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LUCIA

“ S tevanovsky at twelve o’clock.” Abby tilts her chin at the café door and gives me a sly wink. “And he looks pissed.”

“So what else is new?” I bury my head in the coffee machine to avoid looking at the door. Roman Stevanovsky is the kind of danger I’ve spent the last six years running from. He’s also been the object of my every fantasy from the moment Hale Property moved into their gleaming offices across the street.

I might have left my bratva upbringing back in Miami, along with my real name and the Petrovsky fortune, but my libido seems to have remained stubbornly hardwired to Russian bad boy.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just send a minion for his coffee.” Abby puts her tray down with an audible crash. “Going by the size of the Hale building, he can definitely afford to. Although I guess if he did, he’d miss his daily dose of ‘let’s make Lucia the hot barista blush,’ which is clearly his favorite game.”

I shoot her a warning look, but she just grins.

“I say you slip him your number with his coffee, Luce. Then he can slip you his—”

“Shut up. ” I try not to look at the powerful thighs moving into place right in front of me. Unfortunately that leaves me staring at a chest and shoulders that are definitely too hard to belong inside a suit, even an elegantly handmade one. At least he’s got his suit jacket on today.

Small mercies.

I raise my eyes, bracing myself for the daily gut punch of desire.

“Café Americano.” He growls the same black coffee order every day, usually while still speaking into his phone.

No please .

Just the order.

“ No pasa nada .” Telling him it’s no problem is a lie.

Roman Stevanovsky is a problem.

A six-foot, five-inch problem made of corded muscle, sinfully chiseled lips, and dark hawkish eyes that are currently watching me with a definite shit-stirring spark in them.

And how the fuck can a coffee order send a ripple of desire straight from my ears to my groin?

I adjust the dials slightly on the machine to avoid looking at him. Discovering the exact temperature at which he prefers his coffee was a big win in our daily battle of wills, as was setting the machine to a strength he can’t fault.

He leans against the counter, hands slung casually in his pockets, watching my every move. Despite the bubble of tourist chatter in the café, or perhaps because of it, his silence seems pointedly obvious.

He never takes his coffee at one of the small round tables by the window.

He always stands at the counter to drink it—just inches from my station at the coffee machine.

That much hotness should be illegal.

Especially around twenty-seven-year-old women who haven’t, as Abby kindly enjoys pointing out, been laid in... well, so long.

He takes his coffee in a slender glass, as is customary here in southern Spain. I put the glass on a small saucer and push it across the counter.

“ Gracias .” Midnight eyes meet mine, as unreadable as ever, set into an unsmiling face I imagine strikes terror into his minions, but has quite the opposite effect on me. His strong fingers around the glass are almost as disturbing. His knuckles are scarred, like a boxer’s. Given how brutally he deals with his poor subordinates, I can only imagine the damage he does to a punching bag.

That thought leads in dangerous directions.

CEO Man bare chested in the ring, dripping with sweat...

I realize he’s still staring at me, awaiting a response to his gracias.

“ De nada .” My voice is slightly husky, but at least I don’t stammer. And so far, he hasn’t made me blush, which is how I measure who wins and loses each of these little encounters.

I blush, he wins.

I surprise him, I win.

So far we’re running about even.

I stick my head back in the coffee machine and focus on not flushing. It’s ridiculous, the effect Roman has on me. Going by the dark salon car that whisks him to and from the glass-plated office building opposite, not to mention the minions usually running after him, he’s definitely the boss at Hale Property. But I know he’s a lot more than that, even if I’ve never seen the star tattoos on his shoulders. I looked up Roman Stevanovsky the first day I heard him bark orders in Russian. Intriguingly, he’s buried his trail almost as effectively as I have mine.

On paper, Roman Stevanovsky is CEO of Hale, a property development company with varied investments.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer in practice.

I don’t need to see the ink under his shirt, or touch the gun under his jacket, to know he has bratva written all over every muscled inch of his body.

Roman Stevanovsky might use the facade of a boardroom, but I’d lay every one of his lavish tips that his real work involves blood and steel.

Which is probably why I can’t take my eyes off him.

Roman’s phone vibrates on the counter. He picks it up, scowling with annoyance.

“ Da ,” he barks.

