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Viktor and I had undressed in the dark. My clothes trailed to the door, while his were piled haphazardly on the bedside table. Along with something so unexpected that it left me staring at it while my body went from warm and relaxed to tense and cold.
It was a shoulder holster. Invisible under a jacket or suit coat, it wasn’t the kind of thing an imports guy would need. Not the giant automatic pistol tucked into the holster.
I hadn’t honestly thought he had a gun hidden in his suit coat the previous evening, I don’t know what I thought he showed that asshole at the bar, maybe flashing a cop badge or something. Maybe I just hadn’t wanted to consider the possibility of what scared the man off too carefully, because then I couldn’t look at him with desire anymore. Because there’s a big difference between the kind of man that owns a hunting rifle, and the kind that holds a handgun in a holster.
Who the hell was he? An attaché from one of the Eastern European embassies? A cop? Something else? Definitely not just some benign importer, that’s for sure.
He hadn’t owed a one-night stand the truth, but disappointment and worry gnawed at me anyway as I gazed at his sleeping form.
That’s when I saw the tattoos.
He had two eight-pointed stars inked on each shoulder. The sleek, well-muscled chest that I had caressed with such hunger bore an eagle and a crucifix. They were all in blue-black line art, faded with age, the lines slightly blurred like prison tattoos, and God help me, I knew what that meant. Not the specific meanings of each one, but rather what they implied.
Viktor was an actual goddamned Russian mobster. The brothers downstairs weren’t family by blood, but by avocation.Bratva members.
I had just gotten the most spectacular sex of my life from a guy who had probably killed people with that gun. Who had shown Billy, not a badge or bear mace under his coat, but that he was armed, and ready to blow his beer-soaked brains all over the bar floor if he had to.
How had I missed the warning signs? But I knew. There was only one answer for that. I had been too wrapped up in Viktor’s masculine charm to let myself think about much else.
I had to get out of here.
Moving as quietly as I could, I pulled on my clothes and checked around for my belongings before stepping into my shoes. Viktor didn’t stir, three bouts of sex in a night had worn him out. I counted my blessings as I opened the door, slipped out into the hallway, and closed it carefully behind me.
All thoughts of seeing him again had evaporated. I rushed downstairs, praying I wouldn’t run into one of his men, or anything else that would delay me on my way out. I was going back to Cambridge now, going back to my job, and doing my best to forget last night.
If I ever could.
Chapter 4
Four years later
Viktor
It took four years total to renovate and refurbish the Bratva’shunting lodge up near Salem, and by then, I was ready to sell the damned thing and move on with my life. But I had to admit, the results looked good, and I was considering keeping it.
Uncle Mischka had insisted on restoring the place using traditional means—stonecutters, woodworkers, stained-glass artists, antiques specialists, a few of the best even brought in from New York. The lodge had modern amenities, but they were nestled inside timber and tile walls that looked the same as when the big old house had been new, over a century and a half ago. Now that Uncle was gone, the place was all mine—if I could get the memory of what it had cost me out of my head long enough to enjoy it.
Now, Boris and I stood in the splash of multicolored light that came from the towering stained-glass windows in the two-story entryway, talking shop while we waited on the others. No hunting today, Mischka had insisted on being buried up here, and we were still in black suits from the funeral.
“You’ll be pakhan now,” Boris said unnecessarily, as he fit a cigarette between his lips. He didn’t light it, smoking in the lodge was forbidden, even to the head of my Sovietnik. Boris was more than one of my internal security heads—he was my strong right hand, and I relied on him for much.
I grunted my acknowledgement, thinking of Mischka, wondering if he was at peace now after the brain cancer had turned his last six months into hell. I had taken over for him unofficially about a year ago, and everyone was used to me being in that position. My elevation was just a technicality, more for the outsiders we dealt with than for us. “It’s what he wanted.”
“And everyone else.” His big hand touched my shoulder lightly.
Mischka’s era had brought us to Boston, established us, and made us strong. Now I had to live up to that. But at least Boris and the others had my back, instead of plotting to slip a knife into it, like so many back in Russia.
“What about the estate sale?” Mischka had died without a family, aside from us, and he had a lifetime of belongings to deal with. I had taken much of his rare book collection, but there were duplicates, and things that just didn’t interest me among them.
He sighed. “The auction houses in Salem are few and booked up. We’ll be going with a house down in Cambridge.”
Cambridge.I immediately thought back four years, to the red-haired woman I had met just down the road and spent the night with. Olivia. The one who had vanished.
I couldn’t help my regret at that. She must have seen my tattoos and my sidearm lying with my clothes and panicked. It had ruined my plans for the morning, I had fallen asleep thinking of keeping her. I had never had that kind of connection with a woman, not before nor since. I’d asked at reception the next day, but she’d paid in cash and the ledger just required a name. It had crossed my mind to try and look her up, but as always, life took over—and with Uncle Mischka’s illness I had other things to deal with.
“Fine, send me the details and I’ll arrange a meeting.” I was curious to see if it was Olivia’s auction house. If that wasn’t who we were using, I’d have to make sure it was.
She could have moved on from there a while ago. She could be anywhere. She could be married. It was probably ridiculous of me to even be thinking about her right now. But if she wasn’t married, if she was still in the area, still working at an auction house then I’d find her. I’d see her again. Olivia wasn’t the kind of woman I could easily forget, and what did I have to lose? I had no doubt that she’d remember me. If nothing else, I was the scary mobster she had run away from.
