Page 12 of We The Depraved
I want to head home, but fear Nikita Safaryan might be there waiting for me. Going back to the club means work; I’m drained.
I pick an entirely new destination.
CHAPTER5
Niki
Ihave four brothers and I am the oldest. We immigrated to the United States as children, my father maintaining an iron fist on the power he had in Russia all the way from here. There are many branches of the Safaryan Brotherhood. I have cousins in Chicago, New York, Seattle. You name the city and there is a member of my family there. I stay in Houston, though. Texas has always been my home; my mother had us here and then went back to Russia to make sure each of her five sons had dual citizenship.
She was a strong woman, behind an even stronger man. When they both passed away, I vowed to stay on top of my family. To build our empire into something strong and formidable. Everything I’d ever done was to hold and keep power for my family and our interest.
Cooking though, that particular thing, is just for me.
The blade eases against the metal honing rod. The small vibrations ease through my fingers and shoot up my arms. When I’m satisfied and the knife is sharp enough, I hold it up and inspect it in the light. The blade is shiny and reflects the light back into my eyes and I rub my thumb across it, careful not to cut myself.
Italian food is my weakness. I love to cook it and it soothes my soul. The knife I just sharpened slices through the mushrooms with ease.
I hear a sound at my back.
“Whatever it is, I asked not to be disturbed,” I say.
When I cook, I create.
A voice clears their throat. I can tell it’s a female and that certainly gets my attention. I turn and findherstanding behind me.
I’m a little shocked but I don’t let it show. My brothers hate playing poker with me because they can’t read my face. I’m not one that is easily surprised.
“To what do I owe this surprise?” I ask, turning from the food and taking her in.
She has on black cowboy boots instead of high heels, and a leather jacket. Her hair is up and in a French braid. She doesn’t smile but she does wave the black and gold card in front of her face.
“Thought I’d interrupt your life,” she comes into the kitchen. “Don’t worry, your guards took my gun before they let me come in here.”
She’s beautiful but fucking deadly.
“Are you sure you’re not Russian?” I ask her.
She ignores me. “Your secretary told me where to find you. Nice mansion.”
I shrug and then place the knife down and turn the stove back to simmer. “Hungry?”
“We need to talk,” she smirks.
If I were a betting man, and I’m not, I would bet my little kitten has thoughts dancing in her head about using my knife to run me through in my kitchen. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen.
“Sit,” I point to the chairs behind us. “I’ll fix dinner. We’ll chat.”
“Stabbing you sounds so much better,” she says out loud and goes for the knife.
Fuck,I think snatching it just in time.
Finally a smile appears on her face.
Crazy bitch,I think to myself.
My other hand has her wrist in a vice grip. My eyes travel to take in her warm skin tone. “Was that necessary?”
“I had to try,” she jerks away and slams herself into a chair.
