned around could she make sense of their costumes. On their chests, there were big, white circles, black letters inside. Each of them were a ‘Thing.’ Thing One spotted them first, elbowing the other two. He was by far the tallest of the group and sported a multitude of tattoos that extended up to his neck. He had an easy smile and big hazel eyes. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?” He asked Tristan once they joined them at the bar. “Blame her,” he said bumping fists with him. “Lauren, this is Uriah, singer, guitarist and the only sane one in our group.”

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He stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, love.” She blinked in surprise, taken aback by his accent. “Hi.” Thing Two was not as tall as Uriah, but he was around Mishca’s height. He had a head full of brown hair that curled slightly at the ends and bright green eyes. When he talked, the silver bars in his tongue glinted in the light. “That’s Phoenix and a pain in my ass!” The last bit was said loud enough to catch the other boy’s attention. “Is that the one that tattooed the cupcake on your ass?” Uriah barked out a laugh. “Brilliant.” “Yea, remind me to repay that favor. And that egotistical bastard over there is Gabriel.” Thing Three, Gabriel, was off to the side, a strawberry blonde sitting in his lap. She was scowling, gesturing at him, seeming to dislike his costume, but he was chugging down

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a bottle of Bud light, seeming oblivious to her distaste. “Nice to meet you guys.” “You’re here with Tristan?” Uriah asked her, picking up his drink. “Nah, I wish,” Tristan said grinning at her. “There’s a Russian somewhere around here that’s waiting for her.” “Why don’t you ever call him by his name?” Lauren asked. “Where’s the fun in that? Oh, speak of the devil.” Turning, she spotted Mishca coming towards her, but he wasn’t in costume. Reaching her, he kissed the top of her head. “Hey.” She introduced him to Tristan’s friends. “Nice to meet you. Order whatever you want, tell Jesse I sent you.” “You,” Phoenix said pointing at Lauren, probably not realizing he was slightly swaying, “are my new best friend.”

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They all stumbled off, heading to the dance floor, looking utterly ridiculous as they tied to dance with random girls in the crowd though they did a lot more falling over one another than actual dancing. “I’m glad you could make it,” said Mishca guiding her towards an empty booth. “You really do know how to throw apart. Why aren’t you dressed up?” She asked when he was seated beside her. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt, setting it on the table. “Because this is work for me though I’m glad you did. I’m pleasantly surprised.” “You could be my patient,” she whispered in his ear, thrilled when he stiffened. She sat sideways on his lap, feeling his pulse, then his forehead, but his eyes were on her chest. “Mouth to mouth?” He asked looking at her hopefully, making her laugh.

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She obliged him. With the music blasting, and the low lighting, the intimate moment grew out of control, at least for Lauren as she tilted her head back, exposing her throat to Mishca as he skimmed his lips down her neck. He pulled back after some time, just watching her watch him. In this moment, they were in sync, and she saw what he wanted and she was sure, the same feeling was reflected in her eyes. Not today, but if the opportunity presented itself again, she would happily accept it. *** Mishca very rarely, if ever, drank enough to become inebriated. Not only was it part of the mandate he followed, but in his line of work, if he ever lost focus for an instant, that would be his death. For this reason alone, if the two men circling the vicinity thought he was too incoherent to notice them, they were sadly mistaken.

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To their credit, Mishca hadn’t noticed them at first, caught up in the moment with Lauren sitting on his lap in the darkened corner of his club, but maybe that was a testament to their shoddy surveillance skills. Wrapping an arm around Lauren’s waist, he held her steady as he dug in his pocket for his Blackberry, sending a quick message to Vlad and two of his men to meet him in the alley behind the club in ten minutes. He couldn’t trust that the two wouldn’t try anything despite the crowd of people that surrounded them, they were young enough—and stupid enough—to think that going up against him would give them some kind of rank. “Hey,” Mishca whispered in Lauren’s ear. Any other time, he would have enjoyed the thrill of feeling her shiver in response to him, but he had to handle this first. “I need to do rounds and get drinks. Wait for me here.”

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She nodded once and he smiled, unable to resist the impulse to press a quick kiss just below her ear, inhaling the floral scent that clung to her skin, before allowing her to shimmy off his lap. Maneuvering his way through the throngs of people that packed the dance floor, Mishca paused occasionally to speak with a few patrons that praised him for throwing another great party. He indulged each one with the same level of politeness, not wanting to let the two scoping him know they were spotted. He reached the rear entrance with fair ease, slipping out the back door into the cool, night air. It was in the low sixties, a significant bite to the air as a breeze blew. Mishca leaned against the lone streetlamp in the alley, the lightbulb inside long since blown. Withdrawing a silver engraved lighter from his pocket—a present from his father on his twentieth birthday. A front

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praecipitium a ergo lupin. A precipice in front, wolves behind. It was the same quote he had tattooed down his forearm, a sort of family motto. Since their last name literally meant wolf, Mikhail had always thought the Latin saying was appropriate, especially in regard to their enemies. He flicked the top, watching the flame flicker and dance momentarily before snuffing it. It only took three times of this repetitive action for the door to open, slamming against the wall as the two men, no older than their late teens, came barreling outside, coming up short when they caught sight of him. Mishca scanned them quickly, noting the matching tattoos on their arms, Irish flags with a skull imbedded in the image, a date beneath them. They weren’t Irish Mob, at least not officially—otherwise they wouldn’t be foolish enough to come after him with anything less

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than an army—but Mishca had a good idea as to who pulled their strings. Sighing, he pocketed his lighter, knowing this was going to end soon. The two might have been brothers. Both had similar features, same nose and eye color, but the younger of the two seemed a bit more wary of Mishca as he shifted on his feet, sticking towards the back as his brother sauntered forward cockily. The older one, with mousy brown hair and a runny nose withdrew an older style gun, his movements jerky. As he stepped into a patch of moonlight, Mishca could see that his pulse were the size of saucers, no doubt the effects of drugs, cocaine if he had to guess. Wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, he pointed the gun at Mishca, not realizing his hand was shaking so badly that he might as well not have been pointing the gun at all. He smiled like a madman. “I’ll be

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legendary,” he muttered, probably thinking Mishca hadn’t heard him. “Not in the way you imagine, I wager,” Mishca responded as he placed his hands in his pants’ pockets, still at ease. Blondie stepped forward, expecting Mishca to flinch as the barrel of the gun came into contact with his chest, but if there was one thing that Mikhail had instilled in him, it was to never back down. If you face death at the hands of your enemies, do not cower, do not beg, but smile and welcome him like an old friend. The idea of that had always terrified him. He never wanted to die, at least not bloody like some of the men that had been at the other end of his gun. He swore to himself that he would never beg for anything. Blondie scoffed, instead shifting the gun so that it was pressed against Mishca’s forehead. “You think I won’t shoot you?”

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He didn’t have to call his bluff, mainly because if he was going to shoot him, he would have done it by now. Why did they insist on talking it out? Mishca grinned slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vlad and two of his men with their guns drawn, two pointed at the brother’s head, one at the blonde. Mishca arched a brow, gesturing with a nod of his head behind Blondie, who was actually dumb enough to turn and look. Waiting a heartbeat, Mishca struck out, grabbing the man’s index finger and breaking it before disarming him with relative ease. He slammed the butt of it against the man’s head, sending him to his knees on the pavement. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Mishca apologized. “It seems we are out of time.” Blondie sputtered, struggling to pick himself up. “Shoo—” He paused as he realized they were outnumbered, and not by

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teenagers that had stolen their father’s gun. He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he looked back to Mishca. The desperation was clear in his eyes. “L-Look, I don’t…we didn’t…” “Save it.” Mishca held the gun by his side. “Begging won’t help you now.” The brother must have known what was about to happen because he began protesting softly, but was cut off when Vlad stuffed a dirty cloth into his mouth, muffling his sounds of protest. Striking out with his foot, he kicked Blondie backwards until he was nearly next to his brother. He pointed. “Gag him.” If they had merely come to confront him, then maybe Mishca might have had leniency. Accepted it as their twisted idea of initiation—it happened more often now that Mishca was putting in more work. He didn’t get his position because he was the son of the Pakhan, but because he earned it. Once

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those stars were over his heart, Mishca had put in ten times the effort, knowing that he would need to prove himself to those that thought his stars were a birthright. Now? He was respected and he couldn’t let two idiots like these ruin that. Lessons had to be taught. “Bring him.” Vlad and John wrestled the little brother forward until he was kneeling in front of his brother, facing him, their expressions mirroring one another. No two men were the same when they faced possible execution. Some begged and pleaded, trying to bargain their way out of it, promising obscene amounts of money or anything their executioner could want. Others stood—or kneeled in this instance—already accepting their fate, but there was still that fear in their eyes, and even some regret. These two? They cared

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more for one another and Mishca would use that. “Give my regards to Declan.” Shifting his aim by a couple of inches, he shot the younger brother in the shoulder, the momentum of the bullet throwing him backwards. He hit the ground hard, groaning in agony behind the gag, but at least he was alive. Blondie groaned in protest, lurching to get to him, but Vlad held fast, holding him steady. The younger brother’s shirt was already darkening with blood, the saturation quickly growing by the second. “Don’t worry,” Mishca said conversationally as he wiped the gun clean of any prints with the tail end of his shirt. “Your brother will live, but he needs to see a doctor.” Grabbing his hand, he placed the gun in Blondie’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it. He didn’t seem to understand at first,

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staring first at the gun like it was foreign to him, then up at Mishca. “Let him go.” Vlad backed off, allowing his captive to rush to his brother’s aid. He apologized over and over again, draping the younger boy’s arm around his shoulders as he hauled him up and out of the alley without a backwards glance. “How did you know he wouldn’t shoot you, Captain?” John asked as he holstered his own weapon, looking to Mishca with a calculating stare. “His younger brother meant more to him than impressing Declan.” Mishca looked around, then over his clothes. “Clean up any evidence.” With that brusque order, Mishca left his men in the alley, returning to the club, making his way over to the bar, ordering a vodka for himself and a club soda with lime for Lauren.

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Mishca found her in their corner, chatting with Amber over the pounding bass of the music. When she saw him ,she lit up, tucking her hair behind her ear, and he couldn’t help but return her welcoming smile. She knew nothing about what he had just done, there wasn’t any evidence on him—even still, these clothes would be burned—and he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want to see any other expression on her face when she saw him besides the sweet smile that always greeted him. “What took you so long?” She asked when he was close enough to hear her over the music. He handed her the glass, taking a sip of his own. “Long line.”

Chapter fifteen:

New Memories There was nothing like winter in New York. Though it snowed just as often in Michigan—perhaps even more—there was something about the snowy wonderland that New York turned into that made it special. The flashing lights, the reefs hanging from light posts, the slick ice that covered park benches. But despite the beauty that was just outside Lauren’s window, she was too preoccupied in her thoughts to truly appreciate it. She would have loved to enjoy the weather, feel the icy snow between her fingers, but

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this particular day marked an event that had forever changed her life and although she was older, the pain never lessened, never commanded less than her full attention. Lauren had woken up at six in the morning, asleep one minute, awake the next. It was like an internal alarm clock that went off every year, and it grew like a physical ache inside of her. So instead of going out and making snowmen, or touring the city like she had originally wanted to do once the snow had started falling, she resigned herself to laying in bed. According to her psychology textbook, there were five stages of loss and grief: isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Every year, Lauren had experienced the first four consecutively, but the last always eluded her, no matter how much she yearned for it. With acceptance, she would have to face the inevitable. Making peace with her father’s death.

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It sounded good. It was something that she hoped to achieve one day, but that day wouldn’t come until she had answers. No, she didn’t remember what happened that night, but the mystery of it all was a major factor in why she couldn’t let go. The day her father’s killers were found, she would gladly start moving forward, but until then, she was stuck in a never ending circle. Vibrations on her night stand caught Lauren’s attention, letting her know someone was calling her. It was probably Susan checking in on her. They both had their own ways of coping. While Lauren sulked, Susan threw herself into her sewing, or maybe into baking. They normally were only separated by a staircase, but now, with Lauren being thousands of miles away, it all seemed to be too much, at least on Lauren’s end. A single tear fell as she thought of her mom, remembering the years after his

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murder. Lauren ached for her, knowing she had plenty of memories of their marriage and time together, yet Lauren only had brief flashes of memories, the hint of a smile, the smell of his aftershave. Picking up the picture on her nightstand, she rolled back over, cradling the frame to her chest as she tried to cast her mind back, wanting to remember what her dad’s arms felt like when he hugged her. She had never wanted for anything, not with Susan or even with Ross, but in the back of her mind, she had always wished she’d had a little more time, just enough where she didn’t have to try so hard to remember him. Lauren heard the front door open and close. She paid it no mind, thinking it was Rob coming over for Amber, but when multiple pairs of feet sounded outside her bedroom door, she looked up in surprise. Amber knocked, pushing the door open to peek her head around. “L?” She was hesitant

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in her approach, knowing the reason Lauren had been in such a dower mood all day. She’d ventured in earlier, trying to cheer her up, but didn’t force her to get out of bed. “Yea?” “Mishca is here. I, um, well I didn’t just want to turn him away.” She hoped he would be able to help. Lauren blinked, momentarily taken aback as she grabbed her phone, checking for any missed calls from him. Sure enough, the calls that she had assumed were from her mom were actually from Mishca. She wiped at her face, rubbing away any evidence of her crying, but she knew that was probably no use. She was an ugly cryer. Her face turned red and splotchy, her eyes puffy. But she wasn’t going to dash to the bathroom to fix herself up. Today wasn’t about impressing anyone. She did, however, twist her hair up to get it out of her face.

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Mishca took Amber’s place in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he watched her. His hair was pushed back out of his face, the unruly strands slightly damp from the falling snow outside. He stood quite stiffly, hands tucked into the pockets of his black coat. “I was worried,” he said after some time. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Lauren pushed up into a sitting position, still holding the picture frame. “I’m fine.” The lie she had told since she fully grasped what this day signified slipped from her lips with ease. He nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Are you really?” She met his gaze, a battle of wills ensuing. He didn’t say anything more, wasn’t pleading for her to answer if she wasn’t ready, and she appreciated that. But what he didn’t say in words, his body spoke in volumes. No, he

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wouldn’t force her to answer, but he wasn’t leaving until she talked to him. But what could she say when their thoughts were in turmoil? “I’ll be fine in the morning.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, but it wasn’t in anger. “Do you want me to leave then?” Lauren watched him. Mishca watched her. She made up her mind before he could take a step back. “No, I want you to stay.” Stepping further into the room, he shut the door, shrugging out of his coat, laying it across the back of the chair at her desk. Shifting over, she gave him space to sit, checking to make sure there wasn’t any used tissue still on the bed. He toed off his boots, climbing onto the bed and sliding backwards until his back was against the headboard. Then, he opened his arms.

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She smiled, feeling the tears well in her eyes. In this moment, she wouldn’t trade him for anyone in the world. How could she turn down what he was offering? She curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder, his arms coming around her. She could feel the coldness of his hands through her sweatshirt, but the rest of him was surprisingly warm. She listened to the steady cadence of his heart, letting the silence stretch between them. But he seemed to notice the change in her as his hands swept up and down her back, the tears slowly falling. It was the comfort, that was her undoing. She had kept this, all of the hurt, the anger, the frustration, bottled up inside, too afraid to truly confront it all. Mishca didn’t complain as she held him tight, his shirt soon growing soaked with tears. His phone rang insistently, but he merely pulled it out of his pocket and turned it off.

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After some time, Lauren was sure that her sobbing had subsided enough that if she tried to talk, she would sound reasonably understandable. This wasn’t a conversation she had looked forward to having, not wanting to see that pitying look cloud his eyes. It was inevitable, and Lauren could understand how it made people turn to that, but there was a difference between empathy and pity. It was the pity that she hated to see. Inhaling and exhaling for strength, she held up the frame she still held tightly in her hands, showing him the photograph inside. It was an old polaroid, one of the last pictures she had ever taken—to her knowledge—with her father. They were on the beach, her sitting on his shoulders. She was holding a bucket full of seashells up in the air triumphantly, grinning while missing both of her front teeth. He was smiling as well, sandy brown hair in disarray, gold eyes that

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she had inherited staring back at her. They looked so happy, so free. “My father. He di—” she swallowed the lump in her throat, stumbling over the word. “—died when I was little.” Mishca’s hand briefly stilled on her back and he seemed to grow tense beneath her as he tilted the frame back to get a closer view. He might have been shocked by her proclamation. “I’m sorry.” And he truly sounded it, unlike the familiar faces in Michigan who cringed whenever they saw her, thinking that she wanted them to apologize every time she saw them. She nodded against his chest. “Today’s the anniversary.” He sighed, resting his chin on top of her head, murmuring soft words in Russian. This wasn’t how she pictured telling him. She knew the topic would come up eventually, had already planned what she was going to

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say—recycling her conversation with Amber—but the difference was now it was all coming out instead of her tiptoeing over the subject. “They said it was a robbery gone wrong or something. The men that did it were never caught, but there was never much evidence anyway.” Despite Ross’ promises to find the guy that did it, over the years, leads dried up, and they were left with nothing more than speculation. There were times when Lauren went screaming down to the precinct, demanding answers, shouting at anyone in sight to do something, anything to catch the bad guys, but there was nothing more for them to do. One of the detectives would always call Ross and he would take her home, comforting her as best he could as she cried in his passenger seat. After a while, Lauren felt guilty. Since her father had died when she was five, if there

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hadn’t been a new suspect in the following eleven years, there wasn’t much see for Ross to do. He continued to work tirelessly, though, all hours of the night, wanting to give her answers because he felt like she deserved them. She had finally asked him to stop when he began spending more time in the precinct looking over the files instead of enjoying his off days at home. “I was only five at the time and don’t remember much of anything.” She stared down at a button down the front of his shirt. She didn’t remember the night or the time before it. “And that is why you feel this...guilt, because you don’t remember your father.” When he said the words that had plagued her over the years, she nodded. “I wish I could.” And no matter how hard she tried to bring that night to the forefront of her mind, it slipped farther away.

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Mishca shifted so they were now facing each other. “What do you remember about him?” She looked back at the picture, smiling wistfully. “I remember he loved me more than anything in the world.” “Then that is all that matters,” he told her gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a loved one, moy dorogoy, and sometimes only having a faint memory of them is what’s best.” “Who did you lose?” She asked carefully. “My mother.” “I’m sorry,” she said in return. He kissed her forehead, resting his head back against the headboard as he stared up at the ceiling. “She taught me that life was cruel, but to be strong and persevere. No matter how bad it seems at the time, learn from it.” Lauren sat up, sensing the sadness overtaking him. Taking a page from his book, she held out her hand to him. A lazy smiled

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curled his lips as he intertwined their fingers, kissing the back of her hand as he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. He brushed her hair back, swiping his thumb beneath her eyes to wipe away the tears there. Cupping his hand, she leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his, trying to convey her feelings in this one simple act. He took over, controlling the kiss as he always did. His tongue swept out, twining with hers. She pressed closer to him, moaning into his mouth as his hand slipped lower, pulling her flush against him. After a few more moments, he pulled back slightly, whispering, “I have an idea.” If it meant them leaving this spot, she wasn’t sure she was up for it. “What?” Mishca sat her to the side, grabbing his phone, leaving Lauren confused as he left her bedroom. Lauren stared in bemusement at his back, wondering what he was planning. She couldn’t hear the conversation he was

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having on the phone, but as he reentered her bedroom looking triumphant, she looked at him expectantly for an explanation. He grinned at the expression on her face. “It’s a surprise. Get up and dress warm.” With that, he winked and left the room. Going over the possibilities in her head, Lauren grabbed a pair of jeans, tank, and her favorite fuzzy green sweater, changing quickly. She tugged on a pair of heavy boots, grabbed her coat and scarf, joining Mishca in the living room before heading out the door. Freezing wind blew in the night, stinging Lauren’s face. Snow flurries fell gently to the ground, plump gray clouds scattered along the night sky. Mishca pressed a button on his key ring, unlocking the Range Rover parked a few blocks down. Cars along the street were covered in snow, a pathway made between them from a snow plower.

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“Where’s Vlad?” Lauren asked as she climbed into the passenger seat, rubbing her hands together. “I gave him the night off.” He pushed the button to start the car, twisting a few knobs to turn the heat up to full blast. They pulled out onto the nearly deserted street, starting towards the city. It was nearing ten o’ clock on a Tuesday night, and because of the snow, the traffic was minimal. Mishca parked near 59th and 6th Avenue, close to Central Park Zoo. He hopped out, hurrying around to her side to open the door. She took his hand, hopping down, nearly falling over as she slipped on the ice. Mishca grinned, holding her steady. It was too late at night for them to go to the zoo, Lauren knew that, but what did he have planned? “Mish, what are we doing here?” She asked taking his hand. “We’re almost there.”

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He led her across the sidewalk, towards the stairs. Snow completely covered the once vibrant green grass hidden beneath. Frozen water stuck to the barren tress, forming intricate shapes of icicles that gleamed like crystals. The closer they got to the bottom level, the brighter the halogen lights appeared, shining down on the-“Wow,” Lauren said, “an ice rink.” He seemed proud of his choice. “It is nice, yes? Have you ever been ice skating?” “I’ve never skated period.” “Then we will learn together. I’ll grab the skates if you’ll to wait here.” From a booth near the entrance to the rink, Mishca rented them both a set of skates, and Lauren sat on the benches, gazing out at the other skaters. There was a family of four along the East wall, the husbands teaching their daughters how to skate. The youngest of the two fell, landing on the ice

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pretty hard, but she didn’t cry, instead brushing her pants off and starting again. “Don’t worry,” Mishca said rejoining her. “I’ll only let you fall twice.” Lauren untied her shoestrings, pulling off her boots. “Hopefully you won’t fall with me.” He chuckled and when they both had on their skates, he helped her onto the ice. Holding on tightly to his shoulders, Lauren took small steps, trying not to glare at the couples that were speeding past them, taunting her as they barely moved inches from where they began. “It is just you and me here,” he said holding her waist. “Ignore everyone else.” “I really don’t want to fall,” she said, gazing down at her feet warily. He smirked. “Use pain as a learning lesson.” She smacked his arm, nearly tripping as he avoided her blow. “You’re not funny.”

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As the night went on, she thought less of what she had lost, more about what she had gained. Once she got the hang of it, at least enough to keep her footing, they spun in circles in the center of the rink, intricate snowflakes falling around them like raining stars. For once, this night meant something more to her, a night that now had far better memories that would last a lifetime. “Thanks for this,” she whispered smiling up at him. He pressed his lips to her forehead, holding her close. “Vse duly vas, moy dorogoy.”

Chapter sixteen:

Thanksgiving “I thought Ross was coming,” Lauren said as she stood next to her mom, peeling potatoes. She might not be a great cook, but she could help with the prep. “He’s got a new case. You know how he gets.” Susan’s flight had touched down six hours ago, and despite the delay and her time spent on the plane, she was abuzz with excited energy, hurrying around the kitchen to finish the last of her dishes. They weren’t able to make a turkey—Susan was too afraid to let

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Lauren cook after last year’s incident—so instead, they bought a prepared one. The stove was littered with food. A couple pies, green bean casserole, homemade rolls, corn. Everything you could possibly eat was there. Lauren paused her peeling, looking around at all the food. “Don’t you think we went a little overboard, mom? It’s only going to be the three of us.” “You can’t ever have too much food, honey. Besides, you’ll have leftovers once I’m gone. God knows what you’ve been eating already.” She gave a pointed look at the menus on the refrigerator. “What?” She glanced down. Her stomach wasn’t Victoria’s Secret flat, but it wasn’t pudgy either. At least she didn’t think so. “Let me guess. Takeout, hamburgers, junk food…am I getting warm?” Lauren laughed in earnest. “Maybe some, but Amber cooks a lot.”

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“Thank God for that. Anyway, what time is he supposed to get here?” “I told him around six.” She looked at the clock. “It’s five now.” Susan put down the peeler, wiping the fine sheen of perspiration her forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” “Okay. I can handle this.” Susan looked so frightened by the prospect, she stood frozen in place, her eyes wide. Lauren scowled, pointing the peeler at her. “Come on, it’s only mashed potatoes. You let me do it before.” “And somehow you managed to make them sweeter than apple pie.” She rolled her eyes, turning back to the sink. “That was one time and I told you, I thought I was using salt.” “Sweetie, if you would have used the amount of salt that you did sugar, you would have given everyone high blood pressure.”

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*** At a quarter to six, the doorbell rang. After a final once over in the mirror, Lauren hurried to the door, ignoring Susan’s soft laughter as she wrenched the door open with a bit too much excitement. But it was worth it, seeing Mishca standing on the other side, holding a bouquet of white roses. “These are for your mother,” he whispered as he stepped inside. She smiled, her heart warming at the sight of them. “You remembered.” Weeks ago, he had asked what her mother’s favorite type of flower was after picking her up from work one night. She should have known that he would do something like this. “I’ll never forget.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple, sweeping past her to shrug off his coat and hang it on the rack. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “No place I’d rather be.”

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“Oh, what are you two doing in here?” Susan asked as she rounded the corner. “You’re not holding him—Mishca.” She said the name so softly, so abruptly that they both looked to her in surprise. Susan’s smile faded for a moment, before it spread wide in what was supposed to be her signature grin, but it looked more like a grimace. She wiped her hands on the front of her pants, then extended one to Mishca. You could just see the fine tremor running through her arm. “Hello, I’m Susan, Lauren’s mother. You must be Mishca Volkov.” The way she said his name gave Lauren pause. “Mom, do you know Mish?” Mishca cleared his throat. “No, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” But even his voice held traces of…something. What was going on? “Mom?” Susan seemed to snap out of whatever fog she was under, her calm composure

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returning. “I was just surprised. I didn’t expect him to be quite so…tall.” “But how do you know his name? I don’t think I had the chance to tell you.” She laughed though it sounded strained. “You did. I think I would remember a name like Volkov.” The last bit was said to Mishca, her gaze unwavering as she stared him down with barely veiled malice. He didn’t look concerned, however, but Lauren thought she saw the muscle in his jaw jumping. “If you’ll excuse me.” Susan walked briskly back into the kitchen without a backwards glance, leaving Lauren more confused than ever. “I’m sorry,” Lauren apologized, not exactly sure what she was apologizing for. “She was fine a few minutes ago, excited to meet you even. I…uh, give me a sec.” Lauren joined Susan in the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher from the top cabinet to

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put the flowers in. When she finished, she just caught sight of Susan murdering a potato. “Mom?” Susan didn’t seem to hear her at first, her focus entirely on her task. Only the second time, after Lauren raised her voice, did she finally look up. “Yes?” Lauren’s brow furrowed as she gestured back to the living room where Mishca was still waiting. She kept her voice low. “What was that?” She looked back to the sink. “What do you mean?” She wouldn’t meet Lauren’s gaze because she knew that Lauren would be able to see the truth in her expression. It was what made them terrible liars. Lauren paled. “Please don’t tell me you two had an affair. Besides the fact that I’m dating him, that would just be gross. What would Ross say?”

