Page 8 of The Payback

One very tense ride later, wherein I can’t bring up Nik’s arrival because Dimitri didn’t raise the divider between the driver and us, we pull up in front of the Rose Hill building—a new construction that Dimitri moved into four months ago, according to his files.

I marvel at the façade as the car rolls to a stop. It mixes modern and art déco with burnished gold-and-black slabs covered in chevron patterns on each street-level column. It’s gorgeous. And frankly, there are worse places I could be forced to stay in for the foreseeable future. My belongings should already be upstairs waiting for me, and there’s one thing I’m desperate to get my hands on.

The driver hustles out, rounds the car, and opens Dimitri’s door. Immediately, the sounds of New York reach my ears: cars honking, people conversing as they pass by, and the hiss of espresso machines from across the street. I hadn’t realised how silent the ride had been until all of that came crashing in.

“Home sweet home,” Dimitri says, his voice low and calm. His accent is American, but there’s a hint of his homeland underneath. A slight variant to his Hs and clipped endings to certain words. Not that I know which ones. We’ve spoken a grand total of maybe ten sentences to each other.

I roll my eyes. This may be his home, but it certainly isn’t mine. A house cannot be built on secrets and plots of revenge.

Once on the pavement, Dimitri extends a hand back to me, and I slide along the seat. This is it. I made it through the wedding and played my role well enough that no one opened fire at the reception.

Now that I’m part of the Bratva, it’s up to me to gather evidence from within, using Dimitri as a walking tripod for the cameras.

Mask in place, I take my new husband’s hand. His warmth engulfs my palm, and he steadies me as I step onto the pavement. I hunch my shoulders and step hesitantly towards Dimitri. My role remains fixed in my mind: new bride, dutiful wife, pawn.

The driver is still watching, and I don’t want to be exposed this close to the penthouse. Dimitri and Nik are the only two who know my true identity, or at least that I’m not who I’m pretending to be. And Nik is probably hightailing it out of here by now. It doesn’t matter, though.

I pointed him out to the agent standing in as my mother at the wedding, and she just so happened to press a small tracking device to his lighter when she asked to borrow it for her own cigarette.

I knew Nik was part of this Bratva chapter after seeing him in one of the photos buried in Dimitri’s files. It was just his hand, but a scar on the back of it is distinct enough to positively identify him.

The tracker is in case he decides to run for it. He must know Interpol is looking for him.

While I wish I could have done something at the reception, I know the job is bigger than my own personal vendetta. The tracker will have to suffice, and I’ll keep tabs on him while I’m here.

“Will you need me again tonight,Pakhan?” the driver asks.

“No, Alexei. Have a good night,” Dimitri replies, his face impassive and cold.

Alexei’s gaze travels down my face and lands on my cleavage. I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching, but as we’ve established, my whole job here is to watch.

In a move so practised, I’d be surprised if Dimitri couldn’t do it in his sleep, he has the driver’s arm behind his back in a tight hold and smashes his face against the window, rattling the glass in its frame.

“Neverlook at my wife like that,” Dimitri seethes.

Violence doesn’t scare me as it once did, but I’m not Eleanor right now, and I need to act the part. I rear back after a second’s hesitation. I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand, stepping away as if I fear what I’m witnessing.

Alexei nods against the glass, smearing the blood dripping from his nose all over the reflective surface. “Yes,Pakhan. My apologies.”

“Never again,” Dimitri growls. He tilts his head in my direction as he catches Alexei’s eye. “Apologise to Elsa.”

Alexei mumbles his apology, and Dimitri shoves him harder against the car until he speaks up. The reaction is brutal for a mere look, but this is how Dimitri runs his organisation. I have to bite my tongue to stop from telling him to lay off.

After whispering wrathful words of warning into his ear, he lets the driver up. Alexei scurries back around to the other side of the car and hops in, peeling off with tense shoulders and a scowl on his face.

I cock a brow at Dimitri, letting some of my true self shine through the façade, and he just keeps that infuriating impassive face.

Dimitri guides me into the lobby, past the man on duty at the desk, across the sandstone tile, and to a bank of lifts. He presses a button on his phone, and the doors for the first one slide open.

There’s no music, just oppressive silence as we stand in the mirrored box. There are only four buttons to push: Parking, Lobby, Recreation, and Penthouse B.

I open my mouth to say something to Dimitri about Nik now that we’re alone, but he cuts a glance at me, making me suck the words back in. He lifts a brow towards the corner, where I see a camera.

He doesn’t trust whoever has access to the footage.

“Life is brutal, wife. If you do not claim what is yours, someone will steal it from you,” he says. He turns towards me, wrapping his hand around my throat and walking me backwards until my body presses against the cold, mirrored walls. His icy eyes are hooded as they bore into mine. “And youaremine.”

My hands lock around his forearm, and my thighs clamp together as he asserts his claim over me. A breath escapes my lips, filling the chasm between us. It’s a show for the camera, but I feel it as if it were real.

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