He catches my eye and points at his coffee, not pausing for a moment in his constant stream of abuse at some poor soul who hasn’t, I gather, delivered the furniture for his new apartment on time. I stand in front of him with a jug of hot milk in one hand, hot water in the other, eyebrows raised in question. He frowns and shakes his head, then nods at the sugar bowl, which is only inches out of his reach.

I don’t bother to hide my eye roll. Without moving either foot I stretch sideways, pick the sugar up with exaggerated care, and place it directly in front of him. Then I fold my arms and raise my eyebrows again.

Anything else I can do for you, my lord and master?

Holding my eyes, ridiculously perfect lips curled in an insolent grin that makes me want to simultaneously throw him through a window and onto the floor naked, Roman slowly drips a teaspoon of sugar into his glass.

Well, asshole, you haven’t made me blush yet, so the game is anyone’s.

I think he worked out early that the longer he stares, the more inclined I am to blush. It’s gotten worse since the weather warmed up.

Revolting Pete, as Abby and I call our sleaze of a boss, changed our uniform to shorts that barely cover our butts and white T-shirts cut so low that I spend half the day scared I’ll show up on an Instagram post for #freethenipple.

Pointedly ignoring the midnight eyes watching my every move, I turn back to making the terrible milky tea that English tourists insist on drinking despite the brilliant Mediterranean sun blazing down on the pavement outside the café. Malaga is full of Brits at any time of year. Right now, in the weeks leading up to Easter, or Holy Week as the Spanish call it, they’re everywhere. Our café stocks newspapers in multiple languages and is a favorite among the expat community.

Roman pulls a Russian newspaper across the counter and glances through the pages as he talks.

He finds the completed crossword and frowns at me. I suppress my smile.

One of my finer moves in our little war is to complete the crossword in his favorite Russian newspaper every morning before he arrives, just to piss him off.

Roman Stevanovsky might be hot enough to melt tarmac, but he’s also a grade A asshole. And not even a subtle one.

Hell is what he creates, and as Abby enjoys pointing out, he’s as seductive and dangerous as the devil that rules it.

In the five months since he’s been coming in, I’ve watched him reduce several assistants and at least two grown men to tears. I’ve seen at least half a dozen semifamous models throw everything from drinks to diamond necklaces at him. And not once have I seen any of it make even the slightest dent in his impeccably handmade, far too well-fitting suit.

You’d think that a lifetime of danger, not to mention six years of running from the Orlov bratva, would be enough to make me run the first time I heard Roman bark da into his phone.

The fact that I’m still here in Malaga, Spain, serving coffee every day to a man who is clearly from the same world I’ve run halfway around the globe to escape, is the kind of issue that could pay a psychologist’s mortgage.

One last da barked down his phone, and he’s done with what I imagine is his first savaging of the day. Which means that it’s time to go to battle with me instead.

“Miss Lopez.”

“Mr. Stevanovsky.”

I wait to see which language he will decide to throw at me. It’s another part of our daily game. So far he’s tried French, Spanish, German, Russian, and English. He still hasn’t worked out which one is my native tongue.

Nor will he. Keeping my accent neutral is key to maintaining my identity as Lucia Lopez. So is choosing to live in a city renowned for being run by various clans of Russian bratva.

Hiding in plain sight is a real thing.

“Would I be presuming too much,” he says, using the upper-crust English accent that is my personal favorite in his arsenal and that also, to be honest, completely undoes me every time, “if I asked for some water to accompany my coffee?”

“Well,” I say lightly, as if I’m considering it, “you can ask.”

“Ah.” The insolent smile grows slightly. “Then I’m asking.”

“Now would that be a cold glass of water? A room temperature one? Or would you prefer lukewarm? Oh, wait.” I look skyward. “Is it an actual bottle you require? And if so, would you like that cold, at room temperature, or...” I turn a questioning hand upward with an innocent look.

“Surprise me.” The sardonic twist of his mouth is disturbing. “Although I would prefer to take it without the added flavor of snark that’s on offer.”

I reach into the fridge for a bottle of Novoterskaya still water. I began stocking it after I overheard Roman complaining loudly to his assistant that he didn’t understand what, exactly, was so difficult about obtaining that particular brand. It took me several long hours on the phone, heated arguments with various suppliers, and a decent bribe to a Madrid truck driver, but the following day, I served Roman a bottle of Novoterskaya with his coffee.

Slightly chilled, just as he had reduced his assistant to a quivering wreck for failing to anticipate.