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That was enough to break up the tension in the room as Susan laughed. “No. I told you, you said his name once. I can’t help it if you have bad memory. Now, tell him to come help set the table. I’m just about finished.” But Lauren couldn’t just walk away. There was more to this than Susan was letting on, and she was positive she never mentioned Mishca by name. “Mom, is there something wrong? You can tell me.” Susan sighed, wrapping Lauren in a hug. “I just wish your father were here.” Understanding dawned on Lauren as she returned the affection. “I’m sure he’s looking down on us now. Do you think he would have approved of him?” Susan chuckled, tears swimming in her eyes. “For his precious little girl, of course not, but you never know. He might have liked him, I guess we’ll have to see at dinner. Now let me finish so we can eat.”

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*** Lauren set the table of three with Mishca’s help, carrying in the dishes to place in the middle of the table. Mishca was uncharacteristically silent, lost in his thoughts while following her direction. She tried not to think too much into their odd behavior, chalking it up to nerves, but a small part of her was reluctant to let it go. As they were seated, Susan sat at the head of the table, Lauren and Mishca sitting next to one another. They held hands as Susan said grace. “Thank you for the food we are about to receive. I know that Lauren’s father,” —Mishca’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around Lauren’s— “but not nearly as proud as I am of everything that she has accomplished. Amen.” It seemed like this dinner was going from bad to worse. As the bowls were passed around the table, everyone filling their

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plates, nobody said a word. It was like a dark cloud was hanging over them, sucking all the joy out of the room. “I can’t take it,” Lauren said. “What do you know that I don’t?” “Lauren—” “I wager my reputation precedes me,” Mishca cut in with a self-deprecating smile though his eyes were still hard. “You’re the first person not to even know my name.” “But my mom has,” she asked dryly, “in Michigan?” He shrugged. “It happens.” “I only want what’s best for you, Lauren.” “Then by all means, ask me of my intentions.” Susan cleared her throat, sitting up straight. “What do you want from my daughter?” “Her company. I like to think she makes me a better person.”

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“And what of your family? How do they feel about this relationship?” Lauren was missing something important, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. “I haven’t met his family yet.” “Speaking of, they’ve invited Lauren over for Christmas break, if she’s not spending it with you.” “No—” “Yes,” Susan said with a definitive nod. “She is.” “The break is like three weeks, mom. I can spend half with you and had with Mishca.” “Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?” Susan asked, her eyes haunted as she stared at her only daughter. The fear she saw there gave Lauren pause. “But I want to go. I want to meet them.” When she couldn’t think of another argument, Susan grew silent. Lauren could tell she wanted to say something more, but she

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clearly didn’t want to push the subject because she knew it wouldn’t help. The stubbornness she had inherited. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute,” Lauren said looking to both of them, going into her bedroom to grab her phone. Maybe in her absence, they could talk this out, whatever it was. *** Mishca wiped his mouth with the napkin, setting it down on the table as he turned his attention to Susan. She was waiting, he knew, until Lauren wouldn’t be able to hear them. When he first saw her, he didn’t immediately recognize her, hundreds of people walked in and out of his life everyday, but when she said his name with such obvious contempt, he knew immediately. It wasn’t as simple to say that she was Doc’s wife, that wasn’t how he knew her. He had met her.

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It was a cool autumn night, Mishca was getting his arm stitched up after an accident on the playground. Luckily, Doc was in town for a few days and was able to meet them at the manor. It had only taken a few minutes, fifteen stitches in all, but in those fifteen minutes, a conundrum arose. He heard shouting, gruff words muffled inside of the room. Doc looked up, blinking as he finished wrapping Mishca’s arm. Mishca didn’t get a chance to thank him before the door was thrown open, his father’s security glaring at them. “Come,” Anthony said to Doc. “The Pakhan wants to see you.” Doc’s face paled as he adjusted his tie, leaving the room. Catja appeared a few seconds later, grabbing Mishca’s hand to take him from the house, as she always did when his father was doing business. They were almost to the front door when he saw her. She was much younger, her hair

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longer and a shade or two darker. FLanked by two of the biggest guards that took up post in the manor, she looked even smaller than she already was. Their eyes met, startled brown ones to curious blue. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her chest, like she was trying to shrink in herself. “Mishca,” his mother admonished for staring. He never did enjoy cowering behind his mother’s skirts. Holding his head high, he marched over to the mysterious woman, doing as his father instructed him. “I am Mishca Volkov.” Her fear waned, at least long enough to shake his hand, but she took a step back when Mikhail entered the room. “Father, who is this woman?” Mikhail’s hand rested on top of Mishca’s hair, his cold gaze going from Doc to the

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woman. “I believe she is Doctor Thompson’s wife, no?” That was the only time he had ever seen her until this night, but he hardly forgot a face. “I don’t know what you want,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn’t know anything, I swear. Please, don’t hurt her.” He had to gnash his teeth to keep his calm. “I would never hurt her.” She turned furious eyes on him. “You took my husband, her father. I won’t let you take her too.” He rested his hands on the table, looking at her point blank, making sure she understood his next words clearly. “Doc’s death had nothing to do with the Bratva, if it had, would we not have taken care of loose ends?” It took her a second to comprehend what he was saying, but when she did, her face

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mottled with red. “You were only a child, how would you know?” He ignored that. “What makes you think we did?” “He ran a test, something for your family. I—” “What are you two talking about?” Lauren asked reentering the room. Susan shut down, her carefree facade going back up, but he saw it for what it was. “Your mother is worried about your safety.” He saw her stiffen, her eyes flashing. “I told her you have my protection.” Those words meant one thing to Lauren, but to Mishca and Susan, she understood the hidden meaning. She didn’t like him—what mother would?—but she couldn’t interfere, without revealing what she knew. Until Lauren walked away from him on her own, there was nothing she could do. *** Two weeks later…

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When Mishca looked up, Lauren was slumbering peacefully, her lips slightly parted.The psychology textbook she had been reading was still open on her chest, her pen dangling from her lax fingers. He smiled at the sight of her so relaxed in his bed and thought of her laying there night after night, if she wanted. He shut the book, placing it on the floor next to the bed, then the pen, finally covering her with a blanket. She’d been studying diligently for the last three hours—a far better student than he was in college—she deserved a break. Mishca was tempted to take a break himself, leaving the paperwork for another night, but his Blackberry rang. It was a foreign number, more than likely his father calling from a disposable phone. If that were true, this meant it was Bratva business. He stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door up in case Lauren woke up.

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Glancing back, he checked in on her before connecting the call. “Yea?” He answered. “We need to meet, our spot in Hell’s Kitchen. One hour.” Mikhail hung up before Mishca could get a word out, the prepaid cell probably tossed in the garbage. He had detected a note of anger in Mikhail’s voice and that could only mean one thing. Someone was encroaching on their territory. Mishca sent a quick text to Vlad. He put on his shoes, grabbing his coat. Before leaving his bedroom, he pressed a kiss to Lauren’s temple, careful not to wake her. He only hoped that he wouldn’t be cleaning blood out of his clothes when he got back. *** Mishca was at the scene first, leaning against a light post, wishing he had a drink. Though it was only three o’ clock, it was still

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far too early to be dealing with this shit. Vlad was around the corner, making sure that no one who wasn’t authorized came behind the warehouse where Mishca was waiting. Sprawled out in the alley were two bodies, their limbs laying in awkward angles, both with two bullet holes in their chest. There were no shell casings that Mishca could see, and judging from how close the shots were, it had to be a professional hit. Undoubtedly experienced. Even for an alley, it was too clean. There were a number of hired guns on Mikhail’s payroll, but they had nothing on whoever had done this. He kept his hands in his pockets, carefully tracking every move he made just in case everything wasn’t cleared away. He wasn’t sure if they had gotten here first, or if the police had been contacted, but either way, it was better to be safe than sorry and this needed to be cleaned up quickly.

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The soft tap of expensive, Italian leather shoes sounded just behind him. Mishca didn’t have to turn to know that Mikhail and Viktor had just arrived. “They’re not ours,” Mishca said when they were flanking him, gesturing to the tattoos on their forearms. “It seems Declan is coming out to play.” Declan O’Connell was the only heir to his father’s empire—very much like Mishca though he was technically second in line—but there was only one slight difference between them. The crowds in which they ran. There were different organizations fighting for purchase in New York City, big ones like the Cosa Nostra and the Vory v Zakone, but for each, there were smaller divisions spread out around the cities, and even throughout the states. However, Declan belonged to the O’Connell family, part of the Irish Mob over in Staten Island.

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And their families hated one another. They had a fierce rivalry, the constant fight for power keeping them at war. While their fathers had a rather...mutual understanding to keep the peace, keeping their businesses under wraps to not attract the feds’ attention, but while Mishca understood the rules and followed his father’s example, Declan didn’t care about rules. He and Mishca were about the same age, but Declan thrived in the chaos of it all, treating his position like a bad mafia movie. He didn’t care about costs or consequences, he left destruction wherever he went. He didn’t carefully screen who he brought in, instead hiring anyone that came to him for a job, leaving his dealings open for anyone to infiltrate. Mishca thought of the two that confronted him outside his club. He had originally thought it was just a ploy to get under his skin, but now it seemed that Declan was

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trying to send a message. But what point could he possibly be trying to make by killing his own men and leaving them on their doorstep? “Doubtful,” Viktor interjected, rubbing his goatee. “He is but a child, no?” Mishca scowled. Viktor was old-school, refusing to believe that anyone below the age of fifty was of any value when it came to their business. Mishca accepted it, not only because Viktor was his uncle, but because his money and power spoke for itself. “He has an endless supply of weaponry and idiots that are willing to work for him.” Mishca toed one of the dead men’s legs. “What would you make of it?” “That is not why I called you here,” said Mikhail addressing both of them. “Follow me.” The inside of the warehouse was ripe with the scent of dead bodies and unlike the outside, the floor of the place was littered with

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casings, unspent bullets, and rust colored stains on the floor. Already knowing what to expect, Mishca pulled on a pair of rubber gloves Viktor handed him, checking the clip of his gun at his back, always prepared for anything or anyone. They stepped over bodies, Mikhail sighing at the sight. It wasn’t remorse, more like he was agitated with the amount of work that would need to be done. Taking the stairs to the roof, they stepped out and spotted the man that made Mishca curse. It was Abram Aganoff, sprawled out on the ground like the others, his gun still in his hand. The only difference was he had a single gunshot wound to the head. His eyes were still open, vacant, staring up at the sky like he could see the Heavens. Though, it was more than likely he would never see that paradise with his sins.His skin

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was an unnatural shade, the freezing temperature making parts of his body blue. “How long has he been here?” Mishca asked surveying the rest of the rooftop. Viktor glanced at his watch. “I have not heard much from him since a few weeks ago.” “Call Droija, tell him his services are needed.” When Viktor walked off to follow the order, Mikhail turned to face Mishca. “I hear that you are bringing the girl to dinner.” Damn Alex and her big mouth. Mishca tried not to look worried. “Is that a problem?” His father didn’t respond immediately, just studying him in that uncanny way of his. “I hope you know what you are doing, Mishca. If she ever learned of her father—” “She won’t.” Even though it seemed that everything was slowly drifting to the surface. Seeing Susan again… “We’ll be at the manor at the end of the week.”

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“Watch for the families,” Mikhail warned, waving for his men to bring the car around. “Everyone is coming.”

Chapter seventeen:

Volkov Manor “It’s not that big, love.” Lauren had no doubt that Mishca was rich. It was an easy enough assumption from the clothes he wore, his personal security, hell even his apartment, but she wasn’t fully prepared for the family estate. As they began the winding drive up the stone pathway towards his childhood home, she tried not to gawk at the sheer size of the Tudor style mansion, or the acres of land. They reached the top, circling around the enormous stone fountain. A statue of the Virgin Mary sat in a pool of frozen water, icicles

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glistening from her hands where the flowing water was supposed to fall. The surrounding snow caused a kaleidoscope effect, throwing colors out onto the white surroundings. The property was secluded, their neighbors more than a mile away on all sides. Even the surrounding forest was dense enough that even through the barren trees, a person couldn’t see any more than the snow and bark. Mishca had mentioned that other members of his family in Russia would be coming as well, but Lauren saw no evidence of that since their car was the only one in the driveway. Maybe they were the first to arrive. Vlad and Mishca both opened their doors simultaneously, Vlad going to the trunk to grab their bags, Mishca coming around to open the door for her. She tried not to fidget, tugging at the ends of her scarf as he offered her his hand, leading her up the stone steps to the double oak doors. He rang the bell, the

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resounding ringing echoing throughout the house. “There is no need to worry,” Mishca whispered reassuringly. “I’ll keep the wolves at bay.” She squeezed his hand in gratitude. An impeccably dressed butler opening the door for them, stepping to the side to allow them entry. “Sir, madam,” he said by way of greeting, inclining his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov are in his study awaiting your arrival. May I take your coats?” “Thanks, Albert,” said Mishca as he handed over their coats. After another nod, Albert was gone. “This is amazing,” Lauren whispered in astonishment as she took in the incredible interior. A spiraling staircase led up to the second floor, a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, attracting attention just as

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much to the Renaissance inspired painting on the ceiling, to the marble flooring where the black was offset by gold threaded throughout. “Come, I’ll give you a tour later.” He led her down a long hall, pointing out various family portraits that were hung in gold frames, stopping as they reached one of a woman with a long spill of raven black hair. She had a gentle smile, and Lauren knew who the woman was before Mishca said her name. They shared the same eyes. “Catja, my mother.” He said it with so much pride and adoration that Lauren might not have realized how sad Mishca was by looking at it if she hadn’t gazed up at him. “She was beautiful.” “She was,” he said facing the portrait again. “I try to remember the person she was before she got sick, so I won’t forget.” “Remember that she loved you. That’s all that matters.”

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That made him smile, his somber mood shifting as he pulled her into a hug. “You are a beautiful person, moy dorogoy.” For one second, guilt overshadowed the pain in his eyes, but Lauren had no idea why he felt the emotion. “Ahem.” The moment was broken as Anya appeared in the hall, looking between the two of them, then beyond them to the portrait. A corner of her mouth turned down in distaste, but she quickly masked her true feelings, smiling at Lauren. “Lauren, nice to see you again. Mishca, your father is waiting.” Just like that, Mishca’s eyes cleared, but Lauren could hardly notice the change now that blood was rushing in her ears, her heart beating a wild cadence. This was it, the moment she had both anticipated and dreaded. Mishca’s father’s study showed the true decadence of the Tudor style. It had all the

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original wood paneling along the walls, one bare of it to fit in windows to allow a view of the fountain. It also had built in bookcases, stacks of leather bound books along the shelves. Some looked older than others and she had to quell the rugs to run her fingers along their spines. But more importantly, was the man seated behind the cherry-wood desk. He was in his late fifties from what Mishca had told her, but just by looking at him, she wouldn’t have guessed that. His eyes were a dark gray, his black hair graying at the temples. Upon seeing her, he smiled, standing to his full height, which was just a few inches shorter than Mishca, and came around the desk, extending his hand. “You must be Lauren,” he said coolly, his accent much thicker than Mishca’s, making Lauren have to concentrate to understand him. “It is nice to finally put a face to the name.”

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“Nice to meet you, Mr. Volkov,” she said taking his hand. He had a firm handshake despite his age and made quite the imposing sight. Whereas Mishca was lean, he was built like a bull. “Please,” he said waving a hand. “There is no need for such formalities, call me Mikhail. I trust you have met my wife, Anya.” “Yes,” she replied smiling over at Anya. “Please have a seat,” Mikhail offered gesturing out to the comfortable looking wingback chairs that were grouped together near the fireplace. “I must confess,” he went on after they were all seated, “when Mishca told me he was going to bring a girl here, I was astonished. I have never met any of the girls in his life.” Lauren’s brows shot up as she glanced at Mishca. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn’t comment.

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“He must care for you greatly to bring you here.” Mishca scoffed. “You’re going to scare her off.” Mikhail’s face split into a grin, his eyes warming. “Nonsense. It is a reasonable assumption, no?” They broke out into a heated discussion in Russian, snapping back and forth, but while Mishca seemed to be growing angrier, Mikhail only appeared amused. “Would you care for something to drink, Lauren?” Anya asked cutting in over them, walking over to an antique whiskey service that held several carafes of dark Amber liquid and a couple bottles of water. She looked between Mishca and Mikhail, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Mikhail turned his attention to the bay windows as a car drove up. “It looks like your sister is here. Could you escort her in?”

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Mishca hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lauren, but he ultimately stood and walked out without glancing back. “You’ll have to excuse my son,” Mikhail said conversationally as he accepted his drink from Anya. “Love makes a man blind.” She was momentarily taken aback by what he was saying. To be honest, she had never thought that they were there in their relationship. “You don’t think so?” He asked reading her expression. “You are more important to him than you realize.” *** Mishca was wound tight as he greeted his sister at the door, trying not to let his frustration show. Alex was just climbing out of the town car Mikhail had sent for her, without a care in the world as she was lost in whoever was texting her. Sensing, his arrival, she pointed to the back of the car.

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“Would you grab my bags, Mish?” Alex asked staring down at her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he was scowling at her. “Why do you have so much shit? You’re only going to be here for a week.” “Because, I’m going to stay at your place until I go back to school.” She rolled her eyes at him, like he had asked the most asinine question in the world. Mishca lugged four of the six suitcases from the trunk of the town car, tossing them on the ground. “Hey! That’s Prada.” “Like I give a shit. Who told you could just invite yourself to my apartment?” “What the hell’s your problem? You got daddy’s foot stuck up your ass?” She was smiling as she asked and at any other time, Mishca might have laughed, but he wasn’t in the mood. He grabbed the last two cases. “I’m fine.”

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“Where’s Lauren? Didn’t you say you were bringing her?” “She’s in there with Mikhail and Anya.” A knowing light entered her eyes. “Stop worrying so much. They won’t kill her behind your back.” “Sometimes I wonder if you were dropped on the head as a child.” Gathering up her luggage, he started for the door, stopping when she touched his arm. “Seriously. She’ll be fine. Nothing is going to happen to her here. It’s only a week, what’s the worst that can happen?” That made Mishca feel a little better, but he still could hear his father’s words in his mind, though the conversation had gone right over Lauren’s head. She looks just like her father. And she did. It baffled his mind that Mishca hadn't noticed it when he first met

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her, or maybe he did and he didn’t care to acknowledge it. *** By the time Lauren and Mishca were coming down for dinner, after getting settled in their respective bedrooms, more people had converged in the foyer. They were all dressed formally, the women wearing expensive jewels—though not as lavish as the gala. In the last four months, Lauren thought with a shake of her head, she had dressed up more than in her entire life. Mishca, with the air of authority that he seemed to always possess, introduced her to everyone, though some of the names went over her head, the Russian hard to keep track of. Lauren had met new people on plenty of occasions and though sometimes it could be a little awkward, the mood of the room would eventually shift enough to make everyone comfortable. But not here. The

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atmosphere here felt strange, like everyone was on guard, but it was only around her. When they thought she wasn’t paying attention, they would blatantly stare at her, whispering in their language. If she were going to be with Mishca, she was definitely going to have to change her foreign language from Latin to Russian. Maybe, like Mikhail had said earlier, Mishca had never brought a girl home to meet his family before. It would explain all the odd looks she was getting. She didn’t know whether to feel special that was that important to him, or nervous that she wasn’t seeming to make a good impression. As Anya announced that dinner was ready, they all crowded into the new room, seating themselves at the elegant dining table. It was fitting of royalty with seating for dozens, each end stretching to either side of the room. Tall, red candles burned in the

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centerpiece precious china and silverware laid out in front of the sturdy looking chairs. Mikhail sat at the head of the table, Anya seated to his right. Mishca led Lauren over to a pair of chairs to the left of Mikhail, but another man was preparing to sit there as well. “Demetry, allow Mishca and Lauren to sit there,” Mikhail directed, stopping the man in his tracks. Demetry didn’t question him, merely pulled out Lauren’s chair, then took the seat on her opposite side. Once they were seated, just as he had done during the ballet, Mishca placed his hand on her thigh beneath the table, the warmth of his touch putting her at ease. It seemed, everyone had gotten over their shock of Lauren’s presence, talking softly with their neighbors though Lauren didn’t understand a word of it. She looked around for Alex, but didn’t spot her in the opulent room, at least not yet.

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“Are you allergic to anything?” Mishca leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Now would be a terrible time to ask, wouldn’t it?” She asked smiling at him. He grinned, shrugging. “Never too late.” “You cannot start without me, brother,” a man said entering the room. Maybe it was his too big smile, or the way he seemed to demand attention as he walked in, but whatever it was, it set Lauren on edge. He had the same gray eyes as Mikhail, but whereas Mikhail had graying hair, this man was completely bald. He wore a black turtle neck and black pants, complete with obviously expensive leather shoes. He was pale, a color that almost looked unnatural, but more than that, there was something dark about the man, like a radiating evil that Lauren didn’t comprehend. He took the seat next to Anya, his smile growing as he looked at her. Her mouth

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tightened, but she did speak to him. At least she wasn’t just cold to Lauren. “Sorry I’m late!” Alex called, hurrying to her seat next to the man. She looked across the table, smiling warmly at Lauren. She smiled in return, feeling easer now that she had both Mishca and Alex there with her. “Oh, hello there,” the man said swinging his gaze over to Lauren. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Lauren looked to Mishca, whose easy smile was gone again. “Lauren, this is my uncle, Viktor. Viktor, Lauren.” Their dishes were brought out, a plate set in front of every guest, but Viktor’s gaze stayed on Lauren, like he knew he was making her uncomfortable and enjoyed it. At one point, his head canted to one side, like he was studying a bug under a microscope.

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“Eto moray devushka.” It might have been the way Mishca emphasized the words that brought a screeching halt to all conversation at the table. Everyone looked in his direction. Viktor grinned and Lauren could only assume the words were directed at him. “On a ne odin iz nas.” Whatever Viktor had said made Mishca’s hand clench on Lauren’s thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her clasp his fingers, wanting to calm him. “Ostorzhny dyadi.” “That is enough, Viktor,” Mikhail said speaking up. Viktor opened his mouth to say something else, but when Mikhail cut him off and said, “Eto moy prikaz.” He immediately shut his mouth. The tension was so thick in the room that Lauren had the urge to flee, feeling like she was the reason behind it.

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“And everyone please,” Alex spoke up with a wry smile. “Do refrain from the Russian. Lauren and I can’t comprehend a thing.” That lightened the mood as everyone chuckled softly. Alex winked at her and Lauren smiled gratefully, not knowing for sure how true Alex’s words were, but appreciating them all the same. *** Mishca took the seat next to his father, watching the fire lick at the iron gate that caged it, the flames burning bright orange and yellow. They seemed to reflect his uneasy thoughts. A second glass rested between the pair, but instead of the usual Vodka that was in his normal drinks, this alcohol was dark, the Amber liquid glittering in the dimmed lighting in the room. It seemed that Mikhail had been expecting him. “You are being careless, Mishca,” said Mikhail, breaking the silence between them.

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He sighed. “I know the Bratva comes first, Pakhan.” “When we are here, I am just a father guiding his son.” Mikhail set his glass down. “She means something to you, anyone can see that.” Mishca tensed, facing Mikhail. “Father—” Mikhail raised his hand. “There was a time when the Vory v Zaokne did not believe in marriage—forsake your family; have no family of your own. But I loved your mother and I was able to follow my own path when I moved here from Russia. I married her, she gave me a son. Did I forsake you? No, I gave you this life.” He gestured out around him. “It may not be pretty, but it is our world, Mishca. “Catja knew of this world, she knew the life I led. And while she did not agree with all of its practices, she ultimately accepted it. I was like you once, arrogance, believing that I was untouchable. No, you may not be

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harmed because of this hubris, but this girl you care for might. Are you ready to face that?” Mishca didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t been thinking of the Bratva when he had brought Lauren here for the holiday, just of her meeting his family. That was the curse. In an unguarded moment, he hadn’t thought of his station, and for that, he may have created more problems. “What are you saying? Should I just leave her?” Could he actually do it? Even at the thought, his hands clenched. He didn’t want to give her up anymore than he wanted to keep her in danger. Mikhail sighed, drinking the last of his Scotch. “She is your responsibility, Mishca. Whether you keep her ignorant is your decision, but remember that any move she makes against us, you have to take care of it.” Meaning if she ever talked to the police about them, even if she just gave a name,

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they would call for her death...and Mishca would have to pull the trigger. *** The sound of her bedroom door creaking open made Lauren shoot up in bed, glancing frantically around for a weapon of some sort. Even without one, Mishca was just next door and could be in here in seconds. But as the light from the hallway illuminated the figure in the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief as Mishca stepped further into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He was shirtless, only in a pair of loose pajama pants, his hair delightfully disheveled as though he had laid restlessly in his own bed, the same as she had. “What are you doing?” She asked softly as he climbed into the bed, seeking her out to hold against his chest. “I am a familiar face. I thought you might want me close.”

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She smiled, shifting onto her side so she could run her fingers down his abdomen. “Or maybe you came in for other reasons?” He sighed, stroking her hip. “I never take this for granted.” Her brows drew together as she looked up at his serious tone. “What do you mean?” “This,” he emphasized as he squeezed the bare flesh that was exposed by her shirt. “Having you with me, holding you. I want to stay with you like this.” Lauren was at a loss for words, not sure what to say at his confession. She had no doubt that he cared for her, hell she saw it in his eyes, the way just the corner of his mouth would turn up when she did something that amused him. The way he always made sure to text her good morning and good night even on the days when she was sleeping in and wouldn’t be able to text him back for hours.

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But she hadn’t known the depth of his feelings for her and she could almost infer what he was trying to tell her, the hidden meaning behind his words. And the reality of that thought scared her. Not because she didn’t feel the same way, but because it scared her. “Tell me,” he said changing the subject, “what’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” “Mm...” She thought about it for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights.” Looking up into his eyes, she asked, “Have you ever seen them?” “Not that I can remember.” She giggled softly. “I’m pretty sure you would know if you had. They’re pretty memorable. Or so I’ve heard.” “Maybe one day we can see them together, yes?”

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“I would love to.” It was so much easier saying the word when it wasn’t in the context she wanted to say it. They laid together, just enjoying each other’s company, listening to the howling winds outside, but as Lauren’s mind began to wander, she thought of the conversation at dinner. “Mish,” she started hesitantly. “What was that all about at dinner?” He grew tense and she could tell that he didn’t want to answer, but he sighed, complying. “My uncle often speaks his mind even when opinion is unwanted.” “What did he say?” “Nothing of importance.” So similar to how the detectives treated Lauren when she was a teenager, down at the precinct when she gave another name for them to investigate. Hearing it from Mishca made her pull away from him.

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“I’m not a child,” she said with a hint of bitterness in her tone. “I’m not under the disillusion that everyone in your family is going to like me.” *** But what she didn’t understand was it was far bigger than whether or not his family ‘liked’ her. She was an outsider, ignorant of their world, but he had thought because he’d seen so many others bring women in, it would be easier for him to do it because of his position. But after his conversation with his father, Mishca was worried about what he had started. Despite all of Mikhail’s gruffness and his loyalty to the Bratva, he would never volunteer information about Lauren, knowing that if anything happened to her, it would affect Mishca, but the others didn’t care. And no matter that they were forbidden to mention her to anyone, once they were gone from the manor, someone would talk.

