Page 14 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)
The gentle teasing continued throughout the meal, and Azriel found herself contributing more as the evening wore on.
These people made it easy to forget that she was supposed to be playing the role of a loving wife.
Their acceptance of her felt genuine, uncomplicated by the web of lies and circumstances that had brought her here.
But beneath her growing comfort with the family, a different kind of tension was building.
Every time Kostya laughed, every casual touch, every moment his dark eyes caught hers across the table, she felt something tighten low in her belly.
The attraction she’d been fighting since that almost-kiss in the alley was becoming impossible to ignore.
When they finally said their goodbyes, Azriel felt genuinely sad to leave. Irina hugged her tightly, making her promise to visit again soon. Even Viktor nodded his approval, which she suspected was high praise from the stoic man.
“They love you,” Kostya said quietly as they drove home through the darkened streets.
“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 supposed to 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 in what 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.