Page 5 of Room Nine: For Their Eyes Only

Iwas seventeen years old the first time I killed a man. The victim deserved much worse than he received, and I felt no remorse when it was done. The order came from one of Volkov’s captains, who gave me the hit because he thought he could get a better deal than hiring my older brothers. That quickly changed. Within a year, I built a reputation that rivaled my brothers and settled into a fifteen-year stint that helped me accumulate a small fortune. People paid top dollar for the Balakov assassins. We were fast, discreet, and never left a trail leading back to the boss.

Do I have regrets? Plenty. I’m not a psychopath. But when you’re in it, there’s no room for shame or morals. I transformed myself into a cold, calculated killer out of necessity. I did what I had to do to survive. But ten years of swallowing my emotions weighed too heavily on my soul.

I had to find a way out. And I did. We did.

But the price was high, and I don’t want to see us fall into that trap again.

I stare at Vivienne Volkov’s photographs, the few I’ve found online, and feel the rare pull of desire. She was always a beautiful girl. Despite her youth, it was hard not to notice. The last time I saw her she was eighteen years old and too young to be on my radar. On one of my last jobs for Boris, he asked me to watch his house, fearing a rival was set on kidnapping his daughter. She had bodyguards surrounding her at all times, but he wanted extra protection.

I watched her come and go from the house, awestruck by the sight and inappropriately smitten. I told myself I’d wait a few years, but our split from Volkov made me abandon those prospects entirely. Pursuing his daughter would have kept me tied to his organization and I couldn’t risk it.

Besides, there was a high probability Boris would have killed me for trying.

Four years later, and I have to admit, no one else has turned my head. I don’t remember the last time I sought the company of a woman or spent time longing to know everything about her. But there was always something about Vivienne that piqued my curiosity. I often wondered if I made a mistake by not returning to Brooklyn to seek her out.

Vivienne’s unconventionally beautiful with long dark hair, pale skin dotted with freckles, and sky-blue eyes too big for her face. I’m not sure why that’s so appealing to me. She looks like a doll come to life, sweet and innocent, without a clue what awaits her. She’s an unsuspecting lamb, unaware she’s being hunted by three wolves.

She has no idea who’s coming for her.

I check my messages and return a phone call to a connection in Houston. His hacking abilities are far better than mine, and although I can’t give him the details about Vivienne, I ask him where’s the best place to start. He offers a long list, and I spend the rest of the afternoon implementing his suggestions.

A quick call to my connection at the State Department confirms she hasn’t left the country, at least not under her real name. She’s obviously secured a new identity because all activity under Vivienne Volkov ceased the day she left New York. Money opens doors, and it’s not unfathomable that she might have applied for a new passport under her assumed name, but I’ll cross that road when I’ve exhausted my search in the States.

When Vivienne bolted, she emptied a checking account containing less than ten thousand, and according to Boris, she hasn’t touched her trust fund since she left the city. Ten thousand dollars wouldn’t take her far if she’s trying to rebuild her life. I have to assume she’s found employment under whatever assumed name she’s using. If she’s working, she must have a digital trail and the only thing left is figuring out what name she’s using.

I pull a pad from my desk and scribble variations of her name, then use a facial recognition search engine to scour the internet for any sign of those baby-blue eyes. As I stare at hundreds of lookalikes, I see a photo that makes my hair stand on end. It’s slightly out of focus, and for a few seconds, I’m unsure what I’m looking at.

A dark-haired woman sits scantily dressed, reclining on the arm of a couch, with a notebook in her hand. Her pink bra and panties reveal nothing more than a bikini would, but it doesn’t matter. She oozes sex appeal and keeps you riveted to the screen.

Is it her? The photo doesn’t have a caption, but I do a reverse search and find a related screenshot that includes a tiny logo. I angle my head and lean in, squinting to read the blurry words. Pinky’s Bedroom?

What kind of business is this?

I anxiously type the name into my keyboard, repeating the words in my mind, over and over, until I swear I hear them out loud.

“Pinky’s Bedroom!” Andrei jumps out of his chair and holds his fists over his head in a pompous declaration of victory. I had a feeling he’d be the one to find her. My eldest brother is relentless and hates to be outdone by Viktor and me. He circles his desk and spins his laptop, pointing to a page on the screen. “Vivienne Volkov is living under the assumed name Genevieve Pink. And it looks like Boris’ daughter has been a very naughty girl.”

Viktor groans, his green eyes gleaming as he stares at his screen. “Has anyone uncovered where she’s located? Today, her IP address is doing business out of Brisbane, Australia. Yesterday it was Santiago, Chile. And the day before, she was in New Orleans. It’s safe to say she’s using a VPN to keep her location anonymous. That’s a smart move, but it creates a problem for us. It will take some time to figure out an accurate location. In the meantime, I’ve subscribed to Pinky’s Bedroom. I might be able to learn some clues by watching her live stream or hitting her up with a direct message.”

My head snaps in his direction, and Andrei’s eyes narrow with justifiable suspicion. Fucking Viktor always moves with lightning speed, but if he thinks I’m letting him take the lead, he’s sadly mistaken.

“Hold the fuck up, cowboy.” Apparently, Andrei shares my concerns. “Boris came to me. I’ll be the one to reach out to her. Not you and not Vadim.” He barks out his command, confident in our compliance and utterly oblivious to the fact that we’re grown men.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

Viktor lifts his hand and lets his finger hover over the Return button on his keyboard, mocking Andrei’s command. “Oops.” His mouth tips into a shit-eating grin as he taps the key multiple times.

“I said no,” Andrei repeats his order, but it falls on deaf ears. He’s our big brother, not our father.

While Andrei and Viktor argue about bullshit rules and discretion, my fingers go to work, typing furiously, setting up an account, and slyly entering payment information. I create a username but put absolutely zero creativity into it. There’s no time for slick and enticing monikers like BigDickVadim or BlueEyedKiller. In a panic, I tap the Create button, and VB731 comes to life. It’s essential to keep a semblance of anonymity.

“VB731? Your birthday is a dead giveaway, jackass. You think I can’t see you in her room?” Andrei stops scolding Viktor and directs his disapproval at me. “There’s no reason for all three of us to get involved. She’s a job. Nothing more.” He folds his arms across his chest and sighs, shaking his head as he storms toward his desk.

“Vivienne doesn’t know who I am. If I use something like User123, she’ll suspect a troll.” The point is to make her comfortable enough to talk to me.

Andrei’s protests aren't convincing. We have the same taste in women. If I’m smitten, so is he. And so is Viktor. I know he wants to look away. Even as I fill out my profile and wait patiently for the start of the live stream, warning sirens are sounding off in my brain.

It would be safer to pretend she’s just like any other job. Vivienne’s a bratva princess, Boris Volkov’s daughter, and Vasily’s baby sister. Those are enough reasons to delete my account. Pursuing her isn’t worth testing their patience or mercy.

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