Page 7 of Knocked Up By the Russian

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "Maybe, but I didn't want to risk it."

He placed her things by her feet. Amy couldn't remember when he'd taken them from her in the first place but she didn't have the motivation to question it as he closed the door and walked around, jaw tense and a line between his eyebrows.

Ivan climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, steering it onto the main road. Assuming he was taking her home, Amy's distracted gaze moved to the world outside. When he stopped at a takeout place a few streets from the club, she didn't question it beyond wondering how anyone could eat after what she'd just seen. Her own stomach still pinched with queasiness.

Ten minutes later, a warm bag of takeout sat on her lap, and two medium-sized milkshakes were placed in the cupholders between them. Amy still didn't question anything as Ivan pulled out two ice-cold cans of cola from the bag and opened them.

"Adrian's going to kill me for this," he muttered as he handed her one and placed the other near the steering wheel where another cupholder was waiting. "Drink this, Mishka. You're still in shock. The sugar will help you feel a little better."

She didn't argue, but her gaze lingered longingly on the milkshakes between them as Ivan started the car again and steered them back onto the main road. She'd kill—no, she shuddered. She wouldn't kill for one, but she'd trade her watch for one at that moment, the piece simple but special to her.

After a few minutes of sipping the cold drink in her hands, her breath came easier, and she realized they were heading in the wrong direction.

"Ivan?" Her voice still shook as she interrupted the silence they'd been sitting in. "Where are we going?"

"Home," he answered, flicking the indicator as he turned onto a familiar busy street.

"Oh," she muttered to herself as she realized where they were. She'd visited his apartment a few times before, enough to recognize the building they parked in front of.

Ivan didn't respond as a valet approached, and the boy's confusion was clear at the sight of the bulky Russian climbing out of his brother's flashy vintage Camaro. Ivan ignored that, handing over the keys before he opened her door.

He grabbed her bags, swinging the straps over his shoulder as he juggled the food. Then, as if his hands weren’t already full, he extended one to help her out of the car. A flicker of amusement sparked inside her, but Amy quickly stifled it, reminding herself that she had just witnessed a man die tonight. She ignored his outstretched hand and picked up the milkshakes before she got out of the car.

Ivan let out a sigh before ushering her inside. "Always stubborn, Mishka."

"Your hands were full," she pointed out as they walked toward the elevators. When they got in, she flicked the button forthe penthouse and the takeout bag rustled as Ivan shifted on his feet. "You know my address, Ivan. Why am I here?"

"Like I said, we need to talk."

"About what?" she hissed to him, her voice lowered enough so that the microphone in the elevator wouldn't pick up what she was saying. "The dead man in the club's VIP rooms? Or the fact that one of his killers is expecting to attend a wedding that isn't going to happen?"

His body stiffened at the reminder and the tension from before crept back in. The elevator dinged, opening its doors to reveal the small hallway leading to his apartment. There were only two doors on the penthouse floor, Ivan's on the left and Adrian's on the right. Both were locked with the best security the Bratva could afford, requiring biometrics and passcodes to enter. Amy knew the passcodes to both, her connection to Zia giving her protection with the Bratva that she'd never asked for.

Balancing the milkshakes with her one arm, she unlocked his door and held it open. Ivan brushed past her, footsteps continuing toward his kitchen as she closed the door behind herself. The automatic lock clicked behind her as she followed Ivan.

He set her things on the counter, sliding them against the wall. "I didn't know you were still at the club. I assumed you'd left early by the time I checked everything was locked up."

"You didn't check the storeroom," she stated quietly and he nodded, his expression regretful.

"I know," he said softly as they both pulled out his barstools and sat down. Two massive burgers stood in front of Ivan, while a polystyrene bowl of nachos was waiting for her.

"What now?" Amy asked as she picked at the food.

Clearing his throat, he shrugged. "We just need to play it by ear for the next few days. You'll stay by my place and in a week or two, we'll let everyone know we broke it off. We'll say it had to do with what you saw."

Amy glanced over at him, seeing a furrow between his brows. Something on his face told her he didn't like what she was saying and she nearly snorted.Of course he wouldn't.Up until he started working with her, Ivan's reputation had been notorious around women. She wasn't too worried about that though; she was sure he'd find more than enough women to soothe his broken heart after they called off the fake engagement.

They ate their food in silence, Amy's mind stuck on everything that had happened over the past few hours. The way Boris's body had jumped when the bullet struck him... the life fading from his eyes... it played over and over in her head. Even as exhausted as she was, Amy wasn't sure if she'd be able to get any sleep, so she was surprised her eyes were drooping by the time they finished eating.

"Come on. You can sleep on my bed tonight," Ivan muttered when he realized. She considered protesting but didn't. She was too tired. Instead, she slowly padded after him as he crossed the kitchen and living room to get to the stairs leading to his bedroom.

Ivan had a gorgeous apartment; she'd seen it on enough occasions to know that, but she'd never seen it at night. His bedroom was the only room on the second floor of his apartment, and no walls separated it from the rest of the living space. Just a metal railing in the same sturdy black as the window panes.

Downstairs he had an office, another bathroom, and his home gym—but that wasn't what got her attention every time she visited. No, the real feature was the glass windows that trailed from the living room, up toward the bedroom and spreading out over half the ceiling.

She'd always wondered how he slept when the sun would wake him the moment it seeped across the sky. The vision in front of her answered that all on its own. Chicago's city lights sprawled out like a blanket of stars before her.Gorgeous, she thought.Maybe even prettier than Eclipse's view.

There were spotlights in the ceiling above the bed, but they were turned off to allow the dim city light in.No wonder he chose this,she realized as she turned to face the black industrial four-poster California King he'd strategically placed against the wall to face it all. Two matching nightstands stood on either side.

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