The Hacker (Chicago Bratva 5)

I don’t compare Natasha—they are totally different people. I’m a totally different person with her than I was with Alyona.

I don’t want them to blur together for me. Not at all. It’s important to me that I preserve every memory of Alyona.

The oven beeps, and I realize I haven’t moved since I turned it on.

I pull the frozen pizza from the freezer, unbox it and throw it on the rack, set my phone timer for 16 minutes, and then I take our dirty clothes to the washing machine and throw them in on the shortest cycle possible. Having the two of us running around here naked is not going to work for me.

When I pop my head into the master bedroom, I find Nikolai awake.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

“Good. I’ll heat up some soup.”

He groans. “I smell pizza.”

I wince. “Sorry, the doctor said only soups or soft foods for now.” We had a telecall with Taylor this morning to check in. “You want a laptop in here, so you can watch movies or something?”

“Da.”

I go and get him the laptop, and as I set it up, he says, “You should keep her.”

My fingers stall over the keys. Alyona’s ring catches the light, winking at me. “I can’t.”

“You can. It’s allowed, Dima. Whatever rule you made for yourself at seventeen can be changed. Just like Ravil changes bratva rules. The ones that used to mean death if we broke them.”

“Don’t,” I say firmly, something shuddering and cracking inside me. “Leave it alone.” I don’t look at him like I have to keep my pain in, keep it to myself.

“It’s allowed,” Nikolai repeats, but his voice carries no fight.

I leave him with the laptop and walk away, my body suddenly feeling a million years old.

Natasha comes downstairs, her fresh-faced beauty even more excruciating because she’s dressed in a towel.

She steps into the kitchen, fidgeting with the ends of the terrycloth above her left breast. “May I help with anything?”

“Nyet, amerikanka. See if you can find a movie on the television.” I speak gently, but I desperately need some distance between us.

She curls up on the L-shaped leather sofa and pulls a plush blanket around her, which alleviates some of my tension. I slide the pizza out and cut a small piece for Nikolai, bringing it to him first. Then I pile the rest on one plate for Natasha and I to share. I bring a roll of paper towels into the living room and sit down beside her to share.

“What are you in the mood for?” She spins through Netflix as fast as I would, sliding over the shows.

“You pick,” I tell her. At the penthouse, I might throw down with Sasha, making a big fuss over not watching chick-flicks, but that’s all for play. Right now, I just want Natasha to be soothed. So whatever she wants to watch is fine with me.

She turns those big green eyes on me for a moment, then scrolls even faster. “Um… I can’t.” She bites her lip, looking adorable. “I don’t know what you like.”

“Don’t pick for me, pick for you.” I gesture at her with a slice of pizza. It tastes as cardboardy as the box it was in.

She’s obviously still troubled by my answer because a crease appears between her brows as she scrolls down. She picks comedies, then slides through them. “Easy A?”

“Never seen it.”

She hits play, and we eat and watch in silence.

Of course, it’s a movie about sex. With an adorable redhead as the heroine.

And I’m sitting beside Natasha, who is naked under that blanket.

But at least I’m not suffering from that blinding need to claim her like I was before. I’m not gnashing my teeth, ready to lash out because I can barely control myself. Something about taking her out there in the mud—the honesty behind it, maybe—loosened that noose. I admitted I wanted her, and I took her.

It was wrong, but it was also right.

And now I need to clean up the mess I made.

When the movie ends, I hit pause on the credits. “Natasha…”

She turns, her lovely face open and inquisitive. She has no makeup here, but she looks no different—her beauty is a natural one that doesn’t require much enhancement.

She’s close enough that I can smell the scent of her shampoo, feel the heat of her body beside mine.

I twitch the blanket farther up her bare shoulder. “You’re okay?”

She studies me. “I’m okay. Are you?”

I shake my head. “Not really, no.” I pick up her hand and hold it, staring down at her slender, pale fingers. The short, clean nails which had been polished in pale ballet pink, but are now half-chipped off. “I won’t call it a mistake. Only making you cry—that was unforgivable.” I close my eyes and shake my head.

Her fingers close around mine. I readjust, untangling our fingers and holding her hand in both mine, stroking down each of her digits and giving it a little twist on the end, like she does when she’s massaging me.