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Especially with what happened with Viktor at dinner. Mishca was grateful that Alex had interrupted the heated debate between them, playing ignorant though she spoke Russian just as fluently as the rest of them. He had hoped that he would never have to tell her about his other life, but now with Viktor’s sudden interest, he had to make a decision. “He asked who you were and why you were here. He didn’t know I was bringing you.” At least that was a partial truth. Viktor had asked who Lauren was, but he hadn’t asked why and he probably didn’t care, but he did make sure to point out that she wasn’t one of them, meaning unless Mishca made a point of saying Lauren was under his protection, anyone could target her. He would gladly say it, but unless she was apart of this world, he couldn’t offer her protection.

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It was a never ending fucking circle. “Yea, I kind of gathered that when we first got here after seeing your dad’s reaction,” she said dryly. “I kind of thought—you know, since it’s their house—you might have mentioned it to them.” “Come here.” “Nope.” She actually tried to roll away, the California king giving her plenty of room to put distance between them, but before she could get too far, he shot an arm out, grabbing her foot. Lauren yelped in shock, trying to pull free. He held fast, enjoying the way she struggled, her face turning red. “Mish, don’t.” He saw the sudden apprehension in her face, the way her struggles increased. He knew without a doubt why she was so nervous. “Are you ticklish, Lauren?”

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She rolled her eyes. “Of course not.” Mishca used his free hand to run his fingers down her instep. She jerked hard, almost able to pull free, but he tightened his hold, laughing at her angry smile. “Do it and I’ll make you regret it,” she threatened. If only he were moved by threats, he might have heeded her warning. “You could have stayed by my side and we wouldn’t.” “You were being a di—” She yelped, bursting into a fit of giggles as he tickled her foot, watching in amusement as she tried in vain to get away. He only stopped when she covered her mouth to muffle her laughter, her eyes bright with amusement. Seeing her like this, so happy and free, made him wish for things that he shouldn’t have. As he looked down on her, he couldn’t resist the urge to kiss her. He didn’t have to explain his need to her, she seemed to read him

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easily as she licked her bottom lip, drawing it between her teeth. He leaned over her on straightened arms, watching her every reaction before lowering his lips to hers, almost smiling when he felt her immediately open up to him. Seconds passed before the kiss turned from gentle and exploring to passionate and desperate. He conveyed everything he felt for her through his actions, wanting her to know that she was everything to him, even if he couldn’t say it. She broke the kiss, sitting up. His eyes roamed over her front, his hands traveling up her thighs until they reached her hips. He licked his lips, the action making her shiver in anticipation at the desire she saw in his eyes. “We’re the only ones on this floor?” She asked, ignoring the excited hammering in her chest.

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He understood her meaning and nodded an affirmative. Biting her lip, she fisted the hem of her night shirt, lifting it up and over her head. She saw the hesitation in his eyes. She placed her hand on the center of his sternum, feeling the steady beat. “I…I want to.” *** That was all it seemed to take to convince him. She reached for the strings of his pants once he sat up, biting her lip in concentration as she tugged at the knot until it loosened. His erection strained the fabric, giving her a clear indication as to how big he really was. She might not have had sex before—or even come close to it—but she knew that his size was impressive. He didn’t rush, letting her take her time with undressing him, but he wasn’t entirely unaffected by her slow pace. The hand he

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had on her hip tightened just slightly, holding her almost possessively as she began sliding his pants down. The ridges of his abdomen descended far lower than she imagined, a dark trail of hair growing more pronounced the farther his pants went. Her entire body felt flushed with heat as he stared down at her, his eyes smoldering and she almost wished he would take over, to at least relieve her embarrassment long enough to continue. Like he could read her thoughts, he rested his weight on one extended arm, the tendons in his bicep straining as he bent to get closer to her. With his free hand, he cupped her cheek, tilting her face up until she had to look away from his lower half up into his eyes. Only when he had her attention did he finally kiss her. It wasn’t like any of the others the shared. This one was full of unrestrained passion. It was like one minute she was in control of the moment, next she was relinquishing it to

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him. She barely felt the fabric give in her hands, but when it went slack, she let it fall, wrapping her arms around him. Mishca shifted his weight, kicking the pants off, sending them towards the end of the bed. He coaxed her legs to part, delving his hand in between, feeling the heat radiating from her as he caressed the most intimate part of her through a thin layer of cotton. She was nervous, yes, but it wasn’t like the panic she felt the last time they were in bed together. This was nervousness stemming from a new experience. He drew back, just long enough to hook his fingers around the waistband of her panties, then gently tugged them down, the cool air kissing her bare flesh. They went over his shoulder, tossed in the general direction his shirt had taken. Instead of returning his hand there, he shifted his body until they were pressed together. She could feel

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his heartbeat there, the rigged flesh seeming to throb. He didn’t take her bra completely off, just drew down the cups until they exposed her breasts to his gaze. Palming one, he drew the nipple of the other into his mouth, sucking gently at first before biting just hard enough to make her gasp his name. She angled her hips up straining against his hold, and for one glorious mount, he was poised at her entrance, just one thrust away from being inside her. The hand he had in her hair gripped tighter as he cursed, but for reasons only he knew, he drew back. He cursed, kissing the curve of my neck, whispering, “Not here.” She wanted to curse because she was sure that this was what she wanted. She wanted him. “Mish—” “Shh, I’ll take care of you.” She had no idea what that meant, but as his hand slid over her belly then between her

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legs, she had a pretty good idea. Mishca didn’t hesitate, boldly stroking a finger down over the bundle of nerves there before pressing a finger inside of her. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that she arched , gasping for breath at the feeling. He gave her a moment to get used to the sudden invasion, slowly moving his fingers in and out, capturing her lips again. Rational thought fled her as the only thing she could focus on was the pleasure he was giving her. She moaned, helpless to do anything more than accept what he was giving her. Every time his fingers went deeper inside her, he curled his fingers in a way that made her break the kiss and curse. He chuckled low, knowing how good he was, but she couldn’t fault him at the moment. At first his eyes were on her face, reading her every reaction to what he was expertly doing to her, but then his eyes drifted lower, his own need burning bright in his

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eyes as he watched what he was doing and the way she undulated her hips every time he withdrew. Wanting to do something for him as well, she reached out, wrapping her fingers around his straining length. He lost his triumphant smile as he groaned, a deep guttural sound in the back of his throat that made her shiver all over. She had no idea what to do, how best to touch him and that showed in her hesitation, afraid that she might do something wrong and embarrass herself. Wrapping his hand around hers, he tightened her hold just slightly, then showed her just how best to stroke him. It’s slow at first, just a smooth glide up and down, but when he exhaled, cursing under his breath as he looked to the ceiling, the muscles in his throat working as he gritted his teeth. It’s enough to make her bold, speeding her actions.

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Mishca squeezed his eyes shut, the fingers he had inside her matching her rhythm. She could feel it then, that sensation building deep inside of her. She couldn’t keep her hold on him, instead bunching the sheets in her fists. He looked down at her, his pupils practically swallowing the blue of his eyes. He was speaking, the Russian going right over her head, but the look in his eye was enough to make her breath catch. He pulled his fingers free, sliding down her body until she could feel the ends of his hair tickling the insides of her thighs. He spread her legs wider, opening her to his ravenous gaze. For a moment, he looked up, his tongue swiping out over his bottom lip before he lifted her leg over his shoulder. Mishca didn’t go in immediately as she thought he would, instead he used his tongue on her inner thigh, demonstrating what he was about to do to her.

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“Mish…” Her voice was throaty, needy like it had never been before and it had the desired affect on him. He had to grip her hips to steady her, keeping her in place as he consumed her. She moaned breathlessly as he delved his tongue inside of her, slowly, expertly, bringing her so close to the edge that she reached down, tangling her fingers in the silky strands of his hair. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she chanted again and again, making him respond eagerly, like he was just as desperate to get her off. It was only a few moments later when that sensation in the pit of her belly spread through the rest of her. When her cries grew louder, he covered his mouth with his palm, muffling the energetic sounds. She came hard, holding onto him like he was her anchor. It was the greatest

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experience of her life and she loved that she got to share it with him. He drew back, looking down at her with an unreadable expression though a smile tugged at his lips. He was still hard, almost painfully so, but when she reached for him, he intercepted her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “Wasn’t about me.” “But—” “Trust me,” he said breathlessly, looking back down at her legs. “We’ve got all week.”

Chapter Eighteen:

Eyes Wide Open It was warmer than usual when Lauren woke up, the strong arm around her wait a good indication as to why. Unlike the last time they had spent the night together, Mishca was still sound asleep beside her, his face utterly relaxed as he slept. He didn’t stir as she turned over in his arms to face him better, reaching out to softly trace his jawline, his facial hair tickling the pads of her fingers. Despite the darkness that still surrounded them, she could see with stark clarity. She took this time to truly

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study him, knowing the opportunity might not come up again. She started along his jaw, around until she got to the slight indentation in his chin that was hidden beneath the dusting of whiskers. She tried not to linger on his lips, still thoroughly affected by the night before. She could still remember the stroke of his hands as he touched her, his soft kisses as he descended down her body, and as he licked and bit at her inner thighs, working his way north, his masculine groans still made her shiver. Shaking her head, knowing her face was flushed, Lauren moved on from his face, over his Adam’s apple, outlining the epaulette on his shoulder, then stopping at the eightpointed star below his collarbone. The lines of the star were slightly raised, and she might have imagined it, but as she followed the pattern, Mishca seemed to twitch, yet

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when she looked up to see if she’d woken him, his eyes still closed. She narrowed her eyes on him, trying to discern any change in him, but he stayed perfectly still. Drawing her hand away, but she didn’t get far as he snagged her hand, pressing it back against his chest. “I was enjoying that,” Mishca whispered, peeking open one blue eye, smiling fondly at her. “You could have told me you were awake,” she whispered back. “And ruin the fun?” She laid back on the pillows, facing him. “Good morning.” “It’s a great morning,” he said kissing her briefly. “Would you like a tour of the grounds?” “Sounds good.” “Then it’s time to get up.”

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Taking his own advice, Mishca threw the covers off, climbing to his feet, stretching. He was all muscle, all the way down to his— “Mish!” He looked back at her with a knowing smile. “What?” “You’re…you’re naked.” “If I remember correctly, so are you.” Well, he had a point. She watched him walk to their adjoining bathroom, drinking him in. One thing that Mishca had over every other guy Lauren knew was his excellent physique. *** The acres of land behind the mansion were far more interesting than Lauren had originally assumed. Whoever had done the landscaping had quite the imagination, crafting the shrubbery into various shapes and sizes, creating a maze around the stone walkway.

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Mishca skipped ahead of her, knowing his way around the maze better than she did. By the time she caught up to him, he was standing at the end, his hands behind his back. “Are you going to throw a snowball at me?” She asked eyeing him suspiciously, looking for any bush she could duck behind, just in case he was planning an attack. “The thought did cross my mind, but I come in peace. This, is for you.” He held out a small flower, only about four inches tall with brilliant yellow petals that bloomed out like a tulip. “It’s a Winter Aconite. It only grows in the colder months. Since I knew you were coming, I thought it would be nice to give you this.” “Thank you.” He was thoughtful, attentive, and always put a smile on her face. He was almost too good to be true, but Lauren didn’t think he was trying to get anything from her at this

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point. It had been months and he had had plenty of opportunities—last night for example—but he didn’t seem to want more than what she was willing to give. “That’s sweet of you.” “There are more over here.” Following his lead, she fell right into his trap. Several snowballs were hurled at her from the right, Alex’s triumphant laughter filling the air. She looked to Mishca accusingly. “I thought we were a team,” she said doing her best to appear hurt as she gave him her back, crouching down t pick up her flower that fell when she was first hit. “Lauren, I’m—” Scooping up a handful of snow, she didn’t bother trying to perfect a ball, just lobbed the lot of it at him. It flew everywhere, smacking against his face and chest. She then moved quickly, making a ball to throw at Alex.

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She darted out of the way before it could hit her, leaving them to their battle. “You don’t want to go to war with me,” Mishca threatened, making his own snowball. “You wanna bet on that?” She taunted, backing away to take cover. “Don’t forget the last time you bet against me, I won then too.” “Try me.” “Whoever get hits the most loses.” “Yea, and what do I get when I win?” He stalked towards her, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “If you win, I’ll give you what you want.” She knew what he was hinting at, but she just had to ask, “And what do I want?” “Me,” he said simply. “Inside you.” Then he dropped the snow he held down the front of her shirt. For hours, they fought, only coming in when they were both saturated with snow.

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Lauren was trembling, wrapped in two blankets, sitting in the media room as Mishca went in search of hot chocolate. There hadn’t been a clear winner, or Mishca was a sore loser and refused to admit that her last hit had actually clipped his foot. “Are you enjoying yourself?” Anya asked as she joined her. “I did say we would speak again when Mishca was otherwise occupied.” She did, but that didn’t mean Lauren couldn’t hope otherwise. “Uh, yes, I am. You have a very nice home.” She studied her tapping her nails against the arm of her chair. “Tell me, what is a girl like you doing with a boy like Mishca? Let’s be honest, you’re not his usual type.” “I guess you’ll have to ask him that.” She had wondered the same thing months ago, but had eventually put it out of her mind because it wasn’t like he was giving her a reason to doubt his feelings for her.

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“And what of his secrets? Has he confided in you?” “Mishca doesn’t hide anything for me.” At least she didn’t think so. “If that were true, you would know what I’m talking about, but judging from that confused, sheep-like expression on your face, I doubt that very much. Maybe you don’t mean as much to him as you think? Think about it.” If her goal had been to tear away the happiness Lauren felt at being here, she accomplished it. She just stared at the spot Anya had been in, hearing her words over and over again. What secrets could he be hiding? Most of his time was spent at the club or with her…but she didn’t know if he was at the club like he said he was, the suspicious voice said in the back of her mind.

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“Lauren?” Mishca held out a steaming mug, never looking away from her face. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing…” He gave her that knowing look letting her know he knew she was lying. “I…well, I just want you to know you can talk to me about anything. I won’t judge you—unless you’re like a serial killer on your nights off.” He sat down beside her, opening his arms for her to sink into. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?” “Anya, she said—” “Anya was my father’s mistress before she became his wife,” he said in a rush, his irritation clear. “She thinks everyone has secrets.” “Just saying. If you have secrets, you can tell me. I won’t judge you because of them.” He nodded, turning the television on, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that he didn’t believe her. ***

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Their time together at the manor was coming to an end, and despite her previous apprehension about meeting his family, Lauren felt almost at ease around them, thanks in large part to Mishca and Alex. They spent most of the day entertaining Alex and though Mishca had protested, ended up watching a few of her recitals. Lauren was impressed, impressed by the skill that Alex possessed though she didn’t boast about it. Her fingers traced over the stars, bringing back memories of a day he would never forget. “Is there meaning behind these?” Years ago, she had sat before a select number of men, their presence enough to make his heart hammer in his chest, despite his overall calm demeanor. Mikhail was seated among them, but in that moment, he wasn’t Mishca’s father, but his soon to be Pakhan.

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He had sworn the oath, had answered every inquiry they had, and after only an hour, they nodded their agreement to have him. An ancient man carried a kit Mishca was all too familiar with. He’d gotten a tattoo in the past, but after that night, four more would join the line of script on his arm. Two stars over his heart, the mark of a Captain. Two stars on his knees, symbols that meant he would never bow to any authority. “Always reach for the stars.” “And this one?” The epaulettes on his shoulders. They didn’t have a true meaning, at least not to the Bratva, but he had gotten them as a symbol of his position. He shrugged, saying to her, “Reminded me of the motherland. This one,” he said pointing to the only tattoo on him that had nothing to do with the Bratva and

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everything to do with his mother, “was a tribute to my mother.” It was a setting sun with birds flying over the horizon. For each of the sun’s rays, a letter accompanied it, all of them spelling out his mother’s name in Russian. It represented freedom. She might have accepted his father’s lifestyle, but Mishca knew she hated it and hated more that Mishca would soon join it. For that reason, she had sacrificed more than Mishca ever could have imagined. If she couldn’t save them both, she could save one of them… “Would you like to hear the story?” She smiled and nodded. *** At some point while he was talking, Lauren had fallen asleep snuggled against his side. For one blissful moment, he didn’t want to move. Her hand rested in the center of his chest, her leg over his. They fit.

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Smoothing a hand over her hair, Mishca willed himself to remember why this was a bad idea. He could no longer pretend that he was growing attached to her, he was there. And because of that, he would have to decide where they were going. He took care with disentangling himself from her embrace, kissing the top of her head before climbing out of the bed. He paused, making sure he hadn’t woken her, slipping out of the bedroom and down the hall to see the one person he could talk to. It felt like she was in every part of him. She trusted him, unequivocally, and knowing that made him wish that were not any secrets between them, that he didn’t know about her father. She knew just as much about his death as he did, but not telling her that he had known the man, the he had known him for years, was still a lie, no matter how he tried to justify it in his head.

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Reaching his sister’s door, he frowned, catching the acrid scent wafting through her door. Sometimes he wondered whether she thought before she acted. Shoving the door open, he closed the door behind him. Alex jumped slightly at his entrance, but didn’t try to hide the cigarette she was smoking. She was up on the windowsill, one leg dangling out, cold air blowing in. He frowned at her. “You’re going to get sick.” She sat back, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “When do I ever get sick? Besides, there’s medicine for that.” That worried him more than the other thugs Alex had going on in her life. For the most part, Alex was clean, went to school, did her work, and worked rigorously on her ballet, but she also had a social life that he didn’t entirely approve of. But he couldn’t tell her how to live her life, especially with the way that he was living his.

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“So no grab-ass tonight?” She asked after he didn’t respond. Mishca dropped down on her bed, not in the least bit embarrassed by her words, but knowing that if Lauren had heard her, she would be blushing red. “I didn’t take you for a voyeur, Aleksandra.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Not like you gave me much of a choice, brother. God, I had to put on headphones and listen to We Came As Romans.” She flicked the ash from her cigarette, watching it flutter down to the ground. “Why are you in here anyway?” “Lauren’s father…he worked for us.” “No shit? Does she know?” He gives her a bland stare. “Yea, I guess not. Are you—wait, you haven’t told her? Mishca, you have to tell her.” He hook his head. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to, you now how this works. If I were going to tell her, that would mean—”

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“You would have to take it up with father, yea I know, but you had to be sure, right?” She asked glancing back at him. “To bring her here, you had to know that this was the next step. I mean, what did you expect? Eventually, she’s going to wonder what you do besides sitting behind a desk.” “She doesn’t need to know.” She tossed her cigarette, swinging her legs around so she could come over to sit next to him. “What the fuck is going on with you? A few months ago, you wouldn’t have been this concerned one way or the other, but now you’re…oh my God.” Mishca looked to her, not liking the way her smile was growing. He could practically see the conclusion she had reached. “Don’t.” “You love her.” She said it so softly like the concept of him loving someone was so ludicrous that it couldn’t be possible made him rub the back of his neck, but he couldn’t deny it.

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“Alex—” “You don’t have to deny it, not to me at least. I like her. It’s obviously how she feels about you.” “I don’t doubt that, but it’s never that simple, and there’s more at risk if I go into this blind. You know that.” Extending her foot until it rested on his arm, an action she knew he hated, Alex sighed deeply. “I’m going to give you the best advice you’ve ever heard and best of all? I’m giving it to you for free. Are you ready?” He looked at her, nodding, ready to hear something that had eluded him for some time. “Just tell her how you feel, dipshit. If she reciprocates, talk to father, get his blessing, and ease her into the truth. Either way,” she said, going for another cigarette, returning to her spot on the windowsill. “You’re going to need to tell her the truth eventually.”

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She was right and he acknowledged that, but for once he had no idea how this was going to turn out. Deciding not to over think it, he went over to Alex and kissed her forehead. “Thank you.” “It’s what you pay me for.” Before exiting her bedroom, he plucked the cigarette from her mouth, tossing it out the window, laughing when she slapped the back of his head on the way out. *** Morning came far too soon, but waking up next to Mishca was worth it. Today was her last day and she couldn’t help but feel sad about that fact. It was only a week before she was back, but she would miss him more than she thought she would. In honor of her time here, Mikhail had put together a special breakfast. Since her first day, he had warmed to her considerably, at least as much as it seemed he could. He

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didn’t seem to be an affectionate man by nature, but he made a point of speaking to Lauren whenever she was near him. Anya was just as cold as always and Viktor paid her no mind like she was beneath him. Climbing out of bed, Lauren went in the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she came back out, Mishca was gone. It was rather quiet throughout the manor though she could hear people walking around on the lower level preparing for breakfast. “Did you not recognize her?” Lauren could just hear Anya talking with someone and as she peered over the railing, she saw Anya and Viktor in a shadowed corner glaring at one another. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop—not really anyway—but she couldn’t help wonder who they were talking about. Who was he supposed to recognize?

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“It was been more than a decade, Anya,” Viktor hissed back. “We should not be having this conversation here.” “If she knows—” Lauren nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt Mishca’s arms come around her waist, drawing her back into his warm embrace. “What are you doing?” He asked in her ear. Pushing the odd conversation Anya and Viktor were having to the back of her mind, Lauren gave Mishca her full attention. “I was looking for you.” That was partially true. His hand slipped beneath her shirt, skimming his fingers over her stomach. “Come on, I have something for you.” Maybe it was his voice that was still rough and husky from sleep that made Lauren blush, or what his words promised. “That wasn’t what I had in mind,” he said grinning at her reaction.

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He led her into his bedroom. This one was vastly different from the one he had in the city. While the latter seemed to be a reflection of him, the one was more of a reflection of wealth than a room meant to be lived in. “Close your eyes.” She did as he asked, feeling him slip past her. He was back in a second. “Alright.” She opened her eyes. He held a slender powder blue box, a glittery white ribbon wrapped around it and tied in an elegant bow. She recognized the signature color from hundreds of advertisements and though she knew it was undoubtedly expensive, she wasn’t thinking about not accepting. “I thought we said no gifts,” she whispered as he placed it in her hands. He smirked. “You said no gifts, I never agreed to that. Since you’re going to be in

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Michigan for Christmas, I thought I’d give it to you now.” She pulled on the ribbons, lifting the lid. Resting on a gauzy, white cotton pad was a gold charm bracelet and hanging from the end of it was a tiny egg wrapped like a present. The egg itself was no bigger than a baby’s thumb and had clear gems encrusted around it. “It’s beautiful,” she said in awe as he lifted it out of the box and fastened it around her wrist. “I’m glad you like it.” She smiled up at him. “I love it.” As she looked down at it, she frowned suddenly. “This wasn’t outrageously expensive, was it?” He scratched at the hair on his jaw. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how he always managed to keep the same amount of facial hair all the time. “Define expensive.” She glared at him.

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“It was not a hardship,” he said. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now I feel bad because my gift isn’t as nice as this.” “I thought you said no gifts? Besides, whatever it is, I’m grateful.” “Yea, you say that now,” she mumbled looking away. “Wait here.” She dashed into her room, grabbing the wrapped bundle from the bottom of her suitcase. Fidgeting with the hem of her hit, she handed it over. Mishca was far more enthusiastic about tearing off the paper than she thought he would be. His smile only grew when he pulled out the framed picture, laughing at the engraving across the back. To better first dates. Blue bowling balls adorned the front of it, the picture Amber had snapped of them before their date inside. “I doubt I have ever received anything as great as this and before you contradict me,

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yes it is the greatest because it came from you.” She smiled, relieved that he liked it. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him, feeling like the happiest girl in the world. “God, do either of you stop?” Alex asked from behind them, wrinkling her nose. “Someone could get pregnant just looking at the two of you. Or someone could already be pregnant.” Lauren’s face mottled with red as she slapped mishca’s arm. “You said we were the only ones on this floor!” “Or he was saying that so you wouldn’t change your mind,” Alex supplied helpfully. “And if Alex wants her gift she’ll get the hell out!” Mishca shouted back at his sister. Lauren glared at him, embarrassment replacing the happiness she felt a moment before.

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He looked sheepish, holding his hands up. “I can explain.” Yea, right. Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and went to get ready for breakfast. *** Various assortments of food were placed in the center of the table, more than what had been at the dinner several nights ago. Everyone sat in the same seat from that night as well which Lauren found odd. It was almost like they had assigned seats. When all the food was served and drinks poured, Viktor stood abruptly with his glass. Mishca looked to his father for a brief second before he too held his up, everyone following his direction. “I offer a toast,” Viktor declared glancing at everyone in turn, stopping for a beat longer on Lauren, then added, “to my brother, his lovely wife Anya for allowing us in their home.”

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He then turned to Mishca and Lauren though his gaze was fastened on Lauren with an intensity she didn’t understand. “And to my nephew, may you find happiness in your every endeavor. To everyone, Suzhenogo konyom ne Ob’edyesh.” As soon as the words left his lips, Lauren’s flute of orange juice slipped from her lax fingers, shattering into pieces as juice splashed all over the hardwood floors. Someone gasped, maids hurrying around to clean up the mess, but the table and all its inhabitants disappeared as Lauren was surrounded by darkness, only a small sliver of light shining through the bottom of the door. Her fear was so pungent that she could practically taste it. She could hear muffled talking, one she knew as her father’s voice, distant memories rushing back to the forefront. It was like the fog that had always obscured that night had finally receded.

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Another man was talking, saying the words that had brought it all back, then a loud pop causing something—or someone—slammed against the door, slamming it shut. She jumped at the sharp sound, but was careful not to make a sound. “No matter what you hear…no matter what happens, don’t make a noise, okay?” In that moment, she could remember her father smiling down at her sadly, the laugh lines bracketing out beside his eyes crinkling as he gazed at her like this was the last time he would ever see her. “Daddy loves you, honey.” Her hands were empty, but she could still feel the texture of the plush blanket she always carried. The scent of blood coated the air as it drifted beneath the door, slowly creeping towards her. There was nowhere for her to go with the limited space in the closet. She could only stare down at it helplessly, the thick liquid soaking her pants

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She touched it in an attempt to move it away from her, her adolescent mind not knowing what else to do. She cried, hearing the door slam, waiting for her daddy to let her out, but when he never came, she just sat there, not wanting to break her promise. “Lauren!” Mishca’s worried voice snapped Lauren back to the present. She blinked, taring down at her hand, seeing the cool liquid dripping onto the floor. Orange juice, not blood. She had been crying soundlessly, her eyes stinging. All eyes were trained on her, their curiosity clear, but she was too terrified to feel embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular, shoving her chair back and fleeing the room. She ignored the whispers, ignoring Mishca calling for her, but as she rounded the corner, looking back one last time, it was Viktor that she looked to.

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He didn’t appear worried as the others did. In fact, there was something cold and calculating about his expression that made fear bloom to life in Lauren’s chest. Only he could know why Lauren reacted the way he did. It was his voice she remembered. *** They arrived at the airport with time to spare, but instead of spending their last few minute together promising to call, Lauren sat silently in the passenger seat, watching people hustle in and out of the airport. Her mind was too preoccupied with the night her subconscious had buried to realize that Mishca was watching her. She wanted to confide in him, to at least ask what those words meant, but she held back. She wanted to think that she was just too overwhelmed to ask, but a part of her knew that she wasn’t going to bring it up

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because she was afraid of what his answer might be. It wasn’t just the words, but the fact that it was his uncle’s voice that she heard loud and clear that made her not speak about it. Instead, she turned to him and said, “I don’t want to miss my flight.” He nodded, unlocking the car doors to help her with her luggage. At the entrance, they stood facing one another, oblivious to the people hustling around them though they did get a couple of glares for standing in the way. “What happened?” He asked before she could walk away. “I…It was nothing.” “It wasn’t nothing. Why won’t you talk to me?” She shook her head, looking past him. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

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He sighed, letting it go when he realized she wasn’t going to say anything. “Call me when you land, yes?” “Okay.” He nodded and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to her lips, one that she hesitantly returned, hoping to quell the hurt she saw in his eyes and the fear she held in her heart. But as he turned away, donning his sunglasses and climbing back in his car, she felt they couldn’t be farther apart than they were in that moment.