His face that day was one of my most satisfying victories in our little war.

He picks up the bottle and puts down his coffee glass. “Next time,” he says in that low growl that does dangerous things to my entire body, “make sure the sugar is close by.”

“Next time,” I retort, “go to any other of the thousand cafés in Malaga. Like I’ve been telling you to do from the day you walked in.”

“And miss running the gauntlet of discovering whether my coffee has been laced with acid? Never.”

He leans across the counter, his dark eyes pinning me in place.

“A life without danger,” he says in a low growl that sends lethal heat licking through my body, “is like sex without passion: not really worth having. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Lopez?”

He stares just long enough to see the flush I’ve been fighting all morning rise up my neck.

Then he strides out.

Not, however, before I’ve seen the satisfied smirk on his stupidly perfect face.

Game, Stevanovsky.

T he café remains busy all day. The retail shops around us close for siesta between one and five in the afternoon, but restaurants in Spain never stop. Abby and I run nonstop until the late-afternoon pause between the lunch and tapas crowds.

I wasn’t raised to work like this. I wasn’t raised to work at all.

Darya Petrovsky grew up in a Miami compound. She attended boarding schools in France and England, and later, finishing school in Switzerland.

Yes, finishing schools still exist. These days they just tend to be stocked with the daughters of oligarchs, cartels, and oil sheikhs, rather than with royalty.

Darya Petrovsky was raised to sit in beautiful rooms and wear beautiful dresses, all in preparation for the time when I would give birth to beautiful children.

Boys, preferably. Bratva men need sons to wield the guns that run our world.

Sons are raised to manage crews of vor , the warriors who enforce the hard rules of that world.

Daughters are an afterthought. Cherished, certainly. But incapable of running anything more serious than a dinner party.

Gender equality hasn’t really penetrated the hard world of Russian men in general, let alone the bratva clans who run the world of organized crime.

The Petrovsky bratva clan once ran the largest, most powerful organized crime network in Miami. And Miami is a city that knows crime.

Now the Orlov clan live in my family compound. My brother Alexei is their hostage. The Orlovs killed my mother, and they’d dearly love to kill my father. Not to mention me.

They just have to find us first.

I take a quick break and look at my phone. It has four missed calls, all from Papa’s carer. The familiar dread steals through my heart.

It’s been eight years since my father’s first stroke, and six since I ran from Miami in the middle of the night with nothing more than a lone bag and an old man in a wheelchair. Part of me never thought either of us would live this long. But expecting death doesn’t lessen my fear of it.

Particularly his.

Sergei Petrovsky was once a giant of a man. To me, he still is.

I stop Abby as she passes. “Can you cover for me until seven?”

“Is it Juan?” She shoots me a sympathetic look.

I nod. I don’t tell anyone Papa’s real name, or even that he is my father. Here, he’s simply Juan Ortega, a fellow illegal immigrant whom I befriended on my way to Spain.

“He’s so lucky to have you.” Abby squeezes my hand. “Of course I can cover for you. Revolting Pete won’t be in until nine. So long as you’re back by then, it should be fine.” She gets a rather fierce look on her face. “And I’m going to tackle him about these fucking uniforms again. If I get slapped on the ass one more time by a drunk tourist, I won’t be held accountable for what I might do.”

“Good luck with that.” I roll my eyes. “Pete tried to tell me last week that these uniforms are the reason we make so many tips. I pointed out that if he paid us properly, we wouldn’t need them.”

“Let me guess. He told you that you’re an illegal immigrant, so if you don’t like his rate of pay, you can take your chances lining up for the fruit-picking trucks every morning?”

“Spot on.”

Abby sighs. “He’s such a douche.” She turns me around so we both face the mirror lining the back of the bar, resting her chin on my shoulder. Her blonde hair clings to my black plait, her round blue eyes a direct contrast to my sloping almond ones. Abby is an Australian who bought a ticket to England five years ago and hasn’t stopped traveling since. We bonded over fifteen-hour days and sore feet. Now I can’t imagine my life without her.

Among the many things we share is a history of associating with bad boys.

But those I grew up with were mainly good men, who did bad things when necessary.

Abby’s men tend to do unnecessarily bad things to her.

