Out there, beyond the confines of this estate, are monsters hunting me, and in here is a man who may be just as dangerous… and not just because he seems to enjoy playing this sadistic little game with me.
“What does that mean?” I ask cautiously. “Zay-something?”
“Zaychik?” Darkness glimmers in his smile. “It means little hare. A Russian endearment of sorts.”
My face heats, my pulse taking on an uneven rhythm. The odds that I’m wrong are decreasing by the moment, and that makes me even more nervous. I’m no virgin, but I’ve never dated anyone remotely like this man. My boyfriends in college were precisely that—boys who started off as my friends—and I have no idea how to handle this dangerously magnetic stranger who’s also my boss.
And who may be in the mafia.
It’s the last thought that brings much needed clarity to the contradictory tangle of emotions in my head.
Steadying my jangling nerves, I rise to my feet. “Thank you for the dinner and the drink. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed now. Alina’s right—it’s been a long day.”
For two long heartbeats, he doesn’t say anything, just watches me with that mocking smile, and my anxiety spikes, my stomach tying itself into knots. But then he sets down his glass and says softly, “Sleep well, Chloe. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
And just like that, I’m free—and equal parts relieved and disappointed.
12
Nikolai
I toss and turn for two hours, trying to fall asleep, but nothing happens. Finally, I give up and just lie there, staring at the dark ceiling, my muscles tight and my cock hard and aching despite the relief I gave it with my fist.
What is it about this girl that’s getting to me? Her looks? The mystery she represents? It was all I could do to let her go this evening, to back off and allow her to go to bed instead of reaching across the table to pull her to me.
What would she have done if I’d acted on that impulse?
Would she have stiffened, screamed… or would she have melted against me, her brown eyes turning soft and hazy, her lips parting for my kiss?
Swearing under my breath, I get up, throw on a robe, and walk over to my computer. It’s late morning in Moscow, so I might as well catch up with my brothers on some business.
Anything is better than dwelling on Chloe and the frustrating ache in my balls.
Konstantin doesn’t pick up my video call, so I try Valery. My younger brother answers right away, his face as smooth and expressionless as always. Despite the four-year difference between us, we look enough alike to be mistaken for twins—and often are, along with our older brother, Konstantin, and our cousin, Roman.
Molotov genes are a potent, toxic thing.
“Missing us already?” Valery’s tone betrays nothing of his emotions—if he has any, that is. It’s possible my brother feels as little as he shows. I’ve never seen him lose his temper, even as a child, and I’ve certainly never seen him cry. Then again, I was away at boarding school throughout most of his childhood, so I can’t claim to be a Valery expert.
We’re not close, my brothers and I; our father had ensured that.
“Did you get the sign-off on the manufacturing plant?” I ask in lieu of a reply. “Or is that still pending?”
Valery regards me with an unblinking stare. “It’s on the President’s desk as we speak. He promised to get it back to me by tomorrow.”
“Good.” It’s a deal I worked on for several months before leaving Moscow, and I want to make sure it goes through. “What about the tax credit bill?”
“Progressing as hoped.” My brother tilts his head. “Why the late-night call? All this could’ve waited until tomorrow.”
I shrug. “Just having some trouble sleeping.”
Valery’s gaze sharpens. “Something to do with Slava?”
“No.” At least not in the way he thinks. “Where’s Konstantin?” I want his team to do a deeper dive on Chloe Emmons, with a specific focus on the past month.
I need to know what she did and where she went while she was off the grid.
“Berlin,” Valery answers. “Acquiring more servers.”
“Again?”
It’s his turn to shrug. In my absence, my brothers have divided up the responsibilities according to their interests and strengths, with technology falling squarely into Konstantin’s domain. Not that it had ever been otherwise; even when we were in elementary school, our older brother could run circles around the nation’s top programmers. The main difference now is Valery stays out of Konstantin’s business, letting him do as he will, whereas when I headed up the family organization, I oversaw everything, Konstantin’s dark web ventures included.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll get in touch with him there. Now fill me in on the rest of it.”
And Valery does. By the time we end the call, I feel like I’m back in the loop—or at least as much in the loop as I can be while being half a world away. So much of our business takes place in person, at the galas and opera houses and high-end restaurants frequented by the power brokers of Eastern Europe. You can’t subtly bribe a politician over email, can’t intimidate a supplier into giving you a discount over Skype. It’s all about rubbing elbows with the right people, being in the right place at the right time—and not leaving traces, digital or otherwise, if you have to cross a line to get things done.