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I swallow. Even though this information shouldn’t be a surprise, it hits differently than I’d expect when I learn about it.
“How do you know?” I murmur back, dread getting the better of me.
“I heard Matt mention it to one of his minions.”
Stephanie is a true eavesdropper and loves gossip to a fault.
She steps back and takes another drag of her cigarette. “Now, girl, tell me why you’re interested in knowing about him?”
“I-I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. Lie to someone else. I can see that gleam in your eyes whenever he’s mentioned.”
Shit.Am I that obvious? “It’s really nothing. I just…find him scary.”
“That’s because he is.” She rubs my arm. “There’s a crowd we should never mingle with. He belongs to that crowd.”
Too late, Steph.
I offer her a reassuring smile and get to my car. By the time I arrive home, I’m hungry, exhausted, and my mind is fried from the number of theories I’ve been conjuring about Adrian.
He told me he’s a strategist, so according to what Stephanie said, he plots the Bratva’s movements.
God. He’s part of the freaking Russian mafia.
A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I don’t know anything about the mafia except forThe Godfathertrilogy, and those films are a far cry from reality.
The real thing must be more dangerous.
Wiping my clammy fingers on my skirt, I tap in my code and get inside.
I throw my bag and keys on the entrance table, trying not to think about what happened on that same table last night. How he owned every inch of me and gave me a dark type of pleasure I’ll never be able to forget.
Shaking my head, I hang my coat and freeze.
Between my two other coats, there’s a different one. Gray. Male.
His.
I kick my shoes away and step inside, the sinking weight that’s been settled over my stomach since this morning lifting with each step I take. My feet come to a halt on the heated flooring at the scene in front of me.
Adrian is placing a few plates on the small dining table situated between the kitchen and the living room.
He’s dressed in his usual black pants and shirt, the first few buttons undone, revealing his hard, muscular chest that I buried my face into last night. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate design of his tattoos. Both extend in sleeves from his shoulders to above his wrists. Surprisingly, there are none on his chest or back like I’d expect from a gangster.
“You’re back,” he says without lifting his head from his task. There’s a frittata and a big bowl of salad as well as a few cut apples.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, unable to make sense of the situation.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Preparing you dinner.” He still hasn’t met my gaze. “Go wash your hands.”
My feet carry me toward him as if I’m floating on air and I grab his bicep. “I said, what are you doing in my apartment, Adrian? How did you get in?”
He continues setting the plates in a meticulous kind of way—geometric, even. “I saw you put in the code yesterday. Not that it would’ve been a problem if I hadn’t.”
“This is called breaking and entering.”
“Do you always feel the need to label everything, Lenochka?” This time, his gray eyes that are the color of harsh winters collide with mine. “Does it make you feel better?”
