Page 45 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)
GISELLE
My heart is pounding against my ribs as I step out of the cab, a migraine beckoning at my temples. The rhythm of New York used to be second nature to me. But now, it feels like an alien landscape. Except I’m the alien.
Chinatown pulses with life—plastic brooms knocking each other gently from awnings, little mechanical dogs yipping and jittering, laughter spilling out of steam-clouded storefronts.
It’s a stark contrast to the dead silence and shadows of Roman’s mansion. The most color I’ve seen in weeks, a riot of neon appetites.
One of these things is not like the others…
It’s me. I’m the thing.
I’m probably the only person on Mott Street who tortured and killed a schoolteacher last night.
I mean, maybe not, but probably.
Each step toward the bar feels like I’m dragging a ball and chain. My resolve’s wrapped tight around my ankles, slowing me down but keeping me upright. I don’t want to know what Arata’s found because I don’t want to live in a world where I betrayed Roman this way.
I want to go back to yesterday morning, when all I had was afterglow and anticipation.
I pause outside the bar, studying the block one more time. Looking for a tail, or Roman himself—he left this morning, the way he always does, and I snuck out shortly afterward. I have to hope he’s been too busy hunting down our next target to keep an eye on my phone.
Or maybe Arata has already circled the wagons, and that black SUV over there is Teddy, waiting to arrest me. You know, for all the murders I’ve been doing.
Even if I knew what I was looking for, it wouldn’t matter.
I’m here and it’s too late.
It’s been too late for far too long, Giselle. It’s been too late since he saw you at the gala. It was too late even before he saw you at all. You’ve been on the road to this moment your whole fucking life.
Inside, it’s the usual cocktail of sweat, stale beer, and low-stakes despair. Arata’s at a table in the back, nursing a Red Bull vodka, naturally. His curls are damp with sweat, eyes jittery, scanning the room like someone’s about to arrest him for forgetting to clock out of the lab.
Chinatown is a rude reminder that I’m no longer living in the same world as everyone else. Arata is an even ruder one: I’m no longer fit to wear a badge.
Why not? Haven’t you taken more monsters off the streets these past two weeks than you did all your years on the force?
Ugh. I’m not in the mood for a civil war between my id and my ego. Luckily, Arata spots me and perks up like he missed me. It hurts to think he might have, and that there are people I miss, too.
I know I can’t have both lives. Maybe that’s the silver lining here: giving Arata that sample means the choice is no longer mine to make.
“Giselle!” He nods, waving me over. I feel a swell of relief mixed with dread as I weave through the maze of barstools and bodies, trying to dodge laughter that feels like it’s aimed directly at me.
I take a deep breath, forcing down the memories of darker nights—the man who pissed himself as soon as he saw me, the one whose teeth were so rotten that pulling them out felt like charity—and smile, trying to ease into the professional camaraderie we once shared.
We weren’t friends or anything, but we were on the same side.
“You look… well,” he says, lying poorly. I look like a reanimated corpse. The irony being that I’ve been feeling more alive than ever with bloodstains on my t-shirts and Roman’s cock pounding the shame out of me.
Somehow, Roman became the only man whose opinion of me really matters. My heart rate speeds up even thinking of the way he looks at me.
“Making the most of my leave,” I shrug, not exactly lying. I am on leave, and I’m certainly doing the most .
“Huh,” he says. “Good for you.”
He has a shit poker face. I can tell he’s wondering what, exactly, I’ve been up to. A great question that I have zero intention of answering. What even would I say?
Been having the time of my life playing house with a psychopathic murderer who brings me men to torture then makes me come so hard that I pass out! I absolutely love being owned, body and soul, by a man who stalked me!
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “So. You texted me. What’ve you got?”
Was a time I would’ve asked what we’ve got. Not anymore. There’s only one we now, and it definitely isn’t me and Arata.
His eyes sharpen, cutting through whatever optimistic bullshit he wanted this to be. The puppy-dog eagerness I’m used to is replaced with something colder.
“Yeah. The sample. There’s a hit, but it’s…” he hesitates, eyes flicking over me and then around the bar. “It leads to a Russian database.”
The ground shifts beneath my feet. I’m not surprised, of course, but I am having trouble abandoning the stupid hope that he was going to tell me it went nowhere and he had nothing and just wanted an excuse to see me.