Chapter Nineteen:

Home Sweet Home If there was one thing Lauren missed about home—besides Susan and Ross—was the quietness of her old neighborhood. Living in New York for the past five months, she had grown accustomed to the frantic pace of city life, the stench of exhaust, and the constant sounds of blaring horns, but it was nice to be able to listen to birds chirping, and inhale the aroma of cherry blossoms that were behind the house. Originally, coming to Michigan was meant to be a short vacation, just time to spend with her mom and Ross before the upcoming

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semester, but after the incident at breakfast, her time in Michigan felt more like an escape. She originally planned to stay for a week, but after calling off work—and agreeing to pick up her extra shifts when she got back—she was staying the rest of the break here. Their old house held too many bad memories for them to stay there. It took only about a month before she and Susan had moved to a much smaller home, a two-bedroom on the outskirts of town. It was pale blue, with a white wraparound porch, the paint peeling off the sides. The garage was behind the house and was used mostly for storage. It might have been tiny, but it was all they needed. Since she had been there, Lauren had caught up with Susan, spending hours talking about her business and Lauren’s life back in New York, though she avoided talking

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about Mishca and Susan didn’t bring him up. When she was around, Susan helped keep her mind off him, but after she had left about an hour ago to grab some supplies from the store, he was the first thing that came to mind. Lauren had called as promised, but since that one phone call a few days ago, she hadn’t heard from him or reached out to him since. Every time she tried to justify why she had remembered Viktor’s voice, the conclusion was always worse than the last. It had been well over a decade and rationally she knew she could have just placed a voice there, but it was hard trying to dispute her own memory. Maybe when she got back to New York, she might ask Mishca about what Viktor had said. For all she knew, it could have been a common saying in Russia, words offering good health and prosperity…but what if they weren’t?

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Since sitting around wasn’t helping, Lauren set off into the garage, searching for a box of her old things since the storage space in her bedroom now housed sewing machines and fabric. She spotted a few with her name on them on a top shelf in the far corner. Not finding a step stool, she stretched up to get them, her fingers just brushing the bottom. Making quick work of it, she inched them out one by one, setting them on the floor beside her. As she started on the last one, it was heavier than the rest, and as she was finally able to tip it into her arms, yelping as a smaller box on top tumbled down, barely missing her face. The contents spilled out, pictures, buttons, pens, and clothes. They were her father’s things. She recognized his Stanford sweater, as well as the leather bracelet that had Daddy spelled out in colorful beads.

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She crouched down next to all his old stuff, tears pooling in her eyes. Her hands trembled as she clutched the sweater to her chest. She burrowed her face in the oft fabric and when she closed her eyes, she could almost smell him, the warm, familiar scent bringing back flashes of memories. Placing it on top of one of the boxes, she began rooting through the rest of it, placing some items that she planned to take with the rest of her things. Lifting out another set of sweaters, a book toppled to the floor. It was actually a book upon closer inspection, but a leather bound journal. Lauren flipped through the pages, knowing that the hastily written words weren’t from her mother. Going back to the first page, she tried to read the doctor-style handwriting. 1992 August 5th Today, we brought Lauren home after two weeks in the hospital. Having her prematurely, Susan worried and often cried

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believing it was her fault though I tried to convince her otherwise. There were no lingering affects on the baby and when she was discharged Susan cried. Later that night, as my girls lay asleep, there was no father happier than me. Lauren opened her eyes, blinking up at me with all the wonder a newborn felt and the love I felt for her only grew. Though she was the splitting image of her mother, she had my eyes. Abandoning her search, Lauren took the journal back to her room, engulfing herself in her father’s thoughts. The entries chronicled years, the last entry falling on the day he died. She couldn’t bring herself to read that one, reading everything but. He was happy, at least that’s what she got from his writings, but after her fourth birthday, his writing style changed. It was like she could feel the despair in his words, an

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overwhelming sadness caused by his circumstances. 1996 June 21st I’ve been called back to work for the Boss and few things have changed over the years. I willingly accepted this way of life because I had no choice, but now with Lauren, I don’t know how much longer I can continue. “Is that your father’s journal?” Susan asked startling Lauren. She closed it, running her hand over the front of it. “Yea, I found it in the garage. You never told me he had it.” “It’s been years since I went through his thing. I’d forgotten it was out there.” Susan looked over to where her father’s sweater lay folded on her desk. The sight of it made her ache and Lauren almost felt guilty for not tucking it away. Just because she didn’t remember anything, didn’t mean her mom ever forgot.

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“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be home so soon.” “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m glad you found it, but maybe you’ll want to come down and help me cook, or was Thanksgiving a once in a lifetime event?” She laughed. “Sure, I’ll be right down.” In the kitchen, Lauren pulled out the pot, filing it with water before setting it on the burner. “Mom?” “Hmm?? “Did father enjoy being a surgeon?” “It was his life,” she said with a laugh. “He lived and breathed his work. Why?” Plucking one of the napkins from the holder in the center of the table, she folded and unfolded it, forming different shapes. “When I was reading his journal, it seemed like he grew tired of it. He said he was having problems with his boss.” The fork in Susan’s hands clatter on the countertop as she dropped it. She looked

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rattled momentarily. “Well, your father was a very private person, so he might not have told me everything.” “Yea, I guess.” “Oh, before I forget. Thomas called me. He wants to know if you want to have lunch with him tomorrow. He says you never answer your phone.” Lauren cursed softly, grabbing her bag to hunt for her phone and plug it into the charger. “I told him you have a habit of letting it die.” “Haha. Tell him yea for me. Have you two decided to get together yet?” “Lauren!” “What?” She asked throwing her hands up. “You act like no one else is thinking. I’ve been waiting on ‘the talk’ for years now. Nether of you wants to cop to it though.” For the first time in her life, she saw Susan blush. “Thomas and I are just friends.”

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She giggled. “Is that why you’re always so formal when it comes to him? Thomas this, Thomas that. When I was little, you used to call him Ross too. That’s how I got started with that. Or do you call him detective when I’m not around.” Lauren barely missed the dishtowel thrown at her. “What? What’d I say???” Susan stirred the pot of noodles, shaking her head. “Where did I go wrong with you?” “Do you remember that time in high school when I chopped off my hair trying to get that cool hairstyle everybody else had and I persuaded you to let me skip for a week?” She nodded. “I read every single romance book you had in the house. Seems all of them had a hot detective as the hero.” “There were only two.” “Like eight.” “Four.” “Definitely more than two then.”

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This time, Lauren didn’t bother ducking when another towel came at her. *** Later that night, when Lauren was fast asleep, Susan snuck into her room, taking the journal back to her office. Hitting the light switch to the overhead lamp that shined over her chair, she flipped through the book, running her fingers over the indentations in the pages lovingly, remembering how Cameron used to sit in his office for hours and write in it. She flipped to the last entry in the book, the night of his desk. The words on that page had haunted her. With all of his stuff packed away, she had forgotten all about it until today. It seemed, no matter how hard she tried to shield her from it, Lauren was uncovering a truth that Susan had tried to shield her from. Pinching the last page between her thumb and forefinger, she ripped it from the book,

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setting it in her dresser drawer. She didn’t delude herself into thinking that Lauren would find out the truth sooner or later, but she would protect her from it for as long as she could.

Chapter twenty:

The Old Diner Aunt Sally’s Diner was a hole in the wall in Lauren’s rural town, but it served some of the greatest burgers that he had ever tasted, even with all of the amazing restaurants in New York. It was just as lively as she remembered, the regulars seated in the cracked vinyl booths, the upgraded digital jukebox playing one of the newer pop songs Sally was so fond of. Ross and Lauren took up their regular booth by the windows, Ross on the right side so he had a clear view of the entrance. Always the cop even when he was off duty.

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They read over the menus out of habit rather than necessity, already knowing what they were going to order. Over the tope of her menu, Lauren spotted Christina, a girl she knew from high school, skating towards them, pulling out the familiar hot pink notepad to take their orders. She smiled warmly at Ross, her blonde ponytail swishing over her shoulder. “Hey Detective T, you want your regular?” He closed the menu, handing it over to her. “Sure, that’s fine.” Scribbling his order down, Christina prepared a smile for Lauren too, but it faltered once she recognized her. “Lauren Thompson, right? I haven’t seen you since graduation. How’ve you been?” “Good.” “I heard you moved up to New York? What’s it like up there?” “Busy,” she said. “How are you?”

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“You remember Justin Rogers?” She asked, her face practically glowing. Truthfully, Lauren hardly remembered anyone from high school, but she politely nodded anyway. “We got married this past October.” She flashed a small diamond ring, but from the way she was bursting with happiness, it didn’t matter the size of it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you,” she said and actually meant it. After a bit more small talk and catching up, Christina skated away to put their orders in. Reaching for her water, Ross snagged her wrist, whistling at the sight of her bracelet. “Christmas present?” He asked with a knowing smile. “My mom told you?” “She might’ve mentioned a new boyfriend, but I was waiting for you to tell me about him” Ross said taking a sip of his coffee.

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Before she might have been embarrassed but giddy, willing to tell him all about Mishca, but she couldn’t, not now, not when she wasn’t sure where they stood. She shrugged. “He’s just a guy I met.” “A guy? How old is he?” “Twenty-four.” He hmphed, looking disapproving. “Isn’t he a little old for you?” “Don’t go into father mode, Ross. Four years isn’t that big of a difference.” “Uh huh and what does he do?” She winced, knowing he wasn’t going to like her answer. “He owns a club. In his defense,” she went on before he could interject, “it’s a very nice club.” “Not a strip club?” She laughed. “No, not a strip club.” “Went to school?” “Graduated.” “Kids?” “I don’t think so.”

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“Any sisters?” “One, her name is Alex.” Ross slid his cup to the side as Christina appeared, refilling it. “Can always judge a man by how he treats his sister.” “Then he’s a great guy,” she said though her voice sounded sad even to her. Changing the subject, she said, “I found some of my dad’s old things the other day. I was thinking maybe I can take a look at his case files.” It had occurred to her that she might have seen the words in the files from the days she went down to the precinct, and since she couldn’t pronounce them then, her subconscious had attached Viktor’s voice to them. He frowned, giving her the cop stare. As a child, it intimidated her enough to make her follow his every word, but now it just made her smile. “Why would you want to do that?” Thankfully, she was given a moment to think of a proper response that might sway

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him when Christina arrived with their food and a refill on Ross’ tea. “It couldn’t hurt, right?” She asked. “You know, a fresh pair of eyes might help.” That elicited a chuckle out of him. “You’re not a cop, Lauren, and you haven’t said anything about trying to become one.” “I wanted to read through them. I was only five when it happened and I think I’m old enough now to understand whatever’s in there.” She looked down at her plate, pushing the eggs around with her fork as she waited for the verdict. Could she move on from this if he didn’t hand them over? She was plotting out ways to convince him when he finally sighed and said, “Why not. When are you headed home?” “The day after tomorrow.” “Alright, I’ll make you a deal. Since I’m going to be in New York for a case for the next couple of weeks, that should give you plenty

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of time to look at it all, but when I come back, so does the case.” “That’ll work.” He grumbled something intelligible, clearly not liking the idea at all, but she launched into conversation about her classes, not wanting to give him the opportunity to change his mind. *** In one of the giant oak trees across the street from Aunt Sally’s diner, a lanky man with mousy brown hair and a mouth full of yellowing, crooked teeth sat on one of the thicker tree branches, concealed behind browning leaves that still clung it. Anyone passing beneath would not be able to detect him, he was especially gifted in his craft. He could see everything around him clearly with the help of his digital camera, a special long range lens attached to the front of it. As he aimed the camera, adjusting the

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lens to focus the picture, he snapped photos of the girl with the cop. He had been assigned surveillance over her and hadn’t been expecting anything substantial to come from it. Like many cases of his trailing young girls, he anticipated catching her partying with friends or sleeping around. But this? This was bigger than anything he had come across before. He dug out the burner phone from his pocket, cursing as he nearly dropped the tiny electronic device, it nearly slipping through his numb fingers. Getting a firm grip on the phone, he dialed one for his boss, listening to it ring for ages before it finally connected, the man on the other line staying silent, just the steady sound of his breathing carrying over. The photographer didn’t waste any time. “We have a problem.” ***

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“You’re not serious. Are you crying mom?” Lauren asked as she stood next to Ross’ car, giving him a look over her mom’s shoulders. She might have felt bad, but as Susan drew away, wiping the telltale wetness from her cheeks, she couldn’t help but laugh a little at her expense. “It feels like I’m losing you all over again.” “I’ll be back in a few months for the summer. One day you might actually let me out of the nest fully instead of teetering on the edge." Susan had bee teary-eyed all day, running around the house like a mad woman as she prepared a care package for Lauren to take with her. She now had enough toilet paper to last her a few months. Since Susan had been spending her days watching the Walking Dead, she bought it was best to prepare for the Apocalypse early. Why that meant she

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bought out the local grocery store of toilet tissue, Lauren didn’t know. There were a few more boxes full of her old clothes, her father’s things, and school supplies for the upcoming semester. It all fit into the back of Ross’ car and she was happy he happened to be heading up there this weekend because if he hadn’t, most of this stuff would have been left since the fees at the airport would have been unreal. Susan pulled Lauren into another hug, squeezing tightly. “Please be careful,” she whispered. “Always.” “Have a safe trip you two. Call me when you get there.” Waving goodbye one last time, they drove off. “You know,” Lauren said a few hours into their trip. “I have my license if you want to take a break.”

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“Do you remember the last time I let you drive?” Ross asked glancing over at her. She knew exactly where he was going with this. “I was like fifteen and had just gotten my learner’s permit! You can’t still think I’m that bad.” “You ran us off the road on a deserted street,” he remarked dryly. “And before you say it, no. I don’t remember the fictional squirrel that you saw.” Needless to say, Lauren didn’t get to drive at all. She stayed up though, keeping the conversation going. It had been a long time since they had talked about him and what he was planning to do next year. He had been thinking about retiring from the force for some time, but old habits died hard and he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “What are you going to do once you retire? Buy a boat?” “I just might,” he said with a smile. “Take it out on the weekends and go fishing.”

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“Mom loves fishing.” She had no idea whether or not Susan could fish. “You could take her out with you. I’m just saying the two of you together—” Ross turned up the radio. *** Helping her carry her suitcases up, they had to make another trip just to carry up the case files. “I think that’s the last of it.” “What hotel are you staying in?” Lauren asked sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. “It’s not far from here, just on the other side of the bridge.” “You never did tell me what case you were working,” Lauren said as they walked back down. “You know I can’t discuss an—” “Ongoing investigation, yep, I know.” He chuckled. “Taught you well. Alright, well I better get going and get checked in.” “Thanks again, Ross.”

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He went all gruff when she went ion to hug him, patting her back awkwardly. “Don’t get into any trouble. I hope you find what you’re looking for in those files.” “I’ll see you soon.” She headed back inside maneuvering around the packs of tissue in the living room. She was too eager to go through the boxes to figure out where to store them all. Lauren thought she heard Amber’s bedroom door open as she entered her own. “What’s with all the toilet paper?” Amber called as Lauren was closing the door. “It’s a long story,” she called back. “Promise to tell you later.” The boxes resting in the middle of her bed were like a beacon calling to her, but it was the unknown inside of that made her nervous. Within them laid the answers to all her questions. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the first lid, discarding it next to the bed. Hundreds

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of documents were inside, not in any particular order. She began painstakingly going over each piece, sorting out sections for those that corresponded. It looked like she was in the middle of an intense study session with all the papers scattered around her. On top of her desk, there were files on her dad’s life insurance policy and the notes the officers had taken on them. Early in the investigation, the police had assumed Susan was behind the break-in, trying to make it look like a robbery so she could cash in on the life insurance. They quickly abandoned that theory when the evidence didn’t suggest that. But what was curious was the conflicting documents. In the file she found in the box from the garage, the life insurance was only two million dollars, but the policy found in the police file was well over triple that amount.

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She wanted to believe it was a typing error, but then again, it would be able to explain how she could afford NYU and pay for her apartment without any assistance. In front of her were the witness statements, at least half a dozen that didn’t really provide any useful information. From what Lauren could piece together in her mind, the men had come and gone in less than ten minutes so she wasn’t very surprised at the lack of anything useful. Surprisingly though, there were no crime scene photos at all in any of the boxes, Ross probably have taken them out. Even going through each piece, there was nothing tying her father’s case to Mishca’s family at all besides what she had heard that night. A part of her was relieved by the fact, but another part wasn’t very to give up her suspicions. It seemed, even after going through it from top to bottom, he was still no

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close to finding her father’s killers than she was before. In the past she had given up, but now, she was too determined to stop.

Chapter twenty-One:

Ross There were very few things in the world that Detective Thomas Ross cared about. The first was his job. Working his way from patrol officer to homicide detective, Ross had worked the latter for the last fifteen years. He was a decorated detective and had earned commendations for his service with the Michigan Police Department. That came second to his family though. His sister Marie and his nephew Jonathan meant everything to him, but even his sister believed that his real love was for Susan and

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Lauren. Without a wife and child of his own, he was practically married to the force, until he met them. He still remembered his first case as a homicide detective, perhaps all first cases were sentimental that way… Detective Ross was seated at his new desk, sipping two day old coffee as he unpacked the cardboard box that housed the items that would be decorating his desk. A couple of pictures, one of his sister and nephew, another of his parents, the edges of it frayed and darkened from age. He was just arranging him when he got the call. A possible 187. He and his partner at the time, Detective Louise Mitchell, took a car over to 415 83rd St. N., home of Dr. Cameron Thompson and his wife, Susan, where three squad cars were already waiting outside, lights flashing and sirens blaring, attracting the attention of the neighbors who were gathered around outside

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the yellow CAUTION tape, trying to figure out what was going on. They gave a cool nod to the officer that was keeping everyone back, slipping under the tape and entering the house Ross spotted the body immediately, the crumpled form already in rigor as the medical examiner performed a cursory once over of the body, listing his finds to the surrounding officers. He scrubbed a hand down his face, turning away from the grizzly sight, breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth. There was nothing that could truly prepare you for the smell of decamp. While the good doctor was still relatively fresh, the scent of death still hung heavily in the air. Ross wouldn’t vomit, though to be fair, none of the other officers around him would not have minded. It was his first case after all and the rookies always lost it when they got their first victim. As a patrol officer, he had

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never had the misfortune of seeing a dead body. In fact, the doctor’s murder was the first of its kind in their sleepy little town. It might explain why there was such a crowd. Mitchell patted his shoulder, crouching down beside the medical examiner. “What do we got?” “Three GSWs to the chest. Looks like one lodged in his heart, he was dead before he hit the ground.” Ross cleared his throat, wiping away the sweat dotting his upper lip. He needed to get it together. “Who called it in?” One of the uniforms to his right spoke up, flipping through his notepad. “A woman next door, Tammy Morgans. Called around 7:15 pm, said she thought she heard gunshots, but her hearing isn’t what it used to be.” Ross nodded. “Alright, canvas the area. See who else knows something.” “What’s happening!”

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Ross spun around as a screaming woman came running towards the house, but the officer behind the tape grabbed her before she could make it far. She was petite, no more than five-four, a buck ten max, with shoulder length light brown hair that was in disarray as she fought to get past the officer. Though she was tiny, she was putting up a hell of a fight. It was Susan. He recognized her, often seeing her around town shopping with her daughter. Ross stepped out of the house, waving to the officers to let her through. There was no easy way to tell her what had happened to her husband. She looked grateful as she rushed over to him, clutching the strap of her purse tightly. “Where’s Cameron? Is he okay? Is Lauren okay?” Her questions came out rapidly, one after the other, but the last snagged his attention. “Your daughter isn’t with you?”

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Her face blanched as she ran for the house, dropping her bags in the grass. “Lauren? Lauren!” Ross rushed back in the house, barking orders to the other officers. “There’s a missing girl. Get a recent picture from Susan and put out an Amber Alert now!” The room erupted into chaos as the situation turned from bad to worse. No one wanted to acknowledge that hours had passed before they even realized that Lauren might have been in danger. A sudden noise from the closet made everyone freeze where they were. Slowly, the officers drew their sidearms, the medical examiner helped moved the body away from the door, moving out of the way as Ross crept towards the door, signaling the men to wait for his mark. He held up his hand, slowly counting down to one before wrenching the door

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open, preparing to raise his gun, but there was no need. On the other side was a little girl in pajamas, clutching a bloody blanket. Dried blood coated her hands, bloody fingerprints covering her face where she must have rubbed her tears away. It was even soaked into her pants where the blood had seeped beneath the crack in the door. Ross holstered his gun, crouching down so he was eye level with her. Her hazel eyes were watery and he could only imagine the horror she must have witnessed in the closet. Christ, how long has she been in there? “It’s okay,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice gentle. “You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you.” With a bit more coaxing, she finally crawled out to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his shoulders. He held her tightly to his chest, not caring about the blood that was getting on his

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clothes. It wasn’t important, suits were replaceable. He shielded her gaze from her father being zipped into the black body bag. When it was time to hand her over to her mother, he wished he could hold onto her, wanting to keep the horror of this day away for a little while longer. They never did learn how long she had been in the closet, nor did they ever get a physical description of the perps. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help, Lauren couldn’t remember a thing about the day. Doctors thought that because the event was so traumatic, she had blocked it out. They couldn’t help and though psychiatrists thought by putting her under hypnosis, she might be able to reveal any facts, Susan had disagreed, arguing that if Lauren didn’t remember her father being murdered, she wasn’t going to force her to. The psychiatrists, however, did say that one day her memories would return, maybe

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when she was ready to deal with it, or if she experienced a trigger, but until then, there was nothing anyone could do. Over the years—and dozens of suspects later—they weren’t any closer to finding the men that did it, so the case had been deemed officially cold, the box placed in a room full of other cases that had been forgotten about until some new piece of evidence was presented. It was one of the few cases that stuck with Ross. Though Lauren had moved on—as much as one could and was now off at college enjoying her life, he still felt like he had failed her. It was why he looked after her, even when people thought that he was getting too close to them. But how could he not? He liked to think that he was the first kind face that she had seen after that ordeal, and she treated him as such. He’d tried keeping his distance, treating them like any other family of a victim,

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but Lauren often called just to see how he was doing, whether he was catching any bad guys, and over the years, it seemed that their relationship had only solidified. He never knew how exactly to describe it. Ross could never be her father, he never deluded himself into thinking he could be, but he looked out for her like one, and he loved her like she was his own. Susan didn’t mind, often encouraging him to spend more time with her. She thought of him as a good influence. His love for them was why when Lauren asked him for the files on her father, he had been reluctant at first. Some people believed that they were ready to know all of the details of a horrific crime, but even the most experienced of detectives couldn’t handle full details. Eventually, he handed them over, deciding that she was old enough now to face what she would find inside, but, he removed the pictures of the crime scene.

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Since he was only in New York for a few days, two weeks at the most, he didn’t see the harm in letting her have a look, thinking that she wouldn’t have enough time to get through it all. He was busy assisting on a case with the NYPD, a homicide that bared an eerie resemblance to a case he worked a few years back. He and a Detective Marco Rodriguez—a Puerto Rican homicide detective that looked like he was fresh out of the academy—were going to question a potential lead today, but instead of bringing the suspect down to the precinct, they were going to talk at hi house. Now Ross found that rather odd, since e was used to hauling people in the old fashioned way, but as Rodriguez had explained it, they had to treat this delicately, the man they were going to question a big name in Brighton Beach. Rodriguez also hoped that

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they might find something incriminating laying around. Rodriguez whittled as he parked the car, stepping out to survey their surroundings. The grounds were just as impressive as the mansion itself, but Ross wasn’t moved by any of it. There were things that money couldn’t buy. Rodriguez rang the door bell, taking a step back. As they were pulling up the driveway, he had warned Ross that Mikhail Volkov and his associates had suspected mob ties. Though there had been allegations against Mikhail, and his brother Viktor, for various charges including money laundering and racketeering, the prosecutor never had enough to indict. Even the feds were trying to bring these guys down, but they seemed untouchable. If there was a witness meant to testify, they disappeared, never to be heard from again,

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and because of their former life in Russia, many of the immigrants that called Brighton Beach a home didn’t trust law enforcement to do anything. But Ross liked to believe that everyone slipped up. It was in their nature. An elderly woman dressed in a maid’s uniform let them in after viewing their credentials, guiding them through the house until they reached an office where a man and woman were waiting. Ross recognized Mikhail from the surveillance photos shown back at the precinct. Now Ross wasn’t a small guy. He was about six foot, two hundred pounds—mostly muscle—and only forty-three years old, but Mikhail was ten years his senior, maybe an inch or two shorter, plus fifty pounds. He was like a bulldog to Ross’ Shepard. “Ah, detectives,” Mikhail spoke in a heavy accent, making it difficult for Ross to understand him.

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The most exotic accent he had ever heard was a teenage girl from a rural part of southern Alabama. “Welcome to my home.” Rodriguez extended his hand. “Mr. Volkov, I’m Detective Marco Rodriguez, this is my associate Detective Thomas Ross. Thank you for seeing us. We just have a few questions.” “Certainly. Anya, would you excuse us?” The leggy blonde to his right touched his shoulder affectionately, the sauntered out of the office, but not before she looked Ross over, her eyes snapping like green fire. “Please,” Mikhail said directing them to the stuffed, leather chairs.”Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?” They both declined, perching on the very edge of their respective chairs. Rodriguez wasted not time, pulling out his pad and firing off questions. Ross took the time to take in the room: twin bookcases, a mountain of a

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desk, and miniature statues on a mantel above the hearth. There was a cup full of an assortment of pens and pencils, a frosted glass paper weight, and a manilla folder partially hidden beneath a stack of papers. He had a gut feeling—and his gut was never wrong—that it was something of importance, but without a search warrant, he doubted Mikhail would willingly show it to them. Ross was just tuning into the last of the conversation when there was a knock, and the door was pushed open by a slimmer and much younger version of Mikhail. “I didn’t realize you had company,” the boy said preparing to step back out. “Nonsense, Mishca. Come in. This is Detective Rodriguez and Detective Ross. Gentlemen, this is my son Mishca.” He nodded at them and twenty years of police work told Ross that this boy was no innocent. In the few cases of organized crime

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that Ross had come across before they were handed over to the feds, the families of the accused claimed they had known nothing about their loved one’s work, but this one? He knew. Hell, he didn’t even ask why the detectives were there. That was his first mistake. Ross would bet his badge that Mishca was a part of the Russian mob that Mikhail was tied to. “Did you need something, Mishca?” He glanced at them again, then back to his father. “I’m going back into the city.” Ross was standing with Rodriguez when Mikhail’s next words stopped him cold. “Oh, is Lauren back from Michigan?” “She—” “Thompson? Lauren Thompson?” Thomas had to ask, not that he’d been expecting an affirmative. What were the odds? Thompson was a common enough last name, and there was nothing that was particularly special

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about her name, but Ross didn’t believe in coincidences. “You know her?” Mikhail sounded just a bit too disbelieving. Ross narrowed his eyes on the men. He was good at reading people and knew without a doubt that Mikhail had set this up. He had to have known of Ross’ relationship with Lauren, why else would he even bring her up? Whereas the boy looked mildly shocked, Mikhail seemed to find the entire situation amusing. “Lauren is a long way from home, is she not?” Mikhail commented thoughtfully as he went over to an antique whiskey service, outing himself a drink. Already on edge, Ross tensed. “Is that a threat?” “Thomas!” Rodriguez hissed, but Ross was too focused on the man before him to heed the other detective’s warning.

