Page 23 of Heritage of Fire

I let the freezer door close after inspecting that, too. Moving to open the cabinets, I search for a glass to fill with water. Since there isn’t bottled water anywhere I can see, I use the fridge’s water dispenser.

I gulp it down, looking around.

What now?

After getting ready for the day—in jeans, a t-shirt, and simple makeup—I decide to tackle the bed.

I can’t help but remember how comfortable it was last night. The silky sheets were luxurious and inviting; no wonder Nik wrinkled his nose at the suggestion one of us should take the couch. Considering the world we live in, his bed is probably one of the only havens of relaxation he has.

I pull down the covers, the fabric catching the natural light with a glimmer. The cream is a soothing, neutral color, the exact opposite of the cool tones of navy, gray, and white that make up the majority of this apartment. After methodically arranging the pillows, I offer a chop to each one, creating a V in the middle like I’ve seen the professionals do.

I step back, admiring my work, and a slight flutter low in my belly causes my stomach to flip. It snaps me out of my wandering thoughts, and I march away. There’s no way I’ll be thinking about this bed inthatway. Especially not with all the women I’m sure he’s had in it.

I’m no stranger to the meandering ways of men. After my father ended Alessio’s life, I learned the truth about the multiple women who’d been with the man I thought I loved. And while I grieved his death, I also grieved for my heart—hurt and torn overwhat I never genuinely had with him. What we had wasn’t the rare gem I hung on to. It was an average rock.

I make note of how clean Nik’s place is. Not a scrap of paper out of place. Dishes are clean and put away. There aren’t extra shoes scattered on the floor, and there isn’t laundry flung around the bedroom. We had Giulia, and our house wasneverthis perfect.

It almost reminds me of a rental property.

A space like this wouldn’t run a woman off. In reality, it would probably do the opposite. But there isn’t a single female touch present. Why, at thirty-three, is he still single?

After poking through the rest of the apartment, I grab one of my books and venture out the door and down the stairs. Hopping down the last step a figure stationed there startles me, causing me to yelp.

“Mrs. Balakin, are you all right?”

A man in a well-tailored suit—maybe mid-forties, with deep green eyes and slicked-back hair—stands right beside the stairs.

“Did you need something, Mrs. Balakin?”

“Oh, no, I’m Luna—” My mouth closes before I say Buscetta.

That’s not me anymore.

The man tilts his head, probably trying to figure out how insane I am.

“I was going to take a walk,” I say, holding up my book for proof. Because, apparently, I think I need to show him I’m not trying to escape.

“Of course, let me radio Lev and he’ll escort you.”

“Oh, no, that’s not?—”

But the man is already speaking into a well-hidden earpiece. My eyes shoot to my shoes; my beige Vans feel too informal for an escorted walk. But, goodness, it feels good to wear something besides the pumps or flats lining the floor of my closet back home. If my mother saw the sneakers on my feet right now …

“He’ll meet you right outside, Mrs. Balakin.”

Inwardly wincing at the name, I manage a smile and a thank you.

The staircase to the upstairs penthouse apartment sits in the middle of a narrow hallway. Nik showed me the training room at the end of the hall last night, and on the other side, the hallway leads to double doors outside. Past that, the hall opens up into the massive warehouse area where all the Bratva weapons shipments filter in and out.

I walk straight ahead and out the double doors, grateful that to leave the warehouse I don’t have to walk through the main facility.

“Ah, Mrs. Balakin,” a deep, raspy—yet young sounding—voice greets me as soon as I exit.

I huff out an annoyed breath at hearing that foreign last name again.

“I’m Lev.”

The sun’s blinding behind him, and I have to squint in his direction. His hair is a dirty blond, and his handsome face is free of any facial hair. He doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five.

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