Page 20 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Fifteen

ILYA

Of all the stupid things I could have done, kissing Alina is up there.

As Monday rolls around, two days after the deed, I’m fucking convinced she’s avoiding me.

I sit at my desk at Demyan’s place, my new morning routine. I go there, deal with what I have to. Meet up with Pavel, and we plan the things he can deal with on his own and the things I’m needed for.

There are other high-ups but no one like Pavel. Demyan likes to keep his inner circle very small, and I’m with him on that. I’d love to have Pavel come over to help with Belov.

But that’s a fucking pipe dream.

Something like that, this early on, would be seen as treason or a lack of basic trust in anyone there. They may feel justified in a mutiny, something I’d like to avoid.

Thing is, usually if I’ve got a world of angst or emotions about Alina, my daily routine sorts them, boxes them, locks them down.

But I’ve had a brutal workout, one that started before Isaak met me. And the work with Pavel went on harder and longer than it needed to because I pushed.

We’re done now, but I’m still here.

When I finish the finances, the documents, all the boringly minute things I need to do, I drive myself back to the Belov mansion.

The guard at the gate lets me in, his countenance just the right side of civil, but instead of heading inside, I tour the guardhouses, where the soldiers work to keep the property protected.

Melor silently joins me, which makes it go smoother than it may have.

When we’re done, he waits until we’re inside to speak.

“Sir— Ilya,” he says, using my name like I told him to, “next time wait for me. They’re hardheaded and stubborn.”

I coil my hand at my side as I head up to the study. “I shouldn’t need an escort.”

“You know better than that,” he says in Russian. “It’s a show of my support, of loyalty, and it’ll help bring them around faster.”

I nod. “I get that.”

“I’ll be in my office for a while, and then I have the regular rounds to do.” He pauses, and I read all I need to on his stoic face.

He understands my impatience, and he’s telling me to cool it if I can.

That’s the key, isn’t it? If?

“I left my itinerary on your desk, along with the physical ledgers and the passwords to the computerized ones…if they weren’t already left to you by your grandfather.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “We’ll get a drink later in the week.”

“Looking forward to it.” His smile’s genuine.

Glad to have at least one person—apart from Svetlana—on my side .

I get to work.

My grandfather left me the keys to the kingdom with passwords, a who’s who black book, and his own secrets and notes on other players. That all came to me the moment I showed my marriage certificate.

Which brings back the ill-thought-out kiss.

I want to regret it. I do. The kiss was beyond what I thought it could be, her taste, sweet, moreish, with a hint of the spice I suspect she contains. It was something I not only wanted to keep doing, but something I wanted to go further.

Because in that moment, all her signals were green.

I hit the red.

How could I not? Look at us now? Alina is somehow too busy to see me for the past couple of days.

She goes to bed early. Last night, she disappeared with the driver to Isla’s for an evening of drinking, pizza, and bad TV they like to indulge in, usually at the mansion.

I’ve often been there, working late, sometimes ribbing them on my way out as I steal some pizza.

But last night, for the first time I know of, they met at Isla’s.

It felt like a slap in the face.

“Or maybe you’re turning too sensitive,” I mutter in disgust.

Point is, I hit red, not her.

And it took everything I was, everything I had, to stop, to make sure things didn’t go any further.

I want her. I want to be with her, to explore what this could be more than anything.

I want to show her there’s a world of happiness after Max. It doesn’t need to compete; it’s something different, something new.

My mom worked herself down to nothing. She turned down dates. I was very young at the time, but I remember missing my father, hating the sadness in her as she struggled to make life good.

She chose loneliness, and I have the horrible feeling she’d have continued that solitary path had she lived.

That’s the last thing I want for Alina.

I’d love her choice to be me, but my feelings and care for her are enough that I’d support her happiness even if it was with someone else.

Wouldn’t I?

Hating it isn’t the same as stopping it.

I drag myself out of that twisty tunnel into nothing good.

I want to be with her, more than anything, and I can admit that. Just like I can admit the risk of her regretting it, of it rupturing and destroying our friendship, of her pushing me away is just too big. It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

And maybe it’s too late.

Maybe the damage is already done with that one ill-thought-out kiss.

I rub my temples. “Idiot,” I mutter. “You should never have kissed her. To kiss and then run like a coward is the worst thing you could’ve done. You know it. Ilya, you fucking fool.”

Even my self-lecture doesn’t have the right heft.

Shit. I never even thought that abruptly stopping when her lights were green may feel like a slap in the face to her.

Maybe I hurt her, and now she feels rejected. Because as I think of it, if she didn’t want it, her running away over a kiss I ended doesn’t make sense.

Maybe what I need is to talk to her, clear the air, find the right way to tell her why I backed off.

Something like a stone sinks inside me.

I have to tell her the truth, not the reasons I make up or try to justify .

Tell her I have feelings for her. Feelings that I’ve had for a long time.

But telling her isn’t just a matter of telling her. She’s not sitting down or making herself available to listen.

Feelings could scare her, so she must understand how I feel is me, not her. She doesn’t need to make up her mind now or ever. She can say no, and we can still be friends.