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“It is no threat,” Mikhail said shrugging, finishing off a tumbler of dark liquid. “It is merely an observation.” Observation his ass. “I believe it would be best if your son stayed away from Lauren until this investigation is over.” This time it wasn’t Mikhail who spoke up. “I’m not under investigation, detective,” Mishca said sizing him up with cold blue eyes. “And I don’t do well with orders.” He bit out some words in his language—no doubt unsavory ones—before Mikhail put an end to it. “Enough, Mishca The detectives were just leaving, and should you gentlemen have any more questions for me, please contact my attorney.” Ross was fuming as they left the mansion and slid into the car, already pulling out his phone to call Lauren, but Rodriguez snatched it from his hand, not waiting to lay in on him.

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“What the hell is your problem, Ross? Do you know who you’re up against?” “I need to get back,” he said, fastening his seatbelt, grabbing for his phone. “Who is Lauren Thompson anyway?” “My…daughter. She’s my daughter.”

Chapter twenty-Two:

Choices Mishca walked out of the bathroom, the light on his cell phone dimming as he crossed the room, rubbing the towel through his hair. He was exhausted, spending his last two weeks at the manor working on deals, making sure his men were putting in their work in his absence. Vlad had gone back to Manhattan early, giving orders in his place and Mishca was glad of it. His mind had been on Lauren’s speedy exit, the way she had freaked out at breakfast and he couldn’t understand why. She never explained to him what had happened, so he

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was unable to give anyone else an answer when they asked. The drive back from the airport had been long and the way she looked at him before entering the airport…he thought he saw fear. But what reason did she have to fear him? The only reason he could think of was the toast. Suzhenogo konyom ne Ob’edyesh. In the simplest terms, it meant a person couldn’t fight fate. It was Viktor’s calling card and e said it so often that he was known by it in their circles. It was rumored that he said it before each of his kills, but Mishca had never been around to hear it. Dressing, he packed the last of his items, carrying them out to his car. Vlad was there, smoking a cigarette as he normally did almost every hour on the hour. Mishca spotted a car in the driveway, but paid it no mind as he stood next to his enforcer. “Does that help?” He asked gesturing at the cigarette in his hand.

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“It does what it is meant to. Are you still troubled?” Vlad knew him better than anyone and even if Mishca brooded silently, he could always tell when his Captain was upset. “Why haven’t you taken a wife or even a companion? I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen you with a woman.” “Women are complicated creatures. Not many are willing to accept this life. Your mother was rare.” He nodded. “But she wasn’t happy. I could tell.” “There is one big difference between her and your Lauren.” Mishca looked to Vlad, waiting for his explanation. Dropping his cigarette, he ground it out with the toe of his boot, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “You are not your father.” Clapping him on the back, Mishca understood. “Give me a minute.”

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Heading back in the house, Mishca turned down the hallway, heading towards his father’s office, smiling at the portrait of his mother. He stopped just a few feet away. Anya paced the marble floors, her heels clicking every few seconds, adding to Mishca’s irritation. He rarely saw her when he came here, her time spent mostly with Mikhail and if she had the spare second away from the mundane shit she thought was important, she was with Alex. “What are you doing?” He asked. She made an irritated noise, coming over to whisper to him, “There are detectives here questioning Mikhail.” That was…surprising. It had been a while since their last infraction had found it’s way to law enforcement. There was never enough of their crimes to link back to them. “Oh? What did they say?”

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She gave him a look that said she thought he was an idiot. “Mikhail made me leave. If you go in there, you can find out.” “I’m sure my father is fully capable of taking care of himself.” “It’s not like you have anything better to do. Alex tells me your precious Lauren isn’t speaking to you.” She smiled coyly. “I wonder why that is.” Mishca’s hand twitched. There had been many an occasion when he wanted to choke the life out of the woman in front of him, but he had refrained, not because of his father—he would just replace her—but because of Alex. Though Anya was a royal bitch and cared about no one but herself, Alex loved her mother unconditionally. And she would never forgive him if he killed her. Brushing by her, he knocked once on his father’s door before pushing it open.

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The two men inside screamed cop. Not only because of the way they dressed, but the way one of them scanned the room, not in an appraising way, but searching for any evidence to help his case. Like he would have found it anyway. “I didn’t realize you had company,” Mishca said easily, ready to walk back out if his father commanded it. “Nonsense, Mishca. Come in. This is Detective Rodriguez and Detective Ross.” He inclined his head, already dismissing them as another couple of cops hoping to up their rank by taking on his family. They weren’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last. Why the hell had Anya sent him in here? His father didn’t look worried so the investigation—or why ever the men were there—wasn’t progressing and they had no evidence because if they had, SWAT would have swarmed this place.

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For a women used to their way of life, Anya was panicking for no apparent reason. “I’m going back into the city.” He’d made that decision a moment ago, an excuse for why he was interrupting their meeting, but while he was there, he could stop by Lauren’s apartment and see if she was back yet. It couldn’t hurt. “Oh, is Lauren back from Michigan?” “She—” “Thompson? Lauren Thompson?” The cop asked with an edge to his voice. Mishca looked at him in surprise, wondering how he could possibly know her. He doubted Mikhail would have kept that from him if he was aware. Ross, he thought, finally putting the pieces together. He vaguely remembered Lauren mentioning someone by that name. Of course she hadn’t mentioned him beaching a

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cop because she had no reason to confide that. “You know her?” Mikhail asked. Okay, it did seem as though Mikhail knew about Lauren’s relationship with the detective, but why not mention it before now? Detective Ross turned murderous eyes on Mishca, the look he had grown accustomed to over the years, but he had more important things to worry about than if the man liked him or not. This was why Mikhail had wanted him to check her out. Although he doubted she was working secretly for the feds, if this—whatever this was—turned into something more, she had the potential to do damage. There wan’t anything damaging she could say, but it was the omissions that might potentially hurt them. If they asked her about the Thursdays he spent in meetings, or who she had seen around, it would be enough to launch an

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investigation that would only agitate his father. And if Mikhail were agitated, people died. “I believe it would be best if your son stayed away from Lauren until this investigation is over.” Mishca bristled at the authority the man thought he commanded over him. “I’m not under investigation, detective,” Mishca said looking him over, letting the man know he didn’t intimidate him in the least. He was already on the razor’s edge with everything going on with Lauren, and he didn’t have time for a small town cop to fuck with him. Once they were gone, Mishca shoved a hand through his hair, preparing himself for the backlash from his father. “You do know what this means, yes?” Mikhail asked when they were alone again. His heart began beating faster, his mind already going to worst possible outcome

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there was. This was no longer about his relationship with her, but about his position in the Bratva and what he would do to protect it. “She is not a threat, Pakhan. She told me about the detective.” In part. “Anya, she tells me that you do not think clearly when it comes to this girl, that you are letting your emotions lead you.” Mikhail showed him another set of surveillance photos, these of Lauren in a diner with the detective. They were shot far off, but he could see that she was happy. “Do you know what these tell me, Mishca?” He asked tapping the stack. “It tells me that Anya may not be wrong.” “Allow me to talk with her first,” he said as close to begging as he could get. “I will see what she knows.” “Not only that, but you will sever all contact with this girl. I was willing to accept her because of her father and because you cared

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for her, but no longer. This ends tonight. Eto moy prekaiz.” He couldn’t argue, knowing that was the best offer he was going to get and if he had to never see her again for her to live, he would grudgingly accept it. Mikhail stood. “I believe we should handle this now.” Time was up.

Chapter twenty-Three:

Scathing Breakups and Cold Facts Lauren could count on one hand the number of times Ross was upset with her to the point that he started yelling. Once when she was twelve and went down to the lake by herself in the middle of the night, making her mom panic so bad that she called the police station in a panic, launching a search party that consisted of nearly the entire town. Another, when she skipped in

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high school and just happened to end up at the same diner Ross was having coffee in. But those times were nothing like the anger pulsating out of Ross now. When she’d heard the persistent banging at the front door, she thought to ignore it at first, knowing that no one she knew would be keeping up this kind of noise in the middle of the night, but Ross yelled her name from the other side, making her feel like a child in trouble though she had no idea what she had done. He stormed inside, his face red, his eyes bulging as he spun on her. “Have you lost your mind?” Taken aback, she shook her head, closing the door behind him. “What did I do?” “Mishca Volkov!” The way he said it, like the name in itself was a curse made her shrink back from his fury, but not in fear.

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“How do you know, Mish?” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?” That seemed to only make him angrier. “This is not a joke, young lady. Do you have any idea who you’re involved with? Who his father is?” Ross sank down on the couch, the structure inside it creaking with his weight, rubbing his temples in agitated circles. “What are you talking about?” She asked, going over to sit across from him, drawing her knees up to her chest. He sighed heavily, turning to face her. He looked so conflicted that she no longer thought this was just some ploy to learn more about the boy she was dating. Flipping open the folder he dropped on the table, he gestured towards it with a nod of his head. “What do you know of the Vory v Zakone?”

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She looked to him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Vor—what? The what now?” “It’s Russian for thieves-in-law. The Russian Mob.” Lauren peered down at the contents of the folder, flipping through several photographs. Some were grainy, in black and white, and the subject clearly didn’t know they were being shot. And the subject of most just happened to be Mikhail Volkov. He was normally surrounded by rough looking men in black suits, always standing with their legs braced apart, hands folded in front of them. There was always two of them that seemed to stand guard near Mikhail, but she didn’t remember seeing them at dinner. But her hand froze in mid-air as she got to the last dozen or so. These were all of Mishca. She looked back at Ross. “I don’t understand.”

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“Mishca and his father are Russian Mob.” There came a time when certain suspicions made sense. Did she actually think that this was the result of them? Absolutely not, but…it made sense. Vlad, his cryptic phone calls, the meetings every Thursday. “That’s not possible,” she whispered, but a part of her knew that Ross was telling the truth. What reason did he have to lie? “How do you know? And don’t give me anything circumstantial.” He glanced at her, but there did seem to be a spark of humor in his eyes. “Glad I taught you something.” He spread the photos out on the table, pointing at the various tattoos the men wore. “The tattoos on their bodies,” he explained, “are like their life stories. See this one?” He pointed to one where the man’s back was to the camera. “Each of these—well, whatever these tower thing is called,”—she smiled at

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that— “Each one represents a number of years they spent on the Russian gulag—jails.” He showed her another and the familiarity of it made her breath catch. She reached for it, counting each point just to be sure, not wanting to believe it. “The stars, they mean the wearer is a Captain, one of the highest ranks you can receive.” Ross could read her easily and no matter how hard she tried to disguise her reaction, he knew she had seen them before. “Jesus, Lauren. Do you even know what you’ve gotten involved in?” “I…” She shook her head, wining that she had a better answer for him. “I didn’t know.” “How could you not know?” Ross asked losing his temper. “Haven’t I taught you anything?” “It’s not my fault!” She exclaimed dropping the picture on top of one of Mishca. “I don’t remember any lessons on checking tattoos for hidden meanings.”

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“How did you meet him?” “We just met one day…” He narrowed his eyes on her, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Lauren Delilah Thompson, were you involved in anything illegal. You tell me right now or so help me God, I’ll—” “It was coffee,” she said barely above a whisper. “We met at a stupid cafe…It just happened.” “Doesn’t matter, you—” Someone was buzzing the apartment. Ross withdrew his firearm, laying a restraining hand on her arm before she could move, walking over to peer out the windows. “Don’t see their cars. Go ahead.” She hit the button. “Yes?” “This is Detective Rodriguez, New York police department, I’m looking for Lauren Thompson.” Lauren looked back at Ross for confirmation before buzzing the detective up. She

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began nibbling on her thumbnail, pacing the center of the floor. By the time there was a sharp rap at the door, she was on another nail. Ross looked through the peephole before sheathing his weapon, swinging the door open. The detective looked taken aback to see Ross standing there, but as he entered the apartment, his gaze sweeping over the place until they rested on the photos scattered on the coffee table, he grew outraged. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t show her those?” He scrambled over to stuff them back in the folder, tucking them beneath his arm, like that could help at this point. They were burned into her mind now. “She’s in danger now!” Ross yelled, slamming the door shut. “They know about our relationship.”

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Detective Rodriguez’s mouth set in a firm line. “You’re still a cop. You could be compromising the investigation.” “She’s my top priority right now,” Ross replied. “Do you even know if they followed you over here?” He asked in a calmer tone, trying to get Ross to see reason. “I doubt she knows anything, but you rushing over here might make them think she does.” Detective Rodriguez looked away from Ross, coming over to Lauren who’s was just standing there wishing that this was all some sort of joke. “Lauren, I presume? I’m Detective Rodriguez.” She shook his hand, eyeing him warily. He had that look that Ross used to wear when he came by to discuss her father’s case, like he knew something that might hurt her. “I need you to tell me anything you know about the Volkovs.”

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“I told you,” Ross interjected. “She doesn’t know anything.” He still didn’t look satisfied. “I don’t. I only ever met Mishca’s father over the break.” “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary? Did they do anything? You know as well as I do,” he said to Ross when he made to protest, “that they won’t take any chances if there is even the slightest possibility that she can incriminate one of them.” She shook her head, but she did remember the cryptic conversation between Viktor and Mikhail in the hallway before Mishca pulled her away. “I have to call this in.” “You can’t. They even catch wind that she might have talked to you, that’s it for her and I can’t let that happen. It doesn’t make a difference what she tells me, I have no jurisdiction here.”

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They talked, the words flying right over Lauren’s head as she sank down on the couch, dropping her head in her hands. Never could she have imagined this turn of events. She didn’t realize she was shaking until Ross crouched in front of her, rubbing her arms up and down. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I won’t let it.” *** It was only minutes after they left that there was another knock at the door. Since the buzzer hadn’t went off, she assumed they had come back because they had forgotten something, but Mishca stood on the other side. In hindsight, she could definitely see the ‘mob’ aspect in the way he carried himself. Always dressed impressively. No nonsense attitude. The formidable bodyguard that even now was standing off to the side. Mishca didn’t have any tattoos on his hands,

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or any that were visible unless he was in short-sleeves, but on Vlad, there were more than she had ever noticed before. Play it cool. That was the trick to make sure they wouldn’t suspect anything. She stepped to the side, not trusting her voice in the moment. He swept past her, but Vlad stayed motionless in the hallway. “I didn’t know you were home,” Mishca started, not bothering to sit at all. “Until Thomas Ross came by the manor earlier.” The gun tucked into the waistband of her jeans seemed to heat up as she took a cautious step back. Ross had given it to her before he left, making her promise that she would use it if she needed to. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but he looked down before she could properly read it. Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he opened it, spinning in a slow circle for her to see.

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“I can tell from your face that you’ve already spoken to him. I’m not here to hurt you.” “It’s not true,” she said after some time, her voice cracking. “Mish, say it isn’t true.” “That’s not why I’m here.” Mishca was not one to shy away from a question, this much Lauren knew, at least until she thought about the questions she had asked him that inadvertently dealt with his family. “Then what do you want if you’re not here to silence me?” He flinched like she had struck him, but he almost seemed angry at her. “I don’t know what you think you know, but I don’t want you to do something that you’ll regret.” “Okay.” What more could she say to that? He watched her. She watched him. Neither willing to confess to what they knew. A hard knock at the door startled her. Vlad pushed the door open.

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“Rebecca is waiting for you in the car.” Lauren choked, shooting an accusing look in Mishca’s direction. “Rebecca? One night stand, Rebecca?” He looked at her, unwavering, and shrugged. “You and I aren’t working.” It was the right thing to do, end things now before it was too late for her, but that didn’t stop his words from cutting through her. “Why are you doing this?” She asked helplessly, not knowing whether she was asking why he was breaking up with her or why he was with Rebecca. Either way, she wanted an answer. “It’s the only way,” he whispered trying to convey a deeper meaning that she just wasn’t getting. “Fine. It’s over.” “Lauren—”

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“I never knew you,” she said cutting him off. “I doubt anything you’ve ever told me was true anyway.” He seemed momentarily taken aback by her words, like he had been expecting her to protest, but she needed him to know that, although what she had said was how she felt, she was also telling him that she wouldn’t speak of what she knew to anyone. After several seconds, he nodded, seeming irritated but accepting of her words. Even as she watched him walk out the door, she hoped that he would turn back. This, all of it, was turning into a clusterfuck that she had no idea how it was going to play out. *** Mishca stood in the hall, staring at the closed apartment door. He almost wished he had done this months ago, before they had meant anything to each other. Seeing the fear in her eyes made his heart constrict and

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he wanted to fix this, but he had to push her away. Orders were orders. There were oaths he’d taken, rules he had followed all of his life, but the look of sheer agony resonated in his mind, fueling his agitation. For a split second, he wanted to say fuck it all. Fuck the oath. Fuck his father. But then, he thought of her and the realities of the situation he was in. It was too complicated, too messy. He lived and breathed the code, disobeying meant sure death for him and her. She didn’t belong in this life of chaos. Slamming his fist into the wall, he cursed his situation—and the now gaping hole in the wall. Vlad looked on without comment, but Mishca thought, for the first time in the last five years since Vlad worked for him, he saw sympathy in the older man’s eyes.

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Taking one final look at the door, Mishca left the building without further incident, slipping into his father’s Rolls Royce. Mikhail was gazing out the window when he rejoined him. With a wave of his hand, the driver pulled them out into the night traffic. “I know you do not agree, son,” Mikhail said after a short while. “The Bratva is your first priority. Never forget that. These feelings you believe you have will fade with time.” Mishca scoffed. Later, Mishca might look back on this and think that the pain from his hand had made him bold as he glared at his father, resenting him for the life they shared. “Is that how it was with my mother? Did you forget her when you married your whore?” Never before had he doubted an order he’d been given. Never before had he blatantly disrespected the Pakhan, but he was pissed.

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Mikhail turned cold eyes on him, his face just as emotionless as always, though there was a flare of anger in hi eyes. “Watch your mouth, boy. Once is forgiven.” They rode in silence, the numerous traffic lights blurring together. “Do you trust the girl?” Mikhail asked. Mishca thought of their time together. “With my life.” “Then give it time.” Not knowing what he meant, or how to respond, Mishca just returned to looking out the window.

Chapter twenty-Four:

Fear Lauren followed Ross downstairs, helping to carry one of the boxes filled with the information on her father. For days she had poured over the case, rereading every detail until her eyes blurred with fatigue. Ross was heading back to Michigan after his short stay, and though he was still worried about Mishca coming near her, she had assured him that she wasn’t worried about. With their agreement in place, she doubted Mishca would go back in place.

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They stopped next to Ross’ truck, placing the boxes on the roof. Withdrawing the keys from his pocket, Ross flipped through them, fitting the right one into the lock. “I talked to Rodriguez. He’s going to keep an eye on you.” “There’s no need, Ross. I’ll be fine.” He placed the case files on top of the car, pocketing his keys. “It’s for my own piece of mind.” She sighed, rubbing her arms. “I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t think I could mess up this bad. Are you going to tell mom about Mishca?” “I think it would be best to not mention it. Keeping you out of the crosshairs is going to be hard enough.” Lauren looked up at the box on top of his car. “I bet my father would be disappointed.” Ross’ eyes warmed, his easy, crooked smile returning as he faced her. “I didn’t know your father well, Lauren, but I’m sure

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he’d be proud of everything you’ve accomplished.” “And you, Ross? Are you proud?” “Course I am.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You just have terrible taste in men.” If she weren’t laughing at Ross, Lauren might have sen the swinging bat before it connected with Ross’ head. The impact was so great, he stumbled, the back of his head slamming against the rear window of his car, shattering the glass. She screamed, reaching for Ross as his eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped forward. The man in the ski mask didn’t stop, continuing to swing the bat, connecting with Ross’ side. Adrenaline coursing through her, Lauren shot forward, throwing herself at him. The bat flew from his hands as they hit the asphalt hard. She recovered first, clasping her hands together and putting as much force behind the blow as she could.

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Another man in a similar mask appeared behind her, grabbing her ponytail and yanking her back. He swung a meaty fist, pain radiating throughout her face though she hadn’t seen the hit coming. The metallic tang of blood exploded in her mouth, her cheek shredded by her teeth, but she didn’t let this stop her. Her vision was blurry, could barely make out anything that might help for an id if she survived this, but she remembered what Ross had taught her. Digging her nails into his arm, she yanked, feeling the flesh give as he cursed and dropped her. She screamed as loud as she could, her heart racing, hoping and praying that somebody would hear her. The attacker came back at her, wrapping his hands around her throat, squeezing with enough force to cut her screams off abruptly. Lauren had always heard that if you don’t panic while being strangled, you can

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conserve enough oxygen to find away to get free, but unless you were special ops, there was no way not to. Her lungs screamed for relief, but no matter how she clawed at him, he wouldn’t give. She fought, ripping at his shirt, exposing the black ink that was three domed pillars in and exposing the tiger head tattooed across his throat. He jostled her, grunting as he squeezed tighter, but in his need to immobilize her, he left himself vulnerable. Bringing her knee up, she nailed him in the balls, and like many men before him, he dropped like a sack of potatoes, cupping himself, barking orders at his accomplice. For one startling moment, he was frozen, recognizing that gritty accent, but she put it to the back of her mind, crawling as fast as she could over to where Ross lay unmoving, fumbling with the holster at his waist, grabbing the gun she knew he carried there.

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Not thinking twice about it, she turned and shot. They ducked and ran, trying to get away with her father’s police files. As she kept firing, the top fell off, spilling the papers and folders all over the ground. “Hey! Hey!” Lauren sagged in relief, collapsing back on the street as she heard slapping feet running towards her and Ross. The attackers were gone, disappearing behind one of the brownstones. She spat more blood onto the ground, the coppery taste making her nauseous. “I’ve called the police!” A disembodied voice said from somewhere above her, but her dizziness was growing worse. She blinked several times, trying to clear her vision enough to see, but she could only make out the blurry shape of a man leaning over her.

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“Is he…Is he okay?” She asked pointing to where she thought Thomas still lay. “Is he alive?” His answer were drowned out by the approaching sirens. She tried to stand up, but the world became a vortex, spinning all around her. She lost her footing, but the man caught her, gently helping her back down. “Just stay here,” he commanded patting her hand. “Don’t try to move.” Taking deep breaths, tears formed in her eyes as the adrenaline from the fight waned, more pain taking its place. She clutched her head, a pounding headache making her feel like her skull was cracking open. “M’am? Can you hear me?” A bright light was shined in her eyes, making her headaches worse. “Yes,” she said to who she assumed was the EMT. “I can hear you.” He was still speaking, but the blood flowing in her ears drowned him out. More

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people were showing up. She could hear their murmurs and wished she could see, but as she was lifted onto a stretcher, she cried out in pain, but was sucked down into an abyss before it could consume her. *** Lauren awoke to the steady beeping of the machine to her left, watching the shining white light go up and down with each heart beat. She didn’t immediately recognize her surroundings, but it was not hard to guess with the stark white walls and blinding lights shining down from the ceiling. A vase full of a bouquet of flowers rested on a table, a small white card tucked into the arrangement. A chair was next to it, a brown leather jacket resting across the back of it. Amber and Rob were sitting just ousted her room, speaking amicably with the nurse on duty as she read from a clipboard. Tristan and Matt were off to the side, Tristan pacing

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the floor, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, Matt typing away on his laptop. Ignoring the sharp pain that shot through her arm, Lauren pushed her way into a sitting position, staying mindful of the IV in her arm. Her sudden movements seemed to catch Tristan’s attention as he broke out in a smile, pointing towards her. They all rushed into the room, ignoring the glare of the nurse as she tried to enter first. “How are you feeling, Miss. Thompson?” She asked once she finally made her way to the front. “Headache, but I’m fine. How’s my—” she just stopped herself from saying father “—How’s Detective Ross?” “He went into surgery not too long ago. He should be going into recovery soon.” A sudden flash of sadness in her eyes made Lauren wonder how bad the damage truly was. “Is he critical? I know he took a pretty bad hit to the head.”

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She smiled, albeit somewhat forced. “I don’t know, but once I finish here with you, I can go and check.” Placated for the moment, Lauren nodded. As the nurse checked her vitals, Lauren cleared her throat and looked to her friends. “How long have you been here?” Amber took the seat next to her, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Rob and I were pulling up as the ambulance was taking off.” Mat gave her a tired smile. “She called us frantic, couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Ten minutes of that and Rob finally interpreted. Been here ever since.” Lauren reached up, to brush her hair back from her face and out the corner of her eye, she saw Tristan flinch. “What is it?” Tristan grimaced, catching his brow with his thumb. “Uh, well.” He held his hands to his throat.

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“Tristan!” Amber exclaimed glaring at him. “What? I didn’t know how else to explain it.” Lauren touched the skin of her throat gently, wincing as she touched it. It was smooth, but ached when she felt around. She could only imagine what it looked like. The nurse excused herself, promising to check back in later. “Do you remember anything?” Rob asked softly. The attack flashed through Lauren’s mind, could almost feel it happening all over again. Before she lost her nerve, she relayed the details of the attack as she remembered them, trying to piece everything that happened together. It didn’t make sense. “Muggings are common in New York,” Matt supplied. “Yea, but they didn’t take anything,” Amber said looking to Rob.

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“Maybe they didn’t get the chance.” “Either way,” Lauren said speaking up. “I’m safe now. I guess you forgot to mention this part in the ad, Amber.” She laughed. “I’ve lived in New York for five years now. Must be bad luck on your part, L.” “I’m heading down to the food court,” Matt announced. “Lauren, you want anything?” “She can’t eat,” Amber said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Shouldn’t she wait for doctor’s orders?” Lauren smiled, squeezing Amber’s hand. “I didn’t have surgery. There’s no need.” “Dude, while they hash that out,” Tristan said dropping down. “Get me one of those puddings—not the chocolate ones, those are gross. Vanilla. Oh, and see if they have the little spoons—wait no, it’s called a spark. I want a spark.”

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Matt flipped him off, turning to Lauren with raised brows. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” He left, Amber and Rob following. “Have they called my mom? I don’t want her freaking out.” “Too late for that. Last I heard, she was on the first flight out. Amber wanted to call your Russian, but—” “No,” Lauren said suddenly making Tristan arch a brow. “We, uh, we broke up.” “The two of you were close though, right? I’m sure he would care if you’re hurt.” That was true…if they weren’t in their current predicament. Plus, she promised Ross she wouldn’t talk to him again. “Maybe later, but I’ll call him so he won’t come rushing down here too.” Tristan let it go, kicking his legs up on the edge of the bed. “Let me know.” Laying back, Lauren closed her eyes, but opened them again a moment later, seeing

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the image of her attacker. This was all a bad dream, that was what she hoped although she knew it was too real. The world that she hoped was separate from this was now very much integrating itself into hers. Everything she had been running from seemed like a field day compared to what she had run in to. “Lauren.” Lauren opened her eyes, seeing Detective Rodriguez poked his head in the door, looking at Tristan first then over to her. He did better at hiding his wince from seeing her. “I’m here to take your statement.” Tristan stood, grabbing his jacket. “Be back.” Rodriguez pulled out his notepad and a small pen, standing at the end of lauren’s bed. “I don’t know if they informed you, but the doctor got epithelial calls—skin—from beneath your nails.” He smiled. “Good girl. So now, I need to take your statement.”

