King's Ransom (Ruthless Doms 3)

I wonder what he thinks about then.

He’s had the same nightly ritual since I’ve started working for him, though I suspect he’s done it even longer than that. I never knew what he did at night when I was a little girl. I just remember him bringing me sweets or books when he traveled, and taking very good care of me and my mother.

Tonight, I watch him from the top landing where my bedroom lies. I don’t interrupt him. I don’t speak to him. I don’t let him know I’m even here.

Stefan doesn’t know how I feel about him, and it’s better this way.

Hell, I didn’t know how I felt about him until about a year ago. And to be honest? I think I’ve been in denial about it.

My mother fled to Russia as an Afghani refugee when I was just a child. I don’t remember anything about our trip to Russia. All I know is that when I came to this country, I spoke English with a Russian accent, even though I look as if I don’t have a drop of Russian blood in me. Not now, though. That was years ago. Few would ever suspect my roots.

I don’t know who my father was. My mother told me so little. But given her obsession with the men of the Russian Bratva, I suspect that my roots aren’t purebred Afghani.

In Russia, my mother fell in love with a man of the brotherhood. And when he moved to America, she followed. She never pursued him, though. Theirs as not a love story but a tragedy, as her love for him remained unrequited. Destined to fulfill the Bratva mission to marry strong, he wed someone else. I don’t know who and never will, now that my mother’s left to wisps of memory and broken thoughts, her mind consumed by Alzheimer’s, in one of Atlanta’s most prominent assisted living facilities.

Stefan saw to that.

It’s reason number one why I love him.

As she was one of the most dedicated staff to his brotherhood, when my mother became too frail to work, and too mentally ill to care for herself, he ensured she was well taken care of. As for me, he kept me on as paid staff. I graduated college last year, the youngest in my class, but I didn’t pursue the arts as I’d thought. I assumed the role of caretaker for Stefan’s home, a job that fills me with immense pride.

The Atlanta brotherhood owns a sprawling estate, dotted with multiple small houses, apartments scattered about like flowers in a garden. Various members of the brotherhood are single, but some begin married life here at the compound. Stefan’s son Nicolai and his wife Marissa have. They had one child together, and Marissa’s expecting another baby now. I love the way Stefan takes care of his family with such steadfast devotion.

Reason number two why I love him.

Honestly? I could tally these all night long.

I don’t lie to myself. Stefan does evil, wicked things. I know he does. I’ve seen some with my own eyes, though he’s tried to hide them. The man commands a brotherhood of ruthless, fearless soldiers. Though they keep the details of the work they do hidden, I’m no fool. I know they skirt the law and outright flaunt it regularly.

But I refuse to believe a man with eyes that blue, that impassioned, that a man who takes such tender care of my mother, could ever be anything but redeemed in the end.

Tonight, I watch as he pours two shots. I observe silently from my position on the landing and admire him from afar. And I allow my mind to wander, to fantasize about what it would be like to sit on that couch beside him. To share a drink. We wouldn’t even have to talk. Just sitting beside him would be enough.

From where I’m crouched, I can see his muscled legs stretched out before him, his feet clad in thick black boots. The jeans he wears are faded, but well mended. I see to that. My eyes travel up the length of his body, to his trim waist and torso, enhanced by the black t-shirt he wears. He folds his arms on his chest, and his muscles bulge. Strong and built, he keeps his body in top form. I’ve seen Stefan outlift the younger men in his brotherhood. He’s got tinges of silver in his hair and beard, but his eyes are that of a much younger man. Kind. Probing. Brilliant.

Though he maintains a fatherly air with all of them, there’s good reason he keeps himself in such impeccable shape. Not one of them would cross him.

Last year, when we got my mom situated in her new facility, one of the orderlies decided to give me a hard time about going in to see her. Fortunately, Stefan was with me. One look at him, adorned with signature Bratva ink, and muscles for days, and the jerk forgot how to speak.