Page 63 of Hostage of the Russian
The restraint was killing her. At home, he was everything she’d never known she wanted. Protective without being controlling, passionate without being rough, funny in ways that surprised her daily. He’d make her coffee in the mornings while she got ready for work, stealing kisses between sips and making her laugh with stories about his brothers’ latest antics. He’d ask about her cases over dinner, listening with genuine interest as she explained the legal intricacies that fascinated her.
But at work, they were strangers. Professional colleagues who happened to share a surname due to an arrangement neither acknowledged in daylight.
Tonight, she’d break that carefully constructed barrier. She’d knock on his door, deliver these papers with perfect professionalism, and then casually mention that new Korean place. Her treat this time, to celebrate her promotion. Maybe she’d even suggest they walk there together instead of taking separate cars, steal a few minutes of normalcy between the office and home.
The anticipation had been building all afternoon, making it impossible to concentrate on the brief she was supposed to be reviewing. She’d read the same paragraph five times before giving up and deciding to deliver these contracts early. Now she was here, hovering outside his office like a nervous teenager working up the courage to ask someone to prom.
Which was ridiculous. This was her husband, the man who’d held her while she cried about nightmares, who’d traced patterns on her skin in the dark while telling her stories about his childhood. The man who’d made her feel safe for the first time in her life.
But somehow, the professional setting changed everything. Made her second-guess the easy intimacy they’dbuilt at home. What if he thought she was being inappropriate? What if someone overheard her dinner invitation and realized their marriage was more than the business arrangement everyone assumed it to be?
Azriel paused outside his office door, taking a steadying breath and checking her reflection in the glass. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat bun, a few strategic pieces framing her face. Professional but not severe. The navy blouse was one of her favorites, fitted enough to be flattering without being obvious. She looked competent and confident, like someone who belonged in these marble hallways.
The frosted glass showed the outline of figures inside, but she could clearly see Kostya’s broad shoulders behind his desk. Perfect. She raised her hand to knock, already composing her opening words. Something casual but warm, professional but with an undertone of the intimacy they shared.
“You’re a goddamn idiot, Kostya.”
Viktor’s voice carried through the door, sharp with anger and loud enough to make her freeze with her knuckles inches from the glass. She shouldn’t eavesdrop. She knew better than to eavesdrop on private conversations, especially those involving Bratva business. But something in Viktor’s tone made her pause, her hand still raised.
“The plan was to wait,” came another voice. Fedya, she realized, though his usually controlled tone carried an edge she’d never heard before. “We agreed to coordinate.”
Azriel’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t a business meeting about legitimate operations. This was family business, the kind that involved guns and blood and decisions that kept Kostya awake at night. She should leave. Walk away and come back later when whatever crisis they were discussing had been resolved.
But her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
“I don’t need coordination to handle one pathetic piece of shit.” Kostya’s voice was strained, different from his usual confident drawl. There was pain in it, physical pain that made her chest tighten with worry. “Danny Hartford got what was coming to him.”
The folder slipped from Azriel’s suddenly nerveless fingers, papers scattering across the polished marble floor like fallen leaves. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet hallway, but the conversation inside continued without pause. Danny Hartford. Her father’s name hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her knees buckle.
She dropped to the floor, frantically gathering the scattered documents, but her hands shook so badly she could barely grip them. Danny Hartford. They were talking about her father. Past tense.
Got what was coming to him.
“And now the Kozlov family thinks we’re declaring war,” Viktor snapped, his voice carrying the kind of frustrated anger she’d only heard once before, when Ivan had nearly gotten himself killed in a stupid bar fight. “You killed their inside man without clearing it with anyone.”
Killed. The word bounced around her skull without quite landing, too enormous to process. Her father was dead. Kostya had killed her father.
“He deserved worse than what I gave him.” The venom in Kostya’s voice made Azriel’s blood run cold. She’d heard him angry before, had seen glimpses of the ruthless man beneath the charm, but this was different. This was personal hatred, the kind that burned through everything else. “You should have seen thethings he said about her, the way he talked about selling his own daughter like she was livestock.”
Azriel pressed her back against the wall beside the door, clutching the papers to her chest like armor. Her father was dead, and Kostya had killed him for her. Because of her. The thought should have brought relief, or satisfaction, or at least some sense of closure. Danny Hartford had been a monster who’d made her childhood a nightmare of neglect and casual cruelty.
Instead, she felt hollow. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the realization that this moment had been inevitable from the day Kostya had stormed into her apartment. Her father had signed his death warrant the moment he’d offered her as payment, and she’d been too naive to see it.
“That’s not the point,” Fedya said, his voice cutting through her spiraling thoughts. “You went alone. You’re lucky you only caught two bullets instead of ten.”
Bullets. Azriel’s chest tightened, panic flooding her system and washing away the numbness that had been there. Kostya was hurt. While she’d been sitting at her desk planning dinner invitations and celebrating her promotion, he’d been bleeding somewhere.
“Those wounds need stitches, not the field dressing you’re probably using,” Viktor continued, his tone shifting from anger to concern. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you favoring your left side when you walked out of that warehouse.”
“I’m fine,” Kostya replied, but there was something strained in his voice that suggested otherwise. Something tight with pain that he was trying to hide even from his brothers.
“Where the hell are you anyway?” Viktor’s voice now carried the tinny quality of a phone call. “The doctor said you left the clinic against his orders.”
The clinic. Azriel’s mind immediately jumped to the private medical facility where she’d been treated after the campus shooting. Discreet, expensive, equipped to handle injuries that couldn’t be explained to regular hospitals. If Kostya had been there, the wounds were serious enough to require professional medical attention.
“I’m fine,” Kostya repeated. “Just needed to handle some things at the office.”
“You need to get back to the clinic,” Fedya said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that usually made people jump to obey. “Those wounds need proper monitoring, and you’re being an ass about the pain medication.”