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“Okay.” Lauren opened her mouth, ready to launch into her story, but she didn’t know where to begin. “Could you tell me why Detective Ross was at your apartment?” “He was letting me look at my father’s files. Since tonight was his last night in town, he came by to pick them up. My father was killed in a home invasion back in Michigan fifteen years ago,” she explained. “I was helping him take them to the car when they attacked us.” “How many assailants were there?” He asked taking notes. “Two that I could see. One had a bat, the other didn’t have a weapon.” “What about their faces?” She grimaced, closing her eyes, trying to remember clearly. “They had on ski masks. I couldn’t see both, but one of them had dark brown eyes, almost black.”

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He nodded, writing more. “Did they ask for anything?” “No, they…” She trailed off, remembering the papers falling everywhere. “They took my father’s case files.” She frowned, trying to think of any good reason for them to do so. The likelihood of them knowing about her father, especially with her being in a separate state altogether… Suzhenogo konyom ne ob’edyesh. The accents. The tattoos. Ross’ words played back in her mind as she thought over the tattoos on her attacker. Across his chest were the piers of the Kremlin. If what Ross had said was right, each pier it represented a number of years that the wearer had spent in prison, meaning he had to have spent at least twenty years in prison. “Lauren? Are you alright?” She looked at Rodriguez, vaguely hearing the mating monitoring her heart beep faster.

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If there were any lingering doubts about Mishca and his secret life, they were gone now. Lauren couldn’t lie, not when Rodriguez was going to learn the truth anyway. “The one that attacked me, he sounded Russian.” He stilled, his pen still poised over the pad as he looked up at her. She didn’t have to explain anymore for him to understand what she was telling him. “Are you sure? Could it have been similar and—” “Sounded identical to Mishca’s, though the voice was a lot deeper.” Rodriguez cleared his throat, closing his notepad. “Listen, Lauren. I don’t want you to mention this to anyone else but me. Once you’re cleared by the doctor, I want you to come down to the precinct and we’ll talk more there.” Patting her hand, he gave her a grim smile before leaving.

Chapter twenty-Five:

Righteous Anger Lauren stood in the doorway, watching Thomas sleep, the bandages wrapped tightly around his head making the guilt she carried greater. This, all of it, was her fault. If she hadn’t been dating Mishca, if she hadn’t went to that Christmas dinner when her mother warned her that it might have been too soon, they would be in this. Was everyone in danger or was it just her and Ross? Even though she didn’t want to believe, it seemed to coincidental that they

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were attacked not too long after Ross started investigating them and Mishca learned of her connection to law enforcement. She couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a message or if they were meant to die that night. It didn’t seem like the assault was supposed to end that soon and if not for the man happening to be coming out of his apartment, they might not have lived to see another morning. Lauren didn’t want to risk waking him, instead staying out of the way as nurses and doctors came to monitor his condition. At least, from what she had been told, the swelling in his brain had gone down, but he still hadn’t woken up, even after three days. “Lauren!” Susan came rushing towards her with open arms. “Oh sweetie, are you alright?” “I’m fine, mom.” But she was glad that Susan was here.

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Despite her words, Susan looked over every inch of her—she couldn’t blame her—and by the time she was finished, the ewer both in tears. “Jesus, what happened?” Lauren recounted everything that happened that night, sparing her the grisly details of everything she felt. She tried to run through it as quickly as possible, not wanting to linger on any one part. “I’m just glad you’re alright. How’s Thomas?” She shook her head, glancing back at Ross’ hospital bed. “He’s out of surgery, but hasn’t woken up yet. He’s going to be okay, right? I mean, he was shot once and barely blinked.” That got a smile out of Susan. “I’m sure he did more than that. And yes, I’m sure he’ll be fine, but what is going on with you, Lauren? Thomas told me you were looking into your father’s case. Do you want to talk about it?”

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Lauren looked away, not sure how to answer. “I…thought it would help give me closure.” “You should know by now that we have the same tells. Lauren, what aren’t you telling me?” She couldn’t tell her. Her actions had already gotten someone she loved attacked, she couldn’t take another risk like that, but she couldn’t lie. “Mom, during Christmas at the Volkov’s—” Her phone rang, an unrecognizable number with a New York area code. Thanking her good fortune, she answered on the first ring. “Hello?” “Lauren? This is Detective Rodriguez with the NYPD.” “I know who you are.” “We would like if you could come down to the precinct to answer a few more questions.”

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“Right, sure. I’ll be there.” She hung up, dropping the phone back in her bag. “I’ve got to get down to the precinct, mom.” Susan looked concerned. “Is everything alright?” “Yea,” she said shaking her head. “Just a few more questions. I’ll come back after.” “But, Lauren—wait what were you going to say about Mishca?” Lauren looked back at her mom, seeing the pleading in her eyes and the fear that she was trying desperately to hide. That’s when she made the decision. “It’s nothing, mom. We’ll talk later.” *** Susan stayed at Thomas’ side, alternating between rearranging the flowers she’d brought, checking her phone for any messages from Lauren, and sitting restlessly in the uncomfortable seat at his bedside.

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But her thoughts were in chaos because she knew that the secrets of the past were about to be revealed, and the careful precautions that had been put in place to ensure her and Lauren’s safety were already crumbling. She could never forget the day she learned the truth… Susan stared at her husband of ten years, wondering what to say, how to broach the subject that she had feared bringing up for the last two nights. Her first instinct was to ignore it—as she had been doing—but it seemed the more she tried to forget about it, the more it weighed on her mind. Cameron sat at the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap as he watched her. There were bags beneath his eyes, the whites of his eyes slightly pink. Maybe if she had been a better wife, she might have noticed the strain he was under, but she excused it because of his lengthy hours at the hospital.

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“What do you do for them?” She asked, wincing as she rubbed her swollen belly, feeling the baby kick. For years she had wanted to have a baby, ready to start a family with the man she loved. Now, with what they were facing, with the knowledge that she knew, she was afraid of the world that she was bringing her child into. Cameron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Their son, Mishca. I work as his private physician.” “But why? They’re criminals. Why don’t you tell them you don’t want to?” “It’s not that simple,” he said softly. “Then explain it to me. Help me understand.” For the next few hours, he did just that, explaining everything her could without breaching the contract he had with Mikhail and his associates. Susan tried to be understanding, but all she felt was an

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overwhelming sadness. She should have noticed the weighty secret he had been carrying over the years, but the only thing she had cared about was what she wanted. “It’s why,” he said when he finished, “I can’t just tell them no. When your indebted to men like these, they own you until that debt is repaid.” He looked terribly afraid as he faced her, touching her shoulders to get her to meet his gaze. “You can’t speak a word of this, Susan,” he said with a sudden fierceness that had been absent from his words before. “If you do, they won’t...men like them can’t have loose ends.” “Cameron...” “Promise me,” he demanded gripping her just a bit tighter. At her reluctant nod, he sighed and let her go, accepting her word. After that night, they never spoke of the Volkovs again, but now, two of them carried the secret.

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Susan never went to New York again after that weekend and whenever Cameron ventured out of the house in the wee hours of the night, or didn’t come home for days, she knew where he was off to. She didn’t know whether she was better off knowing, or if she could take back her inquiry. Despite his work creating a strain in their marriage, things began to look up after Lauren was born. Whether the Russian Mob Boss felt sentimental because of his own children, he didn’t call on Cameron nearly as much as he used to. The changes in Cameron were refreshing, the cloud of despair that followed him everywhere was slowly lifting. When he wasn’t at the hospital, he was home, showering Lauren with attention and was one of the best father’s Susan could have ever wanted. Then it all started falling apart when Lauren was four. Mikhail called on Cameron more than ever and Susan watched him fall

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to pieces all over again. It was only about a year later that she had come home to find him...dead. She knew as soon as she saw him who had done it and for months she lived in fear that they would be coming after her and Lauren. Most people would have relaxed, thinking they were safe, but Susan knew better, so she stayed on guard, watching everything and everyone that came around her and her daughter. She researched everything she could to learn more about the secret criminal organization. If she needed confirmation of her suspicions, she got it the day Mikhail Volkov appeared on her doorstep. She begged and pleaded for the life of her daughter, swearing that she was innocent and had nothing at all todo with what he had planned for her. Instead of killing her right out, he merely sat--with giant thugs surrounding him--and offered her a large

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sum of money. With their connections, Mikhail had been able to add an exorbitant amount of money to the life insurance policy Cameron had taken out years ago. If she signed on the dotted line, it would be a contract between them, swearing her silence to never betray the gift he was extending. Since that day, she had never seen him or anyone bearing the last name Volkov again...at least until Thanksgiving. Her first instinct was to tell Lauren to stay away from him, but how could she without endangering them further? Now, it was too late and she partially to blame for everything that had happened to Lauren and to Thomas. Despite the evidence, despite what she knew deep down, she had kept the secrets of the past buried from those she loved the most, but it was time for the truth to come out and she had to face the consequences of that. “Susan?”

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Thomas blinked open his eyes, wincing as he shielded them from the blinding light. She held one of his hands between both of hers, and despite her intention of assuring him he was fine, she was now the one being consoled as he shushed her crying. “It’ll take more than a punk kid with a bat to take me down,” he said gruffly, giving her a hint of his warm, crooked smile. Some days she thought she lived for that smile and didn’t know what she would do if she never saw it again, but she had to tell him the truth, even if afterwards, he walked away. She cleared her throat. “I talked to Lauren, she—” “How is she?” He asked sounding suddenly alert. “Was she hurt?” “Just a few bumps. She says I’m fine, but you know how Lauren is. She was more worried about you.”

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“She’s strong,” he said squeezing her hand. “Just like her mother.” “Thomas, there’s…there’s something I need to tell you. Something about—” “Good to see you’re awake, detective,” the doctor said coming into the room, interrupting Susan. She sat back to let the doctor check Thomas’ vitals. This gave her another moment to think of how to explain. Thomas’ eyes stayed on her as the doctor worked, that curious glint entering his eyes as his brow furrowed. He had always had good instincts, able to tell when something was bothering her. Once they were alone again, Thomas shifted into a more comfortable position. They only had a few minutes before the detectives would be in to get his statement. “What is it, Susan? You can tell me anything, you know that.” She looked to the door, making sure the detectives weren’t already getting off the

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elevator. “Not even to the department, Thomas.” That got his attention. “What’s going on?” She met his eyes, feeling the familiar tightening in the pit of her stomach as she thought of her late husband. It was now or never. She couldn’t let the past repeat itself. “There’s something I think you should know about Cameron…” *** The two men being led by the uniformed police officer glared at Lauren as they passed, muttering in Russian. She thought they looked vaguely familiar, maybe from the Christmas dinner, or maybe just in passing when she was with Mishca, but she couldn’t quite place them. “Do you recognize either of those men?” Detective Rodriguez asked, inclining his head in their direction.

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“No,” Lauren said looking away from them. “I’ve never seen them before. Who are they?” If the detective heard the slight tremor to her voice, he might have chalked it up to nerves rather than the lie that it was. “Just persons of interest for now.” He gave Lauren a meaningful look and she understood what he was trying to say. “I know this is hard for you right now, but if there is anything else you can tell me, no matter how unimportant it may seem, it may be able to help put these men away.” “What do you mean?” Lauren asked in confusion. “I got their DNA. How is this not like a clear case?” He sighed, rubbing his brow. “The most we can charge them with is the assault against you. There is no physical evidence connecting them to Detective Ross’ attack. No eyewitnesses and the weapon hasn’t been found. And because of your relationship with

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Mishca Volkov—a known associate of theirs—their lawyer can argue that the assault on you could have happened at an earlier time.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t forensics prove it?” “We’re not going to give up, Lauren. Not until we’ve exhausted every angle we can.” Rodriguez suddenly frowned, his mouth tightening in that way Ross’ did when he saw someone he disliked. “What the hell is he doing here?” Lauren looked in the direction Rodriguez was glaring and when he saw the sharply dressed man, she wondered the same thing. Viktor Volkov and another man carrying a briefcase walked through the lobby like they owned the place, not stopping until they disappeared in the direction the men from earlier had taken.

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Rodriguez sot, gesturing for one of the officers that brought Viktor in to come over. “What the hell is Volkov doing here?” “According to him, the Russian thugs you brought in a little while ago called him, then he called his attorney.” “Unbelievable.” The men walked out, heads held high. When they looked in Lauren’s direction, one of them with a tiger head tattoo smirked, the sight of it so cold and menacing. Instead of following the men out, Viktor spoke quietly into the attorney’s ear, then crossed the floor until he was just a few feet away from Lauren and Detective Rodriguez. He was wearing a pair of black pants and a white button up shirt, open at the collar. A thin gold chain glinted in that open space. “Lauren, it is good to see you.” He extended his hand like they were old friends, like he hadn’t ben the one to come and bail out the two men that attacked her.

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“Walk away, Volkov,” Rodriguez commanded climbing to his feet, angling himself between them, forcing Viktor to draw back his hand. He laughed seeming entirely too amused as he looked between Rodriguez and Lauren. “Choose wisely, girl.” With a nod, Viktor turned to leave, stopping midway. “Ah, and Mishca sends his regards.” Lauren felt her stomach bottom out as she heard those words and a rage so profound filled her to the point that rational thought left her. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea,” Rodriguez was saying as she grabbed her bag. She didn’t care about that, she needed to see him. *** Her heart was racing, the cadence echoing in her ears as she took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. She was shivering—from

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nerves and anger and cold—by the time she stared at Mishca’s apartment door. Her heart was racing, the cadence echoing in her ears as she took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. She was shivering—from nerves and anger and cold—by the time she stood at Mishca’s apartment. She had nothing to fear anymore after all they had done to her and her family and she refused to cower in the face of them. Clenching her fist, she pounded on the door until it swung open, a young man staring down at her with that dangerous, but smarmy expression she had gotten used to when it came to the men in Mishca’s life. She could smell the alcohol on him, but ignored it as she brushed by him into the apartment. There were a number of men there, all seated around Mishca who sat with a glass in hand. They were all positioned around him, like an army around the general. It was like seeing him for the first time.

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The one who opened the door called out to her, drawing Mishca’s attention to them. For a split second, he looked relieved, but it soon shifted to anger and that only made her rage spike. Was he angry that she survived? He set down his glass, opening his mouth to speak, but before he could move or utter a word, she stormed towards him, drawing her hand back, and slapping him with as much force as she could muster. His head whipped to the side, but he still didn’t make a sound, just working his jaw. His men made noises of complaint, standing to grab her, but Mishca held up his hand to still them. Some of them were clearly older than him and watching them practically bow to his command only confirmed what she had already believed. Mishca really was Vory v Zakone. “Lauren--” He stopped short, his eyes darting over her face, then down over her body. Without another word, he grabbed her

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arm and hauled her into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “What happened to your face?” She scoffed, jerking free of his hold. “Like you don’t know.” He got in her face so suddenly that she was rooted to the spot. “What. Happened?” “The Bratva.” If she hadn’t been looking for it, she might not have seen it, the slight narrowing of his eye as he gritted his teeth. The anger bled away suddenly, replaced with an all consuming sadness. “You lied to me,” she said, her voice cracking at the end. “You lied to me. Was it you? Did you order them to do it? That’s how it works, right? You make demands and they follow them like fucking dogs.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She laughed bitterly. “No? Where do you go every Thursday at the beginning of the month? Why do you need a personal

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bodyguard that looks like he spent half of his life in prison?” He moved to touch her, but with one look at her face, he held his hands up, but that didn’t stop him from leveling a glare on her that might have quelled a lesser man. “I need you to stop asking questions. Now.” “I’m not one of them,” she said pointing back at the door. “I don’t answer to you.” “Careful. You may not answer to me, but if you continue this, you’ll have to answer to somebody else.” “Fuck you and your threats. What else are you going to do? Send more men to attack me and Ross?” She shoved him and he allowed it, even taking a step back though she knew he could have stood his ground. “I would have never said anything to anyone.” “What are you talking about, Lauren?” He asked and looked genuinely confused. “Why do you think I sent someone to attack you?”

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“Because they were Russian and why else would Viktor bail them out?” “I wouldn’t hurt you,” he whispered. She shook her head, grabbing the handle of the door. “You already have. And Mishca.” She looked back at him for what she felt would be the last time. “You didn’t have to send the message through Viktor. You could have been man enough to tell me yourself.” With that, she left and never looked back.

Chapter twenty-Six:

Captain, My Captain Once, when Mishca was a boy, a neighborhood bully had broken his favorite toy, one of the few gifts he had received from his father for his birthday. He had been too old to go home and cry to his mother though he longed to, knowing she would fix it. But one of his father’s favorite lectures chose that moment to play through his mind. If a man strikes you, strike him back twice.

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So instead of being sad at the loss, Mishca grew angry, but it was nothing compared to what he felt now. Seeing the bruises, the hurt in her eyes made him crazed, and whichever ublyudki did it to her, he would repay them in kind. “D’you need something, Captain?” “You.” He pointed to the two men by the front door. “Find out everything about the attack on Lauren Thompson. I want answers within the hour.” They stood there, hesitant, not used to him barking orders unless it dealt specifically with the Bratva. Emotions had no place in their world, and when those feelings became volatile it would get you killed. Grabbing the Scotch bottle to his right, Mishca lugged it at the two of them, the crystal shattering against the door between them. “Eto moy prekaiz!” They barely flinched, yanking the door open and disappearing before another object

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could come flying at them. Mishca was known for his aim and if he missed, he missed on purpose. “What are you thinking?” Vlad asked. The problem was…he wasn’t. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know why this had happened, but he knew it was his fault. And the only thing he could do now was wait. *** In Brighton Beach, across from the pier, the Volkov Bratva owned a commercial warehouse—listed under a dummy corporation—and was used as a butcher’s shop. It was over 1,800 square feet and was a prospering business by day, and a torture chamber by night. Towards the rear of the warehouse was a hidden staircase, leading into the basement that was meant to be used as a meat locker, yet it served a more unsavory purpose.

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It was often dubbed the wet room because of the pipes that ran the length of the ceiling, droplets of water leaking from them onto the concrete floor, highlighting the old rust colored stains. Twin, sturdy hooks hung between the pipes, able to bear the weight of an animal carcass, so the various people that had been hung there over the years had no hope of the chains and hooks giving way. Freezing cold air blasted from the overhead vents, making the current inhabitants of the room tremble, but not just from the cold. They had followed the rules, never crossing any man in their line of work. They didn’t understand why they were here, the two that had taken them not giving them an explanation, only that they were wanted by the Captain. But one thing they did know, if they were brought here, they were going to die. The creaking steel door was pulled open, Vlad entering the room first, then Mishca.

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He carried an aluminum folding chair, setting it up against the back wall so he was at the back of the two men hanging from the hooks. One of them, Ivan, thirty-five had a tiger head tattooed on his throat, a mark that distinguished him as an enforcer for their organization. He had had the mark since Mishca could remember, but he had never understood how Ivan had gotten it at such a young age. Most men never received it, but since he wasn’t under Mishca’s rule, he didn’t question it. The other, Anatoly, was as vicious as he was big, weighing in at over two hundred pounds. He was one of Viktor’s preferred men, doing any and everything that was asked of him. He cared nothing for the rules of their world, he cared only for currency. Besides what he learned in passing from others, Mishca knew very little of the two,

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only that they were under Viktor’s rule in Brooklyn. Ivan twisted his body, trying to look back at Mishca, but with the way he was chained, it was nearly impossible. Between the two of them, he was the weakest link. Mishca folded his hands in his lap, regarding the men, letting everything drain away inside of him. If he was going to do this, it had to be impersonal. This was no longer about Lauren, this was about territory and the consequences of their actions. Only one of them would be able to leave this room alive because two people was a liability. One of them would take the rap for the cop’s and Lauren’s attack. Which of them it would be, was up to them. He kept his voice calm as he spoke. “You have one opportunity to talk. Just one. No, don’t look to him for help,” he snapped at Ivan as he glanced over at Anatoly. “He can’t help you now.”

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Ivan quickly jerked his head around, facing the wall. “You came into my territory without my blessing. Explain.” Anatoly remained stubbornly silent, but Ivan’s entire body was shaking. He was wise, he chose to answer. “We were following orders, Captain.” “Zhatknis!” Anatoly hissed at his partner, silencing the other man. Mishca climbed to his feet, flexing his fingers as he circled the man that stared him down stubbornly. Anatoly knew he faced death and Mishca was grudgingly impressed, probably more so if the circumstances that brought them here were not so dire. “So you will not speak?” Mishca asked in Russian, giving the man a once over. “ I have ways of making you talk.” “Nothing I have never felt before.” Anatoly jerked against his chains, straining to break

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free, but in his futile attempts, Mishca spotted something on his arms. There were long scratches along the man’s arms and hands, scabbed over and nearly healed. In his mind’s eye, he could see Lauren’’s face, the purple bruises high on her cheeks, along her jaw, and the imprint of fingers around her throat. Gritting his teeth, he tried to push the thought away, grabbing him by his belt, dragging him well across the room since the chains slid easily along the pipes. He tried to kick out, but his legs were bound with rope. When they were far enough away from Ivan so they could not be overheard, Mishca reached behind him, pulling out a gleaming silver barrette, checking the clip, eyeing the bullets he would eventually plug into the man after he was done with him. It was a special gun, the first one he had ever bought, the serial number layered off.

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Over the years, he had never had the pleasure of using it. He couldn’t think of a better time than now. He showed it to the bound man. “This is for later, after I’ve cut of your fingers and made you suffer.” Anatoly still remained stubbornly silent, but his eyes gave him away. He wasn’t able to mask his fear. “Tell me. What were your orders?” Vlad brought over a tool kit, setting it up on the table. Mishca shrugged out of his jacket, passing it over to Vlad. He snapped on a pair of latest gloves, retrieving a boycotter from the kit. He unravels a long, plastic tarp, laying it out on the floor, shifting it so it was beneath Anatoly and wide enough to catch any blood splatter. He took the blade to Anatoly’s shirt, cutting it down the middle and exposing his chest. He had the mark of the Bratva over his heart, a sign that made him untouchable.

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Mishca held the boycotter up. “Talk.” “Ya ne predam moy kapitan,” he said looking from the blade and back up. Mishca smirked. He didn’t want to betray his Captain? “Where is he now, your Captain? Why is he not here to vouch for you?” Anatoly shook his head, staring straight ahead, refusing to answer again. “Fine.” Mishca took the blade, slashing it across the mark on his chest, ripping his flesh open. Anatoly screamed, thrashing against his bonds, trying to escape the pain. When the mark was distinctly disfigured, Mishca dropped it on the plastic wrap. Balling his fist, Mishca slugged him in the jaw, enjoying the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his fist. He didn’t pause, landing another blow to his other cheek, then one in his side, his gut, and another to his solar pled. Mishca wan’t even winded.

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Anatoly grunted in pain after the third hit, gritting his teeth to take the onslaught of blows. When Mishca finally gave him a reprieve, Anatoly spat out the blood coating his teeth. “You don’t have to answer,” Mishca said wiping his brow. “Like our tattoos, your body tells the story.” He got in his face, making sure that he had his full attention. “How many times did you hit her? How many times did she beg you to stop? How many times did she…” He stopped himself before saying the words, knowing that when they were out, he could never take them back, and maybe, he wasn’t ready to hear the answer. But the question was now plaguing him. How many times did she call out for me to help her? Mishca could see the moment of recognition in the man’s eyes as he jerked his head up in surprise. He also saw the gleam of

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arrogance when he realized what this was really about. He had nothing else to lose at this point. “She cried for the svinb’ya,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up. “She fought with everything she had, but the suka ne mog borot’sya. My Captain…he said I can do what I want with her. If not for witnesses, I would have taken her.” He laughed darkly, the sound washing over Mishca. “I like when they scream.” He could almost picture it. Lauren on the ground, this animal on top of her. He had seen some of the girls Viktor kept in the house out in Brooklyn, their eyes vacant and haunted as they remembered night after night of being taken against their will. Mishca felt cold at the man’s admission, what he had planned on doing…what he wanted to do. To Lauren. Deyushka? Without another word, Mishca grabbed his gun, cocked the hammer back, and

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emptied the clip into the man’s chest, saving a few to put in the man’s groin. But his anger wasn’t appeased, if anything, it only grew. He was beyond reason at this point, the only thing on his mind was Lauren and he hated them for what they did to her, and felt a strong emotion when he pictured her, but he couldn’t decide whether it was love or hatred. Holstering his weapon, he left the man to bleed out, crossing back over to Anatoly who was sobbing pitifully n his chains. Vlad was standing there, silently judging Mishca’s actions though he would never speak a word of those thoughts out loud. Grabbing a knife, he cut the man’s shirt open and cut a path across the man’s chest, his howls of pain falling on deaf ears. He didn’t have to ask anything, Anatoly spoke freely.=, anything to stop the torture.

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“I swear I did not know, Captain. I swear! We were—I was just following orders, please. Viktor told us when and where.” “Did you touch her?” Mishca growled so loudly that his voice echoed. “N-No, I went for the cop. That is all. I swear.” He didn’t believe him. Aiming, he shot the man in both knee, his howls of pain making Mishca smile, though the guilt and bitterness still ate at him. “Enough, Mishca.” Coming into the room now was Mikhail, Viktor, and their men. Mishca was so enraged that he saw red, pulling his gun and aiming it at Viktor’s heart. Viktor didn’t scare easily, if at all, this Mishca knew deep down, but he swore that before they left this freezer, he would make the man feel it.

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He didn’t flinch away, he wasn’t a coward, but for a quick second, almost imperceptible, he swallowed. “Put the gun away, Mishca,” Mikhail said calmly, but firmly. His right hand man, Sebastian, moved a hand to his hip where his own weapon rested. He was the Mikhail’s kryshas, his right hand enforcer. If Gerard wasn’t available, then this was the man Mikhail called. Only because his father gave him a direct order, Mishca lowered his arm. Viktor strolled further into the room, looking back at the body hanging limply, blood dripping from the multiple holes in his torso, then back to the simpering excuse for a soldier. “Is there a reason you have my men chained like fucking cattle, boy?” Viktor demanded, standing defensively. “They are not under your command.”

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“They came into my territory and nearly murdered a fucking politseyskiy! You dare move in my territory? As of now, they are under my command.” Viktor sucked his teeth, looking Mishca up and down with veiled hatred. There was no love lost between the two, especially because they were both in line to ascend to the throne once Mikhail retired. Since the position could rarely be taken by force, it was a choice made by Mikhail. Favor seemed to be working for Mishca as over the last couple of years, Viktor and Mikhail’s relationship became strained. “Dostatochno, Mishca,” said Mikhail holding his hand up. He took up the lone chair in the room, lighting a cigar. “Tell me what it is you speak of.” “These two,” Mishca explained pointing the gun first at Anatoly, then at Ivan, “were given orders to take out a cop and the girl with him.”

