Page 8 of Hers to Control

I nod, and Gianna turns to walk out of the room.

Mikhail turns to me. “We’ll leave at seven. My car.”

“Where to?” I ask. I need to know the layout of the place we’re going to, if I’m supposed to provide security.

“My apartment.”

I raise my eyebrows, but Mikhail ignores it. The guy isn’t the type to explain himself, and if he’s telling me he still has his apartment, he obviously isn’t trying to keep it a secret from Gianna.

“I’ll be ready.”

Mikhail nods in acknowledgment and heads out too, leaving me alone in the living room of the Bruno mansion where I grew up. It’s no longer home, and I guess I’m not needed for the time being.

Riding with Mikhail to his old apartment, I check the car’s mirrors, but there is no one following us. Mikhail’s father is still pissed that his son has allied himself with an Italian, the head of one of the two Toronto-based syndicates, no less, but so far he hasn’t bothered sending men after his son. Probably hoping the engagement won’t last.

Not that this means the old Ivan has come to terms with things. No doubt that the looming disaster of a Russian meltdown is the reason why we were going to meet with Anya Tsepov, the Russian princess and Mikhail’s sister.

Mikhail is closed-lipped, but since he and Gianna got engaged, we figured out a few things we didn’t know about the Russians before. For example, that while Tsepov senior doesn’t approve of his little girl getting her hands dirty, she’s been putting her business classes to good use and helps run the second most lucrative club the Russians own.

I suppose I should greet her withMadamewhen I see her. The term for a woman running a stable of girls. After all, the main business the Russians run isn’t the strip clubs themselves, but the prostitutes that do their dirty business in the back rooms.

I throw a look over to Mikhail, who insisted on driving himself. He looks even less cheerful than usual, and he never looks cheerful.

Perhaps I should rethink theMadamething.

When we get to the apartment, I force myself past Mikhail to enter the building first. The asshole might not give a damn, but my relationship with Gianna still feels off, and I’m not about to let her fiancé get shot in the head on my watch. Not after I already let it happen to her father.

Gianna now knows with certainty I had nothing to do with that, but that seed of suspicion she’d harbored changed our relationship. And with Mikhail by her side, she’d less need for me these days, giving us fewer chances to speak alone.

Not that I’m about to stew about it right now. I’ve got other problems.

Like guarding a psychopath who doesn’t think his family is about to blow his brains out, despite them being a bunch of really pissed-off psychos.

Up the stairs, Mikhail’s apartment door is already unlocked, and I enter the room with my right hand firmly wrapped around the handle of my gun.

Turns out, I don’t need to pull the trigger.

Anya Tspov is sitting in the living room, legs outstretched and a glass with what I assume is water standing in front of her. Though, I suppose it could be Vodka.

In her mid-twenties, she has an innocent look about her that is only betrayed by the hard look in her eyes. The way she is staring at me is probably meant to make my balls freeze off, but I’d grown up with Gianna, so that look does little to impress me.

“Anya,” Mikhail says, as he strides over to where she is sitting. He bends down to give her a hug, which she returns, though when he leans back, she gives him a disapproving look.

Looks like I’m replaced as the primary receiver of stares for the time being, and since looks can’t actually kill, I take a moment to check the rest of the apartment to ensure we are alone. Which we are.

When I return, I take position near the wall opposite the door, tuning in to the conversation between the Tsepov siblings. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

“It’s ironic father sends me, don’t you think?” Anya’s voice is tinged with bitterness. “Apparently he thinks I’m the right person to remind you of family loyalties. That’s the one job he can think of for me, other than using me as a fucking bargaining chip in some marriage alliance.”

Mikhail’s gaze grows cold. “He’s still on about you marrying someone?”

Anya shakes her head. “We’re not talking about that here.” She gives a pointed look in my direction. “I’m just here to give you a message from Father. He knows you let Samson’s daughter off easy because she’s your woman’s friend. It’s no longer just about reminding a locked-up thief he isn’t to mess with us. It’s now about testing how far you’ll go.”

“How far I’ll go with what?”

The question should make me curious as well. After all, there is no doubt that Tsepov senior is testing out Mikhail’s loyalties to Gianna, but my mind is racing. Anya’s words ring in my head. Samson’s daughter. That’s Mia. Mia Samson.MyMia. And with this declaration, the head of the Russian mafia has just turned her into a game piece.

Now the Russians have two reasons to want to see her hurt, her father’s crimes, and as a tool to test if Tsepov senior can still influence his son, despite his engagement to Gianna.

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