Page 31 of Hostage of the Russian
“They love you,” Azriel corrected. “They’re just being polite to me.”
“Trust me, if they didn’t like you, you’d know. Irina once made a woman cry at dinner just by commenting on her nail polish.”
Azriel could picture it. For all her warmth, there had been steel beneath Irina’s friendly exterior. “Your family is wonderful.”
“They can be overwhelming,” Kostya said, glancing at her in the dim light of the car. “Growing up in that house was like living in a constant state of chaos. Someone was always getting into trouble or starting a fight or bringing home some ridiculous pet.”
“It sounds perfect,” Azriel said softly, and immediately regretted the wistful note in her voice.
Kostya’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What was your family like?”
“Different,” she said carefully. She’d gotten good at deflecting questions about her childhood, at giving vague answers that satisfied curiosity without revealing too much. But the contrast between Kostya’s loving, chaotic family and her own isolated upbringing felt particularly sharp tonight.
They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence, but Azriel’s mind was anything but quiet. She kept replaying moments from the evening: the way Kostya’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, the gentle way he helped her navigate conversations when she seemed overwhelmed. This wasn’t the man who had kidnapped her from her apartment, who had threatened her friends and family to force her compliance.
Or rather, it was the same man, but she was finally seeing all the facets that made up Kostya Nikolai. The ruthless criminal, the devoted brother, the charming storyteller, the man who had stayed by her bedside while she healed. How was she supposedto reconcile all these different versions? How was she supposed to resist the pull she felt toward him when he could be tender one moment and deadly the next?
Back at the mansion, Azriel went through her nighttime routine mechanically, her thoughts still churning. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Kostya moving around in his own room down the hall. Every creak of floorboards, every soft sound, made her hyperaware of his presence.
She thought about the way he’d looked at dinner, relaxed and happy, his guard completely down for perhaps the first time since she’d met him. She thought about his hands as he’d gestured while telling stories, strong and elegant and surprisingly gentle when they touched her. She thought about the almost-kiss in that alley, the way her body had responded to his proximity despite every logical reason to resist.
The clock on her nightstand read 2:47 AM when she finally gave up on sleep. Restless energy thrummed through her veins, and she found herself padding barefoot through the darkened hallways of the mansion. She told herself she was just exploring, getting familiar with her temporary home, but some deeper instinct drew her toward the wing where Kostya conducted his business.
His office door was closed but unlocked. Azriel hesitated for only a moment before slipping inside, her heart hammering against her ribs. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating a room that was quintessentially Kostya. Dark wood furniture, expensive scotch on a side table, and walls lined with books in multiple languages.
But it was the desk that drew her attention. Papers were scattered across its surface, some in English, others inwhat looked like Russian. Her eyes caught on familiar words: Hartford, payment, territory. Her father’s name appeared multiple times, along with figures that made her stomach clench.
She moved closer, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. A manila folder lay open, and she could see photographs inside. Her breath caught when she recognized her father’s face in one of them, but there were others, too. Men she didn’t recognize, locations that meant nothing to her. At the bottom of the stack was a map of Chicago with various locations marked in red.
“Bratva operations,” she whispered to herself, the pieces clicking together. This wasn’t just about her father’s debts. This was about territory, about power, about the kind of criminal enterprise she’d only read about in books.
She moved closer, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. A manila folder lay open, and she could see photographs inside. Her breath caught when she recognized her father’s face in one of them, but there were others, too. Men she didn’t recognize, locations that meant nothing to her. At the bottom of the stack was a map of Chicago with various locations marked in red.
Her fingers traced over the documents, absorbing details that made her stomach churn. The Bratva’s reach extended far beyond what she’d imagined. There were shipping manifests, financial records, and what appeared to be surveillance photos of various Chicago locations. A thick folder labeled “Territory Disputes” contained maps with colored pins marking different areas of the city.
But it was a leather-bound ledger that made her breath catch. Page after page of transactions, debts, and what could only be described as a sophisticated accounting system for criminal activities. Her father’s name appeared repeatedly,along with amounts that staggered her. He hadn’t just been skimming money, he’d been systematically bleeding the operation dry for months.
A photograph slipped from between the pages, and Azriel’s blood turned to ice. It was her, taken from a distance, walking across her college campus. Another showed her entering her apartment building. They’d been watching her long before Kostya had stormed into her life.
Chapter 11 - Kostya
Kostya had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, the kind where he could shed the weight of Bratva business and simply exist in the space between his public persona and private thoughts. The alliance meeting with the Torrino family had run late, negotiations over shipping routes stretching well past midnight, and all he wanted was a glass of good scotch and perhaps a glimpse of his sleeping wife.
But as he approached his office, golden light spilled through the partially closed door, casting long shadows across the marble floor. His footsteps, silent from years of practice, carried him closer until he could see her silhouette bent over his desk.
Azriel.
She was holding the surveillance photographs, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face as she studied them with an intensity that made something cold settle in his chest. The leather ledger lay open beside her, pages of carefully documented transactions exposed to her curious eyes.
For a moment, he simply watched her. Even in her oversized sleep shirt and bare feet, she commanded attention. There was something almost predatory in the way she absorbed information, filing away details with the precision of someone trained to notice patterns. It was attractive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked, stepping into the room.
She didn’t startle the way most people would. Instead, she looked up slowly, meeting his gaze with those smoky gray eyesthat had haunted his thoughts since the first night he’d seen her. “You’ve been watching me for months.”
It wasn’t a question, and Kostya found himself appreciating her directness even as warning bells chimed in the back of his mind. “Planning requires information.”
“Planning.” She set the photographs down carefully, her movements deliberate. “Is that what you call kidnapping and forced marriage?”