“How did you manage that?” I ask. Maybe he’s done something he shouldn’t have, and I can use that somehow. Blackmail him into burying it.
Jesus Christ, Giselle. You can’t blackmail Arata. He’s… Arata. His only crime is having battery acid breath.
Before he can answer, a deep rumbling voice cuts through the air. It’s dripping with a casual authority that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Familiar, in a way, or maybe that’s just the hint of Russian accent.
“Because I’m the one who reached out to him.”
I turn to see a tall man in an elegant suit. He looks entirely out of place in this dive bar. He moves like a tyrant or someone who knows no one in the room can stop him even if they want to.
“Okay. And you are…?” I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. In truth, my stomach is doing somersaults, every nerve alive with fight or flight.
He has blue eyes. Similar to Roman’s, but not… well, I don’t know.
They’re just not Roman’s.
They don’t lick at my core as they sweep my body. They don’t make me feel like I’m suspended in a glacier. They don’t make me want to be devoured.
“Afanasy Varushkin,” he says, smooth as glass and twice as sharp. An alarmingly easy smile spreads across his face even as the name echoes like a dark omen.
The name tugs at my memory. I’ve heard it before.
Afanasy’s gaze sharpens as he lifts a hand, dismissing Arata with a flick of his fingers like swatting away a fly. “Thank you for setting this meeting up,” he says. “But this conversation isn’t for your ears.”
“What?” Arata’s face hardens. He’s offended to get kicked out of the treehouse just as the Playboy comes out. “I’m still NYPD?—”
“Which is exactly why it won’t be safe for you.” Afanasy’s tone shifts, an impatient edge creeping in, and Arata tenses. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
Arata opens his mouth to protest, but I’m quick to cut in. He really doesn’t need to be here. I may not know exactly what’s going on, but we’ll all be better off without a witness.
“I’ll call you if I need help, okay? I’ll call you anyway. After,” I say, intending to do no such thing. “So you know we’re good.”
He looks between us, expression flickering: fear, pride, protectiveness. My heart races, begging him to understand the danger. No matter my instinct to protect Roman at all costs, I really don’t want Arata joining my body count.
“Anything you need, Giselle,” he finally mutters.
I breathe out.
Then he walks out, dragging the last of the normal world with him. The silence he leaves behind feels heavier.
I turn my attention back to Afanasy, the name wrapping around my mind. Obviously, he has something to do with Roman, and if he has something to do with Roman, he probably has something to do with the Starkovs.
“What do you want?” I ask, words steeped in confidence even as the knots in my stomach tighten.
Afanasy leans forward, resting his elbows lightly on the table. The corner of his mouth curls—something far more calculated than a smile. “Tell me, how long have you been working with dear Romochka to bring down my family?”
That’s who he is!
Afanasy. The outcast brother. The one Teddy said the Feds have watched for years but couldn’t find anything to pin on.
Shit!
“What do you mean?” I manage through a tightening throat. Playing dumb is cheap, but it’ll buy me time.
“Relax, detective.” He chuckles, soft and low. “I’m just checking in on my investment.”
The air thickens. An electric charge pushes at my temples, prickling up my spine, particles coming together like a sixth sense.
He’s here .
My heart leaps as Roman strides through the door. Even from this distance, over the beer and sweat, I smell him: cloying sweet spices and friction. He takes in the situation as his eyes flicker between me and Afanasy.
Once again, I feel that impossible pull and the urge to run until I’m too tired to do anything but fall to my knees.
My fucking shadow always catches up to me.
He’s not your shadow, Giselle. You’re his.
Afanasy doesn’t move as he watches Roman with quiet interest the same way that a man might examine a prized weapon.
“Roman,” I say, nearly panting. He strides toward us, all confidence and cold fury. A part of me wants to sink into the ground beneath his gaze, bury myself alive in penance because I know I’ve disappointed him.
My world is slowly crumbling, the edges blurring between trust and betrayal. Afanasy’s watchful eyes linger on Roman, and I brace myself for what comes next.
I’m trapped between two monsters.
One I’ve already surrendered to, one I don’t yet understand.
But both want something from me.
And I’ve gone far too deep now to refuse.