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Viktor scoffed. “They would never tell you such.” “But they will tell me,” Mikhail said with the air of a man that was the last authority. He looked to Ivan, leveling a stare on him that might have broken a lesser man. “What were your orders?” Ivan looked to Viktor helplessly, but even he knew he couldn’t deny a question from the Pakhan. “We were given an address and pictures. Told to take out the two.” “Take out? You mean kill.” “Yes, Pakhan.” Mikhail turned his attention to Viktor. “You put out a hit without my authority?” The words were deceptively calm, but the meaning behind them made Viktor clear his throat. To act without authority meant death. “Of course not. They…they misunderstood my orders. They were only to handicap the politeyskiy. We needed to get him off the

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trail. I told my men to take the files he was carrying.” “Oh, and the girl was what? Collateral fucking damage?” Mishca snapped, his finger trigger itching. Viktor could show his annoyance with Mishca since they were of the same rank. “You only care because it was your shlyukha. Have you not gotten tired of being mezhdu eye nog?” Before Mishca could fire a shot at him for that last remark, Mikhail snapped his fingers. “Your reasoning is of no consequence. The fact is there is a cop in the hospital and I doubt New York’s finest will charge anything less than attempted on him. Either your man asters for it or you will. Mishca, come with me.” With his order given, Mikhail headed towards the door, but paused on his way out turning steel gray eyes on Viktor. “And the next time I learn that you have put a hit on

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anyone without my blessing. I will have your stars."

Chapter twenty-Seven:

The Interrogation Through a one way mirror, Lauren stared at the man in the wheelchair, his wrists shackled to the metal table bolted to the floor. The last time she had seen him, he wore the arrogant smirk of a man that knew he was walking free, but now, his eyes were sunken, his skin clammy and gray, let alone the fact that he could no longer walk. Gone was his snide attitude, replaced with a fear so profound that his eyes couldn’t help but dart around the tiny room, like he felt the eyes on him. He was right, he was watching him, had

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been since Detective Rodriguez called her down, but the men that he truly feared most were not. His attorney was seated next to him, and even he looked slightly nervous, constantly fidgeting with the knot of his tie or glancing down at the gold watch fixed on his wrist, leaning over in intervals to whisper in his clients ear. Ivan looked up at the glass, meeting her eyes. She knew he couldn’t see her, but she turned away anyway, rubbing the chill from her arms as she took calming breaths, trying to ignore the irrational fear she felt in her heart. The phantom feel of fists hitting her made her wince, but she forced herself to push those feelings to the back of her mind. Detective Rodriguez was in the room with her, arms folded across his chest. He reminded her of her mother’s favorite on screen detective. He had the same temperament when it came to the perps, but he was kind and considerate of the victims. He was

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worried, Lauren knew, about what was going to be revealed. Ross had told him about her father and he had drawn his own conclusions from that. “Are you alright?” He asked after a moment of just watching her. “Do you need anything?” She shook her head. “I’m fine.” “You know, you don’t have to stay for this. I can tell you what he says.” Meaning he would edit that speech, edit out all the details she needed to hear. Truthfully, she didn’t really understand why she was there. She knew that he had already confessed early this morning, but now he had more information? There was a tightening in her gut as she turned back to Anatoly. She felt it, in her heart that what he was going to say would change everything she had ever known. She had begun to suspect them, Mishca and his

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family, that they knew something about her father. It was too late for her to walk away. “Who is this, detective?” a woman asked stepping into the room. She wore wirerimmed glasses, and a pantsuit. She had hair that was tied back into a tight bun, dark eyes that missed nothing, and the demeanor of a used to being in charge. “This is Lauren Thompson, a friend of the Michigan detective.” She arched a brow. “Wonderful. Why is she here, now?” “I think it would be best if you spoke with our perp first.” The woman glanced over at Lauren once more before exiting the room, seconds later, the door to the adjacent room opened… *** Assistant District Attorney Margaret Thatcher was a woman that took her job very seriously. She believed in honor and justice, and in the last thirty years that she worked

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as a prosecutor for the state of New York, she had never had the misfortune of offering a plea deal to any lowlife that came into her courtroom. Now, here she was, with only vague details about a man who was stupid enough to assault a cop, and wanted a deal for information presumably only he could provide. Margaret hadn’t wanted to hear what he had to say, preferring to just handle the open-andshut case and never let him see the light of day again, but since Detective Rodriguez felt that it was worth her hearing, she reluctantly agreed, though she made no promises that anything would come of it. Opening the door, ADA Thatcher stepping into the interrogation room, sparing a glance at the suspect, then shook the hand of his attorney, Roger Givens. “Mr. Stonosky, you pled guilty to the assault with a deadly weapon as well as

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aggravated assault. What kind of deal do you expect to make?” “I have information,” he said softly, as though someone other than present company could hear him. “About a murder.” She took a legal pad out of her briefcase, hunting for a pen so she could scribble down a quick note. “And how did you come across this information?” Roger cleared his throat, leaning forward to say, “My client will not be divulging anything unless he is granted witness protection at the conclusion of this meeting, as well as full immunity.” Margaret smirked. “Please. Roger, you know as well as I do, the likelihood of that happening. Besides, you asked me to hear this. If you want me to give you anything, you need to tell your client to give me something to work with.”

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Even as she spoke, Roger shook his head. “The men my client has information on are dangerous. He fears for his life.” Although Margaret was inclined to believe them—after all, his client was in a wheelchair—but she refused to give. Realizing this, Roger leaned over to whisper in his client’s ear. He shook his head adamantly, refusing to speak. Margaret tapped her pen against her legal pad, already tired of playing their game. They had five minutes before she walked out the door… “Okay,” Anatoly said shifting in his chair, wincing in pain. “There was a doctor, in Michigan. Thompson or something.” She masked her surprise, crossing her legs as she snuck a glance back at the glass where she knew Lauren and Detective Rodriguez was watching. The girl couldn’t be any older than her early twenties. She had to be this doctor’s daughter.

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Making another note on her pad, she stood. “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.” Walking out, Detective Rodriguez was already at the door to greet her. “What the hell is going on?” Rodriguez cleared his throat, producing a folder with various reports and documents inside. “This was in Ross’ car. About fifteen or so years ago, Doctor Cameron Thompson was found murdered in his home, three shots to the chest. Zero prints, no hairs, no fibers, but the shell casings were left on the floor. “Now Detective Ross was the lead on the case, but after years without a suspect, the case went cold.” He jerked his thumb back to the room where Lauren was waiting. “Lauren is the vic’s daughter and she moved up here around August and from what I gathered, she’s dating Mishca Volkov.” That got Margaret’s attention. People in her position made it a point to learn about

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anyone that was believed to be involved in organized crime. Though there was hardly any evidence against the youngest Volkov, it was abundantly clear that his father was involved in shady dealings, though it was never enough to convict. “There has to be a connection,” Rodriguez went on. “Now I’m thinking, the Russians put out a hit on the doc and thought Ross found new evidence to implicate one of them—probably one of the higher-ups.” “But what reason would they have to put out a hit on a doctor from Michigan?” “Not a clue, but these guys are very organized and ruthless. Anatoly is low on the food chain, if he knows something about this murder, the order had to come from somewhere up top. If we get him to flip, we can take down at least one of the Vory v Zakone’s members.”

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Margaret nodded along, already deciding how she would proceed with this. “What does the girl know?” “Nothing,” said Rodriguez shrugging. “From what I can tell, she has no idea what her boyfriend is involved in, but if they get wind of her talking to us, she may be in danger. I think we should park a car outside her apartment.” “Get it done and have her stay here. I want to question her afterwards.” With a final nod in his direction, Margaret went back into interrogation. “I want to make something perfectly clear before I agree to any deals,” she said retaking her seat. “Your client has already pled guilty and will serve the maximum sentence, but—” she stressed as Roger made to protest, “—whether your client wants to spend his days in a minimum security facility with constant protective detail is up to him.” “And with regard to immunity?”

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“Your client will not be charged as he is actively participating in the investigation.” Anatoly still looked dubious. “I want it in writing.” Margaret waved a hand towards the mirror, signaling for one of the men inside to have the paperwork drawn up. Withdrawing a tape recorder from her bag, she pressed ‘record.’ “Mr. Stonosky, can you tell me what happened that night?” Anatoly looked to Roger, waiting for his nod. “Years ago, I got a call from my Captain. He told me he had a job for me. I don’t ask any questions, just get the details. We fly out to Michigan and pay a visit to the doctor.” “Who is your Captain?” “Viktor Volkov.” Margaret made a note. “You said, ‘we.’ Who did you fly out to Michigan with?” “My Captain.”

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“Did you question him about your…assignment?” He shook his head. “You don’t question your superiors. You do, you die. Besides, kill orders are only approved by the Boss.” “Who is the Boss?” Anatoly scrubbed a hand down his face, fear flashing in the depths of his eyes. “Protective custody, right?” “Yes, Mr. Stonosky.” “The Boss is Mikhail Volkov.” “Did you know Doctor Thompson beforehand?” “No, but I’ve seen him around the Boss. Worked on his kids, like their physician.” That was…unexpected. She could only imagine what the girl was thinking at this point. “How long was Doctor Thompson their private physician?” “I don’t know.” “Okay. Run me through the events of the night of the murder.”

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“We get to Michigan, stole a car, and went over to the doc’s place. He recognizes us, lets us in. No one else was home so we weren’t worried about witnessed. Then, my Captain shot him three times in the chest.” A sharp rap on the glass made Margaret grimace in irritation, hating being interrupted in the middle of an interrogation. Excusing herself, Margaret exited and entered the soundproof rom where Rodriguez was crouched in front of Lauren, speaking quietly to her. Margaret had seen many cases where children heard the confessions of their parent’s killer, and in most of those circumstances, they would cry, trying to fight past officers to try and get to the source of their pain, but not Lauren. She sat in what Margaret assumed was stunned silence, just staring at the floor. Margaret felt a pang in her chest, never enjoying this part of her job.

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“Maybe she should wait—” “Ask him,” Lauren spoke up as she gazed at Margaret, tears shining in her eyes, “what his captain said. Before he shot my father, ask him what was said.” Margaret’s mouth gaped open. “How do you know anything was said?” “I was there, in the closet.” Her eyes grew far away. “He said it in Russian.” “If you were to hear his voice again, would you be able to identify it?” Lauren nodded. She was a witness. Margaret didn’t know whether to feel elated by the information, or saddened. If she could positively identify Ivan Volkov’s voice, that, coupled with Anatoly’s testimony could send him away for life, but if the Russian Mafia found out about this, they were both as good as dead. ***

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“May I speak to you privately, Detective?” Lauren watched them walk out, pulling the door shut as they went. While she watched the ADA interrogate Anatoly in a cool, detached manner, Lauren hadn’t expected any of the information that he had revealed. As she listened to the details, she grew sick to her stomach, hating the way Anatoly could tell the story, without any remorse about what he had done. Lauren wasn’t confused. She knew the only reason he confessed was because he wanted a deal and to get back at them for what they did to him. The only fear he had shown was when it came to naming the people involved. Ivan and Mikhail. When he had first said the name, she had been shocked. If they had known her father, then they would have known that she was his daughter. Not only did she share his name, but she looked just like her father.

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So why all of the secrecy? Why pretend that they didn’t know who she was? None of this made any sense to her. But when Anatoly said that her father was the physician of Mishca and Alex, that nearly stopped her heart. Not just because of the sadness, but for the anger and betrayal. For month, Mishca had smiled at her, spent time with her, kissed her, but he never admitted to knowing her father, although he was aware that his family took her father from her. The only question was why? Rodriguez slipped back into the room after his quiet discussion in the hall. He came back to her side, his eyes softening as he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do you need a minute?” He asked as the ADA went back into the other room. Lauren watched her question him, hardly hearing anything that was being said, until the very last second. She watched his mouth

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formed the words, the way he enunciated each word like he had said them a dozen times. They’d played over and over in her ears, but unlike the time Viktor had said them, this was the voice she had heard all those years ago. This was the man that had laid out She could hear it now, clearly, as she had then, but now it was worse. Worse because she could now put a face to the men that took her father away when she was only a child. Worse because Ross had been hurt in her pursuit of the truth. And worse because the love of her life knew all about it.

Chapter twenty-Eight:

First Lady Anya Volkov was as beautiful as she was cold-hearted, a fact well-known to anyone who had the misfortune of crossing her. Born in a small village in Russia—the result of an older man raping a teenage girl—Anya had intimate knowledge of the harsh realities of poverty, and the cruel realities of where she had come from, and she later vowed never to fall as low as her mother. But only a little girl at the time, her suffering had yet to truly begin. The lure of a new,

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promising life in America appealed to Anya’s mother, Nadia. She hoped that with the opportunity, she could provide a better life for her daughter than the one she’d had in her politically oppressed country. Yet—like many women before them—Nadia and Anya were smuggled into the country illegally and under false pretenses. Nadia was forced into prostitution, and since Anya was just a girl at the time—their captors liked to believe that they had a conscious—was forced to watch night after night as her mother was struck with a needle, the cloudy liquid inside making her pliable to the men that sought to use her. Anya was exposed to another world she knew very little about, seeing women used for their bodies, men coming and going as they pleased, flashing wads of money. The only conclusion her young, but warped mind processed was that through sex, money would flourish. If she wanted to get out, she

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would have to use her body to get the things she wanted. At just the tender age of sixteen—long after escaping her jailers and leaving her mother to her fate—Anya learned the art of seducing men. The first man to ever succumb to her charms was an English professor that taught her the language of this country and provided her with everything she could have possibly wanted. She was not confused in any way. She knew what he expected of her, and knew that he only kept her because of his perverse nature. The older she got, the quicker he grew distant, but that was no matter. Anya drained him of every cent to his name and left in the middle of the night. She had no fear that he would come after her, knowing that he faced a much longer sentence if she ever opened his mouth. With her first taste of the upper-class society, Anya decided then that she would do

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everything in her power never to return to her impoverished childhood, begging for food and wearing rags for clothes. Once the professor was of no use to her anymore, next came a famous chef, a CEO, and even a lawyer. Men walked in and out of her life, their money left behind, but to a woman like Anya, it was no longer enough. She grew bored with the scores of men, seeing them only as means to an end. She wanted the thrill of the chase, the excitement of a challenge. That was when she stumbled across Mikhail Volkov and his wife, Catja. She knew with only a glance that he was different from the men before him, that he could be everything that she wanted. There was something dark and alluring about him that called to a primitive part of her. Anya had to have him, no matter the cost, no matter who was hurt in the end.

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And though there were some women that would find the idea of courting a married man repugnant, she reveled at the idea, eager to test the wiles she had patiently acquired over the years. Every Thursday at the beginning of the month, like clockwork, Mikhail and a group of other men would meet in the city, frequenting a hotel she was staying in. For months she tried to tempt him, but nothing seemed to catch his eye when he was at the hotel, but luck was on her side. After a bit of spying and bribing, she learned that the couple and their four-year-old son were in need of a maid. Though it pained her greatly to sink so low as to scrub the floors on her hands and knees, the reward was too important for her to allow her pride to interfere. Anya groveled in the face of Mikhail’s wife, but when she was gone from the house and she was free to wander the house as she pleased, she poured on the charm whenever

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she came across Mikhail. A peak of the lacy cups of her bra here, a flash of her panties there. It was his smile that gave him away, the slight tilt of his lips letting her know she was finally getting to him. It seemed to prove too much for the devoted husband of six years. No sooner had Anya begun working in the home, she and Mikhail began their illicit affair. They snuck around at first, making love in every room. Soon, neither cared whether they were caught, practically throwing it in Catja’s face. Now the mistress of the house, it was not just Catja receiving elaborate and expensive gifts, but there was one thing of Catja’s that Anya still coveted, her diamond ring. She longed to finally have one of her own, much bigger than the dainty, traditional cut of Catja’s. Anya had begun to plot, thinking of ways to take the other woman out of the picture without suspicion falling on herself,

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but there was no easy way to accomplish this since Catja no longer trusted her. But luck was still on Anya’s side. For reasons Anya had never cared to find out, Catja was dying. On that fateful morning, as Catja’s casket was lowered into the ground, Anya began planning her dream wedding. Six weeks later, she was married. Now, as the woman of the house—and knowledgable of every aspect of Mikhail’s life—Anya requested everything under the sun. They moved to the manor out of the city, purchasing the twenty acres of land surrounding it. If she wanted a car, she needed only to bat her eyelashes, and as long as the boy that Mikhail fawned over did not try to form any kind of relationship with her, she was content in her new found happiness and power…at least for a spell. That happiness she had searched for so long began to fade as she was now thrust into the position of house wife. For her, the spark

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was no longer there, until a new delightful challenge presented itself just a few months later. Now, a simple little suka thought to unravel everything that Anya had worked for? She would kill her first. As a mixture of rain and hail fell from the stormy gray clouds obscuring the sky, Anya sat in silence in the back of her chauffeured town car, her driver expertly maneuvering through the late day traffic. They were on their way to a meeting with one of Anya’s sources inside the NYPD. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a parking lot behind a gambling parlor in Chinatown—the owners friends of the Bratva’s—adjacent to the unmarked police car. It had always amused Anya that the police in this country liked to believe their cars were inconspicuous. In fact, it was painfully obvious who the vehicle belonged to.

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She adjusted her sunglass in annoyance as she waited Officer Johnny Marciano to hustle his way over. Henry, the driver, stepped out of the car, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he intercepted Marciano, checking him over and removing his firearm, before allowing him into the car. Johnny Marciano was in his mid-forties, with a beer gut and a grotesque combover. He had beady brown eyes and the tan skin of his Italian heritage. Beneath his arm, he carried a large briefcase that he held onto like precious gold. With on last cursory glance around, he climbed into the back with Anya, the pulse at the base of his neck fluttering wildly as Anya leveled a stare on him. She was dangerous in her own right. Marciano gave her a pained smiled as he swept his hand over his thinning hair, shifting the case onto his lap. Behind her glasses, she could see the fine tremor running through his body.

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Sighing in impatience, she had no time for reassurances. “Do you have what I asked for?” “Uh, yea.” He cleared his throat, wiping the sleeve of his suit jacket across his face. “You said I would get paid.” Most men, no matter their occupation, no matter their moral development, always had a price. There was always a dirty little secret that they didn’t want revealed, or money they needed to provide for their families, especially the men in law enforcement that made these men susceptible to the less moral underworld of crime. Marciano, in particular, had two teenage daughters with hopes of attending the colleges of their choice and the money he made at the department couldn’t afford the expenses. Anya withdrew a stuffed enveloped filled with twenty-thousand dollars in small bills. She waited until he unhanded the briefcase

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before tossing it at him, watching with barely veiled disgust at the sight of him nearly salivating. “I trust this is everything you have on the case?” “Yes,” he said nodding. “Of course.” She tapped a nail against the rear window and Marciano’s door opened. As he climbed out, he turned to Anya and said, “There’s a witness, a young girl. I think her name was Lauren something. It might be in the file.” Anya’s fingers tightened so hard on the briefcase that her knuckles blanched. Marciano, sensing her escalating anger, made a hasty retreat, getting in his car and speeding away without a backward glance. “We’re done here,” Anya called to Henry as the door was being shut. Unlatching the briefcase, she began digging through the files, reading over the statements of various witnesses. She already knew about the homicide detective that was

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assaulted—and couldn't care less. The witnesses hadn’t seen much. None of their statements would hold up in court, of that she was sure, but Lauren’s testimony would be a bit of a problem, but Mishca could handle that. What she wasn’t expecting to hear about was the murdered doctor. An event in the past she though had long since been buried. Inside a pocket, there was a silver voice recorder with a tape inside. Rewinding it back to the beginning, she pressed play. “I have information…” She recognized the voice as one of the men under Viktor’s control. “About a murder.” Most of the men in their organization were loyal and would gladly throw themselves into the fire to help out a fellow Vor. This man’s betrayal was a breach of everything they believed in and he would be dealt with immediately.

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But it was his words that made a sliver of fear go through Anya. She withdrew her cell phone and quickly dialed a number. “I need to see you.” She listened, nodding along, hanging up after she got his location. Giving the address to the driver, she reached into a side compartment on the door, withdrawing a bottle of champagne. Popping the cork, she poured a glass, sucking down the contents in two gulps. Foregoing the glass, she forgot her status as she drank deeply from the bottle. Anya kept replaying the tape, knowing that she would need it to convince him that the girl was a problem and needed to be neutralized. Despite the oath that they lived under, Mikhail loved his son deeply, but Anya knew that if Mishca jeopardized the Vory v Zakone, that love would be put to the side. Taking a deep breath, as she had done so long ago, she began to plot how best to get

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rid of the one person that could destroy everything. *** Anya found Mikhail in his usual spot, reading the paper as well as eating borsch. At her entrance, he patted the spot beside him. She perched on the arm of his chair, smiling when he eyed her legs as she crossed them, flashing him her thigh. Some things never got old. “We have a problem,” she said taking the newspaper from his hands, replacing it with the briefcase. “It seems the girl is talking.” He flipped the latches on the case, reading over the statements inside, his expression never changing. The tape recorder wasn’t inside, however, it and the tape inside already destroyed on her way here. “How did you come across this?” He asked dropping it back into the case, closing it and setting it to the side.

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“I still have friends,” she said easily, not wanting to give away her sources. “But that is not important right now. We need to fix this before any more damage can be done.” “Fix what?” Mishca asked entering. He looked vastly different from the last time he’d been to the manor. Anya had heard vaguely that he and the girl were no longer together and that he had been warned away from her. She hadn’t expected it to have any effect on him. The last man that she ended a relationship with, she barely gave him a second though, but Mishca looked miserable. “It seems,” Anya answered, “that your female has gone to the police.” He frowned. “What do you mean? There is nothing for her to go to the police with.” “Are you sure? You haven’t been thinking clearly since you brought her into our lives.” “Father?”

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Him blatantly ignoring her rankled her and if he were anyone else, she would demand that he was taught some manners. Mikhail explained to him what was going on, the information they had, and what would happen if anything were to come out. “Like I said. She doesn’t know anything.” “Then why is she meeting with the NYPD,” Anya asked showing him one of the few pictures of the girl walking out of the precinct. “As I said.” He glared over at Anya. “I’ve never mentioned anything incriminating. Yes, she has her suspicions—only after that detective came here. She never mentioned me to him.” “You were careless.” “Enough, Anya.” Mikhail drummed his fingers on his desk, looking at his son. “Viktor answered for his part in this. Now, you have to answer for your part as well.” A tick started in Mishca’s jaw. “What are you saying?”

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“You know the answer to that, Mishca,” Anya said with mock sympathy, more than eager to get this over with. Anya never had any misconceptions about her relationship with Mishca. Before she had Aleksandra, he tended to avoid her, preferring to spend his time with the nannies and even that dreadful doctor. Maybe he knew about her relationship with Mikhail before his mother’s death and that warped his relationship with her, but as long as she had his father’s heart, she had the most power. As long as the truth didn’t come out… “I’m not going to kill her,” Mishca said with absolute conviction. She sneered at him. “It’s not optional.” His unease morphed into anger as he turned years worth of hatred on her. “I don’t answer to you, remember your place.” Gasping, she looked to Mikhail. “You will allow him to speak to me like this?” “If you would excuse us, my love.”

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Anya didn’t budge. “I don’t—” “That means leave. Now.” Sensing the agitation in Mikhail’s voice, Anya wisely stood, smoothing a hand over her hair though there wasn’t a strand out of place, and left the office. She didn’t go far, staying there to press her ear against the door, trying to discern their muffled conversation. It was difficult and her frustration only mounted, at least until she caught the end of it. For a moment, she had worried whether or not Mikhail would side with her, but she shouldn’t have worried. The door swung open before Anya could move away, a fuming Mishca standing there. In that moment, he looked just like his father, but for entirely different reasons. Mikhail was ruthless in his pursuit of power and often had no mercy, but Mishca was showing this ruthlessness, not for power, but for a simple girl.

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How could anyone love another this much? He stormed past her and if she were a better person, she might not have gloated, but when she got her way, Anya had to let everyone know. “I’m sure you will find another one of her, Mishca. She wasn’t anything special.” He spun around so quickly that she had no time to move away before his hand was around her throat, thrusting her back against the wall. “One of these days, gryaznaya shlyukha, my father will grow tired of you.” She tried to pull free, but he held strong, squeezing her jaw hard enough to make her wince. “And when he does,” he went on, jerking her face up so she was looking at him. “I will enjoy nothing more than putting a bullet in your brain because I hate loose ends.” He shoved her away, stalking away. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she took

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a deep breath, rubbing at her sore throat. When this was all over, she was going to have Mikhail exile the little bastard far away from her.

Chapter twenty-Nine:

Answers Days turned into weeks as Lauren tried her best to avoid Mishca and anyone involved with him. Sure, New York was a big place, but the police had made her a bit paranoid that she might run into him. She constantly looked over her shoulder, some days spotting menacing looking men in black following her, but they never came too close to her, like they were just letting her know she was being watched. Ross was out of the hospital, staying at a hotel, constantly guarded by the NYPD, just

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in case anyone tried to pay him a visit. Despite Lauren’s protesting, a squad car was parked outside her brownstone. She was nearly healed, her bruises faded to slightly discolored marks, but she could still feel the hits when she was alone at night, like ghost fists were pummeling her face. It only worsened when she thought of Mishca. Now, sitting in the living room, waiting for Amber to get back with the food, Lauren tried to wrap her mind around the double life she now knew he led. He hadn’t denied it when she questioned him—though she hadn’t given him much opportunity to say anything—but his silence was answer enough. With the way they described the Vory v Zakone, she expected someone ruthless, power hungry, but she hadn’t see it…not in Mishca. In hindsight, she could see it in Mikhail and Viktor, their mannerisms, the way they

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carried themselves. It would also explain Mishca’s disappearances every Thursday. She had spent time researching it, learning every thing she could about the secretive organization. To her surprise, there wasn’t much on them. She found the set of rules, a mandate that they followed though parts of it seemed to contradict with the men she was dealing with. Like the thieves-in-law not having a family. Mikhail had a wife and children, and from what Lauren had seen, it didn’t seem like he had forsaken Mishca. Besides the rules, there was hardly anything of value on the internet. There was plenty on other criminals, and there were even mentions of other Russian Mob bosses, but she found nothing on Mikhail and the rest of the Volkovs. She didn’t know whether they were just Russian Mob in name, or if there was never enough evidence gathered against them to build a case.

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But despite everything, Lauren still missed him. She stubbornly clung to the hope that Mishca had no involvement, that he knew nothing about any of this. She wasn’t ready to face the reality that he was. Her phone rang. Peeking at the caller id, she answered. “Hi, Detective Rodriguez.” “Lauren, I need you to come down to the station.” His tone was urgent, making her immediately sit up. “Why? Is my mom okay? Ross?” “No, no, they’re fine. It’s about Ivan Stonosky. He was killed in a prison attack last night.” Rodriguez was still talking when the doorbell rang. “I, uh, hold on. My roommate is home.” “We’re going to need you to come down to the station to discuss your statement and the case. Lauren? Lauren, are you there?”