She came to Spain on the promise of a social media influencer who swore he’d marry her so she could have a visa. He didn’t deliver, and now Abs has been here illegally for over a year. Lately she’s been dating an equally sleazy footballer who, in my opinion at least, cares far more about his own paparazzi shots than he does about Abby.

“It’s a good thing we’re such hotties.” She kisses my cheek. “Imagine the terrible jobs we’d have to do if we weren’t.” We laugh at that, which is all you can do, really, when a slimeball like Revolting Pete holds your fate in his hands. Despite Pete’s chronic neglect, or maybe because of it, the café does make seriously good tips. Especially since Hale moved in over the street, despite my ongoing war with its incredibly arrogant CEO. Hale turns over so many billions every year that I’m surprised CEO Man doesn’t take his coffee gold-plated.

Since Pete has a terrible reputation for mistreating his staff, Abby and I have as many shifts as we can take. And we take every single one.

Abby is living high while saving for her next adventure. I’m paying for Papa’s care while saving for new fake passports.

Soul sisters with different histories.

“Luce!” One of the chefs sticks his head through the window, loading a pile of food-delivery cartons on the ledge. “Can you take this order to the Stevanovsky place when you go? It’s on your way.”

I inwardly groan, but I can hardly say no when Abby is covering for me. I take the address and load myself up with the boxes of food, which tower over my head, blocking my vision.

I swear that evil, sexy bastard did this to me on purpose.

“Just be careful.” Abby frowns out the window. “Some pap photographer who keeps following Miguel and me is standing on the other side of the road. Don’t give him any quotes, okay? That prick has been trying to get my photo all week.”

“No chance.” The boxes hide my face completely anyway. There’s a certain irony in Abby worrying about me providing a quote. I’m literally the last person who will ever cultivate publicity.

Fortunately, I don’t notice anyone when I walk out of the café. I stagger through the streets to the beachfront address, a grand historic building with a soaring dome. It used to be crumbling stone and faded grandeur, a beautiful remnant of Spain’s ancient history lost amid the newer developments. According to a gushing lifestyle article in one of the expat papers, Roman bought the entire thing for an eye-watering price when it was about to be turned into a tourist hotel. He gutted it, then rebuilt it to his specifications, while restoring the original architecture.

I’m not proud of the fact that I read the entire article.

Several times.

Roman Stevanovsky has begun to take up a dangerous amount of my headspace over the past few months.

Going by the fresh paint in the lobby, and the flustered-looking doorman who lets me into the private elevator, he’s only just moved in. I’m a little surprised at the lack of security. Roman Stevanovsky strikes me as a man who’d protect his home with a veritable arsenal.

Then again, one glare from those eyes is probably more than enough to make his enemies burst into flames.

That thought leads to a vision of him barking orders at his minions, which in turn leads to him barking far dirtier orders at me.

Bend over the desk, Miss Lopez.

Spread your legs, Miss Lopez.

I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Lopez...

The elevator slides to a stop before I can slide too dangerously into fantasy land. My mind has a seemingly endless capacity to envisage the different ways Roman Stevanovsky might choose to savage my body.

Bracing myself for a scathing put-down about the grease stains on my T-shirt or the tardiness of my delivery, I’m relieved when I step out of the elevator and hear no signs of life. It seems that CEO Man and whatever army he’s feeding are yet to arrive.

I stack the food cartons in the gleaming kitchen and pad down a dim marble corridor that is clearly made for Louboutins rather than my ratty trainers. It opens into a vast living room with a domed ceiling, beneath which stands a long formal dining table. Plate glass windows look out over the sea on one side and the ancient part of the city on the other. A fully stocked bar lines one wall, beneath hanging lights. At the other end, rich leather couches surround a low carved table, upon which sits an ornate Russian samovar.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen a samovar, especially one that is clearly used. The musky scent of the boxed tea beside it is achingly familiar, twisting my heart with memories of the life I’ve lost.

Despite the penthouse’s undeniable opulence, it looks like nobody has so much as sat on any of the furniture. The restoration is stunning, though. A seamless blend of the ancient and modern. I can just imagine Roman standing up here like an emperor of old, surveying his empire and planning what he will conquer next. I close my eyes and savor both the silence and the nostalgic scent of Russian tea. It mixes with something newer, a crisp, smoky scent that is both familiar and oddly disturbing.

Oh, fuck.

It’s the smell of hellfire.