But how? A grand gesture perhaps. To show her I mean it. That I am, at the core, her friend, there to listen and respect her and her decisions. Respect whatever it is she wants right now.

Including space.

But being on the same page, clearing the air… That’s what we need first.

I feel a little better with that sorted.

The computer is on, so I type in the name on her T-shirt, Sweet Shelter , and the dog rescue place pops up on my screen. It looks nice, clean, a place where dogs would be happy. A place that Alina would find solace.

I grab a scrap of paper and a pen and write down the address and number. Her driver, Gus, would have the address, but getting it from him feels sneaky. This at least is cleaner. I shove the paper into my pocket and hunker down to work.

Three hours later, I remember the sandwich Svetlana brought up to me, and I take a bite, not paying attention to what it is. Ham, I think. Lettuce and cheese. I vaguely remember telling her that combo when I was eyeball deep in book one of the bratva financials.

The job’s tedious, with so many little tangents, and I amass it all. Organizing, going over the numbers on the bank accounts to make sure everything is not just on the up and up, but so I know where we stand.

I need to understand what money flows where. What’s legitimate and what isn’t. Then there’s the liquid versus stocks and bonds my grandfather invested in.

The offshore accounts hold most of the money, spread across a few different places. I also check what IOUs are outstanding and which simply stand as something to be used as a bargaining chip.

I’m almost done when Svetlana knocks on the office door. “Mr. Ilya?”

It’s as close to Ilya as she’s willing to get. I let her choose how formal or informal she wishes to be each day. Sometimes it’s sir; sometimes it’s Mr. Belov.

“Yes, Ms. Svetlana?”

A dark expression crosses her face, but she sees I’m teasing and smiles with a little nod. “You have a visitor.”

Isaak steps up behind Svetlana, his height dwarfing hers, and he thanks her as he moves past her.

“Isaak!” I grin, standing.

Svetlana looks at me then comes in to collect the plate as she glances at Isaak. “Would you like something to eat? Drink?”

“We’re fine. Take the rest of the evening off,” I say to her.

“Oh, I was going to make your dinner, Mr. Ilya.”

“I can make Isaak do it,” I say, sliding him a glance.

He chuckles. “He can’t make me do anything.”

“This is my good friend Isaak, who just might come and work for us, so you can treat him as a piece of the furniture, da ?”

She blushes and scurries away, earning a chiding look from Isaak.

He glances around the study.

“Don’t tease her,” he says, picking up a book in Russian, then he flips through it and puts it down. “She’s very nice.”

“And you’re very annoying. ”

“Nice pictures. Nice place. Very… Russian oligarch.” He picks up a golden statuette.

“Sit, sit,” I say, gesturing opposite me as I take my seat once more behind the desk.

I reach for the vodka—the cheaper stuff. It’s Belvedere, still top shelf but not Russian top shelf, but I like it enough at room temperature or chilled.

I pour two glasses. “Drink.”

“I can’t.” He wraps his hand around it anyway as I take a swallow of mine. “I have a meeting in the area, and since we were working out hard this morning, and I could only cram in a truncated session, I figure we should catch up. You were… moody.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe you’re projecting.”

“Nah, I live through others, having no life of my own.” He glances around once more and whistles. “Aside from the heavy aesthetic of old-school oligarch, you’ve done well for yourself. This place is almost as nice as mine.”

I laugh. “Your triplex?”

“Mansion in the sky.”

“This is humble, but… early days.” I sit back and take another swallow of the vodka.

Whoever his meeting’s with must be big, because normally, given the hour, Isaak would have a small drink. But I don’t push it.

“I delivered the bridesmaid home safe and untouched, just so you know.”

“Didn’t ask,” I say.

“And the bride?”

“You didn’t deliver her anywhere.” I narrow my eyes at him, take another sip.

He nods slowly. “How are things going there? I only ask because you were moody. ”

This time I sigh. “Not great,” I admit with a wince. “We, ah, kissed.”

Isaak waits.

“It scared her off, exactly what I was afraid of.”

“Scared her off, or maybe you just suck at kissing?” The teasing note in his voice is clear.

I throw a pen at him and hit him in the chest. “I’m aware this is your way of trying to see if I’ll kiss you, but it’s still a no?—”

“Hey, you want to kiss me, but with reports like that, I’m giving it a miss and sticking to pretty girls.”

“I’m a more than adequate kisser. They always come back for more.”

“Except this one.”

“Thin,” I say with a growl, “ice.”

“Luckily, I’m a skilled skater.”

I snicker at him, right as my phone rings. Picking up my cell, I look at the caller. Melor.

“I need to take this, sorry.”

“That’s fine. I have to go anyway.”

I stand, and we shake hands like it’s a business meeting.

“You know, Isaak, if you ever want to leave the corporate world behind, you can come work for me. I need someone who’s good with numbers.”

Isaak raises a brow.

“You couldn’t afford me, Ilya,” he says easily, but I hear the interest in his voice.

I smile. Spread my hands. “Name your price.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, then he makes his way out.

It surprises me because he’s pretty fucking straight when it comes to work. If he meant no, it’d be a flat no.

Isaak’s interested.

And it surprises me in a good way .

Maybe tonight’s going to be a night of good surprises.

With that in mind, I call Melor back.