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She couldn’t respond, too preoccupied with the sight of Mishca standing at the threshold, his mouth set in a hard line. He didn’t speak, neither did she, but their reasons couldn’t be more different. He glanced down at her phone where she held it by her side. Detective Rodriguez was still talking, but his words were muffled. She hung up. “What are you doing here?” “We need to talk.” His voice was deep and emotionless. “There’s nothing for us to talk about. I think you should leave.” She started to shut the door, fully intending to end all discussion there, but he caught it with his hand, making her jolt back. “Not optional.” Mishca took a step towards her and she took a step back. They repeated this dance until he was far enough into the room to shut the door and flip the lock.

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Her eyes darted around the room, searching in vain for a weapon to use against him. Her purse was sitting on the floor near the couch where she had tossed it a few hours prior. If she could make it over to it, she could grab the bottle of mace she kept inside of it. There were a small percentage of people that were unaffected by it, but she hoped that Mishca wasn’t one of them. He gestured to the couch with a tilt of his head. “Have a seat.” She did, not because he commanded her, but because her legs were giving out. At least her purse was in reach. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table right in front of her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “How did you get past the officer outside?” His lip curled up. “Anyone can be bought.” Lauren’s hand tightened reflexively on her phone. “He would still remember you if you

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came here to kill me…unless he’s already dead.” He lost his smile. “I’m not here to kill you.” “You killed Anatoly.” At the look that crossed his face, she scoffed. “It was pretty obvious. I talked to you, one of them ends up dead, the other is in a wheelchair.” He reached out a hand, meaning to trace her jaw like he had done so many times in the past, but when she flinched, he pulled away. “You should have never been harmed.” “But isn’t this who you are? Don’t you kill people?” Lauren didn’t know what made her brave enough to ask. “How do you know Anatoly is dead?” She didn’t miss that he hadn’t answered her other question. Instead of answering his, she shrugged. “You have two choices. Either leave the city or die.”

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She frowned, could almost see her feelings reflected in his eyes. Shock, anger, hurt. “Would you, Mish? Would you kill me?” “I would never hurt you,” he said softly, reminding her why she had always been so captivated by him. “But I can’t control what others might do. I’m begging you to let this go.” He touched her hands as he said the words, like he was compelled to. His thumb stroked over her knuckles and for a moment as she closed her eyes, she could imagine that they were together again, happy and just enjoying each other. Looking away, she folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t.” He cursed, shoving his hands through his hair. “I thought it was enough. I can understand your need for retribution, believe me.” “What are you talking about?” “Anatoly and Ivan,” he said exasperated. “I took care of it.”

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His knuckles were discolored and had a few scrapes and barely healed cuts. He wasn’t just the man Ross described or the boy she had fallen in love with, but a combination of the two. “Its not about them,” she whispered. “Then tell me,” he pleaded. “Let me help you.” She wanted to. He could probably provide more answers than what she could find on her own, but he was too close to the source and with everything that was going on, she didn’t know if she could trust him. “I know, Mishca. I know.” It was subtle, just a slight tightening around his mouth, but it was all she needed. He knew about her father. “Is that what you’re after, confirmation?” “No, I want the truth.” “Lauren…” “I want a meeting with your father.”

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He was already shaking his head before she finished. “Not going to happen.” “It needs to.” “He will kill you.” “I. Don’t. Care.” He grabbed her by the arms, hauling her to her feet in a flurry of motion. She was too shocked to react, caught up in being pressed against his chest. “I care. Why aren’t you understanding that?” “Mish—” He kissed her, so abruptly that at first she stood motionless, then she melted under his onslaught returning his kiss with everything she had in her. He held her steady, his arms wrapped tight around her, and she lost herself in his embrace…at least until common sense return. “Why can’t you let it go?” He asked against her neck, still holding her.

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“Would you? If it was your father, would you just let it go?” “I can’t protect you from them if you won’t listen to me.” She finally pulled away, the cold returning now that his arms weren’t around her. “I never asked for your protection, Mishca. I never asked for any of this.” His expression changed from pleading to determined. “This is your last warning, Lauren. I won’t ask again. Leave or I will force you.” “Then do it because I’m not going to stop digging until I get to the truth.” He said something to her in Russian, walking out. As he slammed the door, the picture of Lauren and her father tipped off the mantel, landing on its face on the floor. She heard the crunch of glass, rushing over to pick it up. Smaller pieces of the frame’s face fell out and onto the floor.

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It was almost ironic as she turned it over in her hands. The point of impact seemed to fan out over her father’s face. Loosening the prongs along the back, she removed the black cover, intending to take the picture out and place it in one of the few empty frames she still had in her room, but as her hand hovered over it, she spotted black marker along the back. In the top left hand corner, a series of numbers of letters were written in her father’s handwriting. She had no idea what they meant, only knowing that this must have meant something important for him to have hidden it in a picture that he had wrapped for her birthday well before his death. Just another piece of the puzzle. “Was that Mishca I saw leaving?” Amber asked coming through the door, carrying the bags into the kitchen. “I thought you two broke up?”

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“We did…I, uh, had one of his shirts here and he wanted it back.” It wasn’t like she could tell her the truth about what was going on. “And have you seen that cop outside? He’s been there for like the last two weeks.” “Probably doing a stakeout.” Amber didn’t look convinced. “I’m always here, just so you know.” “Thanks. I’m going to eat later. I don’t think I’m very hungry.” Back in her bedroom, Lauren hunted through her notes for anything dealing with the code. She would have remembered something like this, knowing that it might have meant something important, but nothing in her father’s case file seemed to match this. She was about to give up, not knowing where else to look until her gaze fell on the box of her father’s old things in the corner. There was one thing she hadn’t looked at.

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His computer. Plugging it into the charger, she waited for it to boot up, bringing up the home screen. She went to all the obvious places first. Saved documents, web history, videos, but she couldn’t find a single thing that helped. She even googled the code, thinking maybe it was some kind of complex algorithm that might lead her to a place. Yet, she still found nothing. She was adamant, though, that all of this was connected. The Vory v Zakone and her father, and she realized that she was on the cusp of figuring out what that connection was. If she was unable to find it, there was only one person she knew of that could find it. She made the call, the person on the other end picking up on the second ring. “Hey Matt, I need a favor…” ***

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It took a few days for Matt to come over—with her work schedule and his school work, finding a time when they were both available had been hard. The anticipation had been clawing at her, knowing that she was so close to the truth. When she had gotten the call from Matt earlier saying he could swing by, she nearly jumped at the opportunity. Hours later, Matt was at the door, looking like death warmed over as he stepped into the apartment wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants, his standard black converse, and a Tshirt that read, ‘My Nerd Looks Better Than Yours,’ shouldering a heavy looking backpack. “I have a test tomorrow, babe. What can I do for you?” He set up his equipment on the sofa, already knowing the basics of what she wanted after their conversation on the phone though she had still been a little vague.

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Sitting next to him, she pulled out her dad’s old laptop, setting it up next to his much newer one. “Christ, when did you get that thing? The Bronze Age?” Smirking, she shook her head. “It was my father’s. Are you going to help or continue to make fun of it?” “Yea, yea. What do you need?” “I need you to hack into his files and—“ He sounded like he was reading from a mandate as he said, “Hacking is illegal, especially in the fine state of New York where it is considered a fel—” “I’ll buy you the new Call of Duty.” “Wellll…” He scratched his head. “There’s a possibility of a fine and prison time and I mean honestly, do I look like I can survive in prison?” “Fine!” Lauren said throwing her hands up though she was smiling. “The new Call of

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Duty and that special remote thing you wanted for your system.” Cracking his knuckles, he grinned shamelessly. “It’s not like I’ll get caught anyway.” Digging through his bag, he withdrew an external hard drive, as well as a double-sided USB cable that connected the two laptops. He typed furiously on his own and whatever he was doing made her father’s computer light up, mimicking the actions. “I think I underestimated you,” Lauren muttered as she watched him effortlessly sort through hundreds of files. He chuckled, not looking away from the dual screens. “First in class. Now, what am I looking for?” Lauren held out the picture, showing him the code across the back of it. “I think this is a password and I need to find whatever file it unlocks.” He nodded, using the trackpad to click open a folder. It opened to another image,

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this one of Lauren sitting beneath the Christmas tree, antlers on her head and a glowing red nose. “You were adorable,” Matt said in an unusually high voice. “That’s it?” Lauren asked, feeling like the results of her search were a bit…anticlimatic. “What were you expecting? Military war plans?” Matt grew serious as he regarded her. “Were you though, seriously? Because I have a theory that our government is preparing—” Lauren smacked his arm, trying not to laugh. “Not now with the conspiracy theories. Is there anything unusual about the picture?” “I don’t think so.” He glanced back at the screen, pulling up the details of the image. “Huh…” “Huh…why huh?”

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He gestured to the image. “It’s like one gigabyte.” “Okay?” Realizing she had no idea what he meant, he rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder what they’re teaching you in school. Like the fucking Pythagorean theorem—I mean I know I’m into computers and shit—but it’s just useless and—” “Matt!” “Anyway, most pictures are only fifty megabytes, and that’s pretty large. This one is too big.” “So why is this different?” He shrugged. “Don’t know. Unless…” He began typing again, dragging the file from the folder to his desktop. Grabbing the flash drive he had attached to a chain around his neck, he inserted it into the drive, copying the image and pulling it up on his own laptop.

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“I have a program that decrypts hidden content inside video or audio files. Was your father like a spy or something? That would be pretty cool.” “He was a doctor, a surgeon.” “Alright, here we go.” With ridiculous ease, Matt extracted the content, opening a gray window with a question mark, a cursor asking for a password. Picking up the picture, he typed in the series of numbers and letters, pressing enter. A little dial appeared, spinning for several seconds before the box expanded into a larger window. They both leaned forward to see the screen better, Matt reading the document aloud. “Okay, case number 24369. A girl, two years old, needed a blood transfusion because of an accident. Is this making any sense to you?” Lauren shook her head, still reading. She understood the gist of what the report was

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saying from her time volunteering at the hospital, but what she didn’t understand was why any of this was important enough for her father to bury it. “It says the father on file was not a match for the girl—uh oh, baby daddy drama.” Laughing, he read on. “Ah, here we are. The girl’s name was Volkov, Aleksandra. Hey, isn’t your boyfriend’s name Volkov.” And there it was, the crux.

Chapter thirty:

The Final Meeting Lauren sat at her desk, her feet resting on the edge of it as she balanced on the back two legs. She watched the cars drive by, happy pedestrians going about their lives. She missed that blissful ignorance. One morning had changed her life, had changed everything she thought she knew. She almost wished she hadn’t gone, had heeded her mother’s advice, but she needed this. Even if what was about to happen would destroy everything.

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Heavy knocks sounded at the door, just as she dropped down, climbing to her feet. It was time. Grabbing her bag, she swung it over her shoulder, taking a calming breath. She didn’t take a moment to rethink what she was doing. Through the peephole, she looked at the men standing on the other side, waiting. Even without their visible tattoos, it was obvious who had sent them. Touching the knob, she briefly wondered if this was how it happened to her father. If he had sat alone, waiting for the day the Vory v Zakone would show up at his door. Is that why he made her hide in the closet, for her own protection? Tamping down a new wave of anger, Lauren swung the door open, facing the enforcers with her head held high. She couldn’t act irrationally if this was going to work, she had to remain calm.

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“You were sent to kill me.” It wasn’t a question. “But if the Pakhan wants the information I have, I want a meeting.” Neither of them confirmed or denied her words, just stood there. She recognized one of them, Gerard, she thought his name was, from Mishca’s apartment. He barked something to his partner, but never took his eyes off her. His partner pulled out a small silver phone, dialing a number and talking quietly. Moments later, he hung up. With a single head nod, she had her answer. *** Some might have thought it was the stupidest idea in the world to get in the car with two hired guns, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Driving through the city, Lauren kept a tight hold on her bag, feeling the slight indentations of the folder inside. For hours she had read the same line over and over again,

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her mind completely blown. She didn’t think something like that was important in their way of life, but it was clearly enough to kill over. They pulled in front of an upscale hotel, a number of black vehicles parked along the street. People were walking along, completely ignoring the dozen or so men that stood next to the cars. It was so stereotypical that Lauren had to wonder why no one questioned their presence, or did they know, as she now did, that they didn’t want to cross these people? She hardly saw any of the interior of the hotel, quickly ushered over to the sets of elevators. There was one that was being guard by a man wearing a headpiece with a slight bulge beneath his suit jacket. He turned a key and the doors slid open, another man waiting. The men flanked her, never letting her take a single step without one of them on her heels. As the doors were closing, she took

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a deep breath and hoped that she would come back down. With each floor they passed, the bell dinged, the sound spiking her anxiety. Her reflection in the mirrored elevator showed the fear in her eyes, the stony expressions of the guards. Finally, the lift stopped. She followed one of the guards out, the other taking up the rear. She had no time to take in the opulence of the room as they rounded a corner, stopping at another set of doors. They were like checkpoints, and at each one, the new set of guards mumbled in their headpieces, getting confirmation before allowing them forward. But outside these doors, only Vlad stood, in an all black suit, the gun at his waist in clear view. His eyes flickered to hers briefly, then gave a cool nod in the men’s direction and they let her go. They stepped back and disappeared back into the elevators.

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Before Lauren could walk in, Vlad stopped her, looking pensive. “My Captain, he says, show no fear.” Her brows drew together. His cap—Mishca. Mishca was telling her not to show any fear. Not waiting for her response, he shouldered the doors open. Mishca, Anya, Mikhail, Viktor, Alex, and a few other men that Lauren had never seen before were seated around a circular table, a glass resting in front of each of them. She wondered why Alex was there since she doubted she was involved in the actual business. They all looked up at her intrusion, but only Mishca and Alex looked surprised to see her. Mishca looked between her and his father, the hand on the table clenching into a fist, but he made no other move. It was plainly obvious that in this room, Mishca had no power, at least not against his father.

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Seeing them all together, a big happy—albeit criminal—family made what she was about to do just a little bit harder, but she wouldn’t turn back. It was their fault that she lost her father. The truth she was about to reveal was everything they deserved and more. Mikhail gestured for her to take the lone seat, twisting the heavy silver ring on his pinky finger. “I did not expect your request. I thought by this point you would be dead.” Mishca jumped to his feet, speaking rapidly in Russian. Mikhail spared a glance in Mishca’s direction, his eyes turning fierce for a second as he barked an order that Mishca wisely followed. He grabbed his chair, setting it back to rights, but he didn’t sit, instead laying his palms on the table, his body strung tight. “There’s only one problem with that,” Lauren said, sounding far calmer than she

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felt. “If you killed me, they would know it was you. Plus, I have something you want.” She pulled out the copies of the journal entries, dropping them on the table. “My father kept a journal about all the work he did for you. Names. Dates. It’s enough for a clever man.” Though she didn’t admit that there was far less information than what she was describing. Mikhail laughed. “Is that what you came here to do? Threaten me?” “I want answers about my father,” she went on. “I’m sure you remember him.” She looked to Mishca then. “Dr. Cameron Thompson. I think you called him Doc?” He at least had the decency to look ashamed. “What is—” Mikhail raised his hand to cut Anya off. “You have all of your answers, yes? In your little journal.”

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“No, I want to know why you ordered him to die.” Everyone’s reaction was carefully controlled, well everyone except for Alex, she just looked bewildered. Anya’s face twisted into a scowl, but there was a flash of uneasiness in her eyes. Viktor looked unfazed though he did glance at Mikhail out of the corner of his eye. More surprising, Mikhail and Mishca both frowned, their expressions mirrored one another. “Mikhail, we have no time for this foolish girl’s accusation. Kill her and be done with it” Viktor said “If I killed the good doctor, would I have let you near my son?” Mikhail asked ignoring Viktor’s outburst. “You might have thought I would never find out.” He shook his head. “Then you are not as smart as my son credits you. Tell me, why do

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you think I have had something to do with your father’s death.” “A man, Ivan, was brought into the police station because he attacked me and someone I care about. He offered information to the attorney about a murder, my dad’s murder. He provided enough detail that they reopened his case. He said that you sanctioned my father’s death, sending him, another man, and Viktor to see it done.” Lauren looked away. “A robbery gone wrong. That’s what I grew up believing, at least until I heard him say that phrase at breakfast. I guess you really can’t fight fate.” It had taken her days to find out what that saying meant. It wasn’t like she could speak Russian, but after trial and error, sounding it out over and over again, she finally had enough to find a match. “How do you know these things?” Mikhail asked, his tone sharper than before.

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“I was in the closet. No one knew I was there and it was kept out of the police file.” Pity. That was what she saw in Mishca’s eyes as he stared at her, and understanding. But she didn’t want that from him. She wanted to keep the two sides of him separate so she could continue down this path. “These men you speak of, they are the ones to attack you and the cop, yes?” She nodded. “Why would I do this? You cannot collect from a dead man.” Lauren dug into her bag, conscious of the guards reaching for their concealed weapons, but she merely withdrew the folder and set it on the table. “My father learned that Viktor was sleeping with your wife.” Anya gasped. “You will allow her to accuse me of these lies? In my country, I would cut out your tongue.”

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“There is no need for such threats, Anya. Let the girl speak. If she lies, well, we will deal with her, but know that no harm will come to her until she is finished.” But Mikhail didn’t look like he believed Lauren either. He just seemed amused by it all. “You claim to know of this life, then you know of my title. No one moves unless I order it.” “Unless they were trying to hide it from you,” Lauren retorted. “If you didn’t order it, what reason would your Captain have to kill him?” “Where is your proof?” “There is no proof!” Anya exclaimed indignantly. “She is lying.” Lauren looked down at the folder, knowing the answers it held, but she didn’t actually need them. All the proof she needed was in the room. “There’s living proof.”

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This time it was Mishca who spoke up, the confusion clear in his expression. “Was there a witness to the act?” “Alex.” “Me?” Alex looked to Mishca. “How did I get in this? I was like a baby when her father was killed.” Steeling her resolve, Lauren looked directly at Mikhail. “She’s not your daughter.” Silence. The cool façade that Mikhail donned bled away, replaced with something far more fearful. “I have tolerated this…tale on behalf on my son. I will not tolerate your disrespect.” “You hired my father to be their private physician. Alex needed some kind of procedure that called for him to run your DNA against hers, you weren’t a match.” They all started yelling in Russian, a conversation that was easy enough to follow just by watching them.

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“Who is the father?” Mikhail demanded of Anya. “It’s you! I swear.” Viktor exploded out of his seat, going for the weapon at his belt, but before he could make another move, the guards restrained him. “You!” Mikhail spat in Lauren’s direction. “Finish.” “There was a familial match.” “Familial?” “Viktor. Alex’s father is Viktor. When my father stumbled on the truth accidentally, they had him killed.” “I should have killed you too!” Viktor spat out, spraying spittle all over the table. “You and his precious whore of a wife!” Tired of his mockery, Lauren ran at him, but Mishca intercepted her, holding her with irresistible force. “Did you ever wonder why he never moved from in front of that door? Why he

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never tried to run? He was protecting me you son of a bitch and I hope you rot in hell!” “Enough.” Mikhail didn’t yell, but his tone held enough authority that silence fell over the room. “Vlad, take Viktor to the wet rooms.” “Brother, no. This is simply not true. I would never…” Viktor’s pleas and curses fell on deaf ears as he was wrestled from the room, his struggles no match for the three men that were practically carrying him out. Alex looked crestfallen, looking to the man she had thought of as an uncle her entire life, and back to her mother, who refused to cry or beg. That cloud of anger that had gripped Lauren since Viktor had hurled insult after insult dissipated as she was now faced with the cruel reality of what she had inflicted on another person. When more men came into the room, Lauren had to squeeze her eyes

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shut as Alex cried louder, having to watch her mother drag her from the room as well. Though her mother was too prideful, Alex begged Mikhail on her behalf, making Lauren’s guilt worsen. When they were gone, Mishca released her, backing away like she was diseased. Mikhail stared her down, but his features were schooled into a mask of nonchalance so she couldn’t get an accurate read on his mood. “You know more than what I allow, but I am a man of honor and although your father cannot attest to that, he was loyal to me. For that, you will live to see another day. Mishca has sworn to me that you will not breathe a word to law enforcement and for that reason, I expect your loyalty from this moment forward.” He stood, buttoning the front of his coat. “We will speak again about the journal, until then.” He walked out.

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Two beats of silence. Three. Four. And with each one, the room felt smaller as she was left with Mishca. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but she could see the anger in him. More than that though, there was anguish and she didn’t know if it was for her or Alex. Lauren moved to stand, wanting to leave before he could turn that anger on her. “Was it worth it?” Mishca asked looking down at his hands. “Mish—” He shot out of his seat, getting in her face, but she didn’t back down. “Answer me.” She held her head up, refusing to recoil from him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. “Me?” He laughed bitterly. “You haven’t done anything to me. What about the girl whose life you fucking ruined? And for what? To avenge your dead father. Understand, he came to us. And for you to be so bold as to

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confront the Pakhan? You’re lucky I get to let you live!” It was different coming from him than it was coming from Viktor. Like a physical hit, his words bruised her to the point that fresh tears were stinging her eyes. It took every last bit of her willpower to continue to meet his heated gaze. Grabbing his gun off the table, she placed it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it, then brought it up to her chest, holding it pressed against her heart. “I didn’t do that,” She said surprised by how calm her voice was, but she was just too tired to feel anything more. “Anya did. Viktor did. Do not blame me for your family’s shit. I’m sorry that all of this is normal to you, but let me make something clear to you. Your uncle killed my father because he was having sex with your step mother. If my father owed you money, yea that was his mistake, but he didn’t deserve to die.

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“So I should be grateful that you’re letting me live? I don’t need shit from you. Go ahead,” she said jostling his arm. “Do what your family is known for.” When she let his hand go it took only a moment before he dropped his arm, looking ashamed. “Laur—” “I don’t ever want to see you again,” she whispered. She left him in that room and followed Mikhail’s men out of the manor, taking a deep breath to stop the traitorous tears that were waiting to fall, but she didn’t want to look weak in front of them. Everything wouldn’t be alright, not anymore. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, but it still felt like he had, like there was a giant hole in her heart. She hated him and hated herself because she loved him, and would never be able to tell him.

Epilogue “At six o’ clock this morning, the body of Viktor Volkov, brother of renowned businessman Mikhail Volkov, was found in a dumpster outside this local restaurant. Though the responding officers have refused to comment as he how he got here, it is believed that it was a mugging gone wrong…” It was fitting, karma some would say. But Lauren couldn’t muster the energy to feel anything now that Viktor was dead. He had orchestrated the death of her father, her and Ross’ assault, and practically destroyed every life he touched. Even with all the bad he had

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caused, two wrongs didn’t make a right, and now Lauren was dealing with the guilt of his murder. This was Mikhail’s message to her. A warning. Lauren might not have pulled the trigger herself, but deep down, she knew that by going to the manor, confessing the secrets that had long since been buried, she had killed him. She was conflicted about it all now that she knew Mikhail and Mishca had nothing to do with it, but did that really excuse it? They knew who she was, who her father was, and though Mikhail didn’t owe her anything, she thought she and Mishca had something meaningful. Mishca’s words still haunted her. She could still see the residual anger in his eyes, the betrayal that tore them further apart. The worst part? She understood why he didn’t tell her—it was hard to confess something he

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didn’t know—and she could even understand why he’d screamed what he did. At the time, she hadn’t been thinking about Alex and how this would affect her. But at the same time, no one had thought of her family. Lauren shut off the television, cutting off the reporter as she was covering the homicide. It had been months since the confrontation and she hadn’t heard from any of the Volkovs since. For that she was grateful. She didn’t doubt that she would see them again, after all she had something they wanted. Susan and Ross let themselves into her bedroom, knocking twice on her door before pushing it open. Ross had been released from the hospital some weeks ago, but was still on crutches, his ankle in a brace. He looked better, his color was higher, but he wasn’t at full strength yet. Since Lauren had decided to spend the summer at home—at

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least until Ross was back on his feet—they had stayed until the semester was over. She gave Ross a shaky smile, curling her legs up beneath her to face them both. She had called them to come over, wanting to confess to everything, knowing that they both deserved an explanation for what had happened to Ross and the truth she learned about her father. “Oh, Lauren, what’s wrong?” Susan asked, always knowing when something was bothering her. “Mom…” The tears came first, spilling over and down her cheeks before she could even get the words out, but when she did, forcing them out between choking sobs. When she was finally recounting everything that had happened—the Christmas dinner, Ross’ visit, her confrontation at the manor—Susan was quiet for so long, Lauren feared that at any moment she was going to break down. She was ready for it

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though, ready for the accusations, for the anger she expected her mom to feel for her, but what she didn’t expect was her deep sigh. “I know, Lauren…I know.” “What do you mean you know?” She reached for Lauren’s hand, clasping it between both of hers. “Lauren, there are things about your father…and I never wanted to tell you any of this. It was best to leave it in the past.” Lauren closed her eyes. “Mom, just tell me.” “Thanksgiving, you asked me why I was acting…strange when I met Mishca. It was because I had met him once before. Years ago, before you were born. Your father and I were here visiting when he got a call—an emergency, he told me.” Lauren looked to Ross. He was quiet, staring out the window, his impassive expression letting Lauren know this was not news to him.

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“I followed Cameron when he left the hotel.” Susan got this faraway look in her eyes, like she was reliving it. “At first I never questioned him, all those days he would have to leave, the mysterious phone calls every couple of weeks. I just got tired of not knowing. “We went to a warehouse where a bunch of men were waiting for him. I thought I could sneak in, see what he was doing, but when I saw them, I almost wished he was having an affair. That…I could get over. They brought me in to see their Boss, Mikhail. Mishca was with his mother. Cameron swore to them that I would never breathe a word of what I saw there that day.” Susan squeezed her hand. “Sweetheart, you have to understand. I promised your father I would never tell you about any of this.” “Then tell me now,” Lauren demanded. “I think I have a right to know.” “I can’t.”

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“What do you mean you can’t?” She asked pulling her hand free, climbing to her feet. “Now, Lauren—” “Don’t even start, Ross. I don’t…I mean, how are the two of you so calm about all of this? I tell you they killed father and you’re barely batting an eyelash.” She turned to Ross. “They attack us and I’m the only one freaking out.” “You think I didn’t know?” Susan asked, her voice cracking. “I knew it the moment I came home and saw him, but it wasn’t like I had any evidence to give? I only had what your father told me and that would never have been enough to bring them down. I’ve had fifteen years of living with the knowledge about Cameron’s killers. Do I feel a little better knowing that Viktor was the one that killed him and now he’s dead? Yes, but it doesn’t change anything. Your father is still gone.”

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Everything was a lie. It was like she was the only one who had no idea what was happening around her, and was the only one hurt by it all. Storming out of the room, Lauren grabbed her coat, wrenching the front door open, coming up short as she nearly ran into two detectives as they were about to knock on her door. She stepped back, taking a calming breath. “Yes? Can I help you?” They flashed gold badges. “Lauren Thompson?” “Yes?” The first cleared his throat and said, “I’m Detective Parker, my partner Detective Lorenz. We would appreciate it if you could come down to the station and answer a few questions.” Ross staggered out of the bedroom behind Susan, leaning heavily on his crutches. When he spotted the men, his fatigue vanished and

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he stood to his full height, his head held high. “What’s this about?” He asked. “In regard to the murder of Viktor Volkov.”

UNTIL THE END BOOK TWO SPRING 2014

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