“What are you doing here?” There’s nothing lighthearted about Roman Stevanovsky’s snarl, or his lethal bulk filling the entrance to the corridor.

Clearly whatever game we normally play doesn’t apply in his inner sanctum.

“I delivered your food.”

I wince. I sound as pathetic as Baby from Dirty Dancing : “ I carried a watermelon...”

“I told my assistant to deliver it herself.” He steps barefooted into the living room. His dark hair is tousled, the top of his starched shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Having clearly just woken up from siesta, his appearance is a highly dangerous cross between angry bear and serious thirst trap.

By the look on his face, yet another Hale assistant is clearly about to be fired, if not actually shot, for mistakenly sending me instead of bringing his food herself. And it looks a bit like he might take me out when he’s done with her.

“I was told to bring your food. I brought it.” I’m surprised my voice is still functional. I try not to stare at the corded forearms or narrow V of bare chest. Both are going to be keeping me up tonight. “Now I’m leaving.”

I head toward the elevator doors, which unfortunately means I have to pass right by him.

“Not so fast.” One muscled arm shoots out, blocking my path. There’s no trace of his customary Miss Lopez or his twisted smile.

Roman Stevanovsky isn’t just pissed.

He’s dangerous.

That should terrify me.

Unfortunately, danger is kind of my body’s default setting.

Heat burns straight through the thin material of my T-shirt and directly down my shorts. I fight the urge to touch the taut muscle blocking my way.

Not to mention the urge to touch myself.

“Nobody comes into this apartment without a security check.” Roman’s curt voice sends a second wave of thrill through me. “Give me your ID and phone number.”

Oh, shit.

The thrill halts instantly.

Just like that, I’m back to reality.

Don’t forget who you are. Or where you are. Be smart, Darya Petrovsky.

“I don’t make a habit of carrying my passport around.” It sounds plausible enough. “Besides, you have the café’s number. You don’t need mine.”

He rubs an impatient hand over his half-day stubble. “I don’t have time for this.”

So much for being smart. My logical brain always seems to short-circuit when CEO Man is anywhere nearby.

And right now, he’s close. Very close.

Oh, that stubble scraping up the soft skin of my inner thighs...

I’m clearly deeply disturbed.

...Not to mention what that lethal tongue would do when he reached the tops of them.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets, pinning me with an arctic stare. “This is my home. And I don’t appreciate you invading my privacy without prior warning.”

The sexy stubble fantasy gives way to a decent dose of indignation.

“Invading your privacy?”

I just carried a mountain of food through the heat for you, asshole.

“Whatever mistakes your assistant made aren’t my problem. Your doorman let me in without question.”

He’s still giving me the Stevanovsky death stare, and my indignation swells into anger.

I’m not one of your Hale minions, to have my ass handed to me at your convenience.

“I had no idea you were here,” I say frostily, “let alone that delivering food that you ordered would be considered invading your privacy. But now that I do know, it certainly won’t happen again.”

Ever. Like, until hell freezes over.

Roman’s jaw is hard as a razor’s edge. “Your phone number, Miss Lopez.”

I fold my arms angrily and rattle off Abby’s digits, which I know by heart. He punches them into the keypad, then hits the call button.

Of course he’s going to check it.

Bugger , as Abby would say. She doesn’t answer, of course, since she’s probably knee-deep in customers. But before Roman can start tearing into me for lying, his phone vibrates with a text message. He holds it up so I can see the screen.

Da fuck is this?

The text message is a fine example of Abby’s native Australian diplomacy.

Rather absurdly, given the seriousness of the situation, my lips twitch with the urge to laugh. But not at CEO Man. He can go straight back to whatever hell he came from.

“Shall we try this again, Miss Lopez?” Roman says dryly.

Reluctantly, I give him the right number. He hits the buttons, and my phone vibrates in my hip pocket. I pointedly ignore it.

“Are we done here?”

“Except for your tip.” His insolent smile is back.

I ignore that, too. Or at least my brain does.

My body is ready to lie down on the vast dining table and invite CEO Man to eat whichever part of me he likes.

“Keep it.” I march into the elevator with as much dignity as my arousal, not to mention my grease-stained clothes, will allow.

I wish I could say that I’m done taking either his tips or his shit.

But the truth is, Roman Stevanovsky had me hooked from day one. And whatever I might like to tell myself, five months of enduring his savage asides have only made me more addicted than ever.