Page 10

It’s a rare, cold day in Miami, the sky a cobblestoned grey and the wind whipping off the water with the promise of a storm.

I shiver when I step out of the warmth of Matvei’s car with the first of the raindrops plinking down beside me.

He sighs and takes off his coat, the same leather one I wore that night at the club, and hands it to me without looking at me, like it pains him to be nice. Maybe it does. I’d believe it.

“I told you to change before we left,” he grumbles.

The low growl of his voice does nothing to diminish the devil comparisons I can’t help making every time I see him. Pretty sure the raindrops that hit his skin will just sizzle off into steam. No one but hell could make a man that hot and that cruel.

“I thought you were just upset because I wasn’t wearing a bra,” I fire back, snugging his jacket tighter around me and wishing I’d brought an umbrella. The rain was going to wreak havoc on my hair.

He scoffs but doesn’t deny it, and I caught him looking at my boobs at least three times this morning so we both know the truth.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to walk in front of him down the sidewalk.

Matvei stays close, a half step behind me like a bodyguard. It makes me feel… safe. Not smothered. Not annoyed. Just protected. Despite myself, I think I’m beginning to trust him, and that’s dangerous when I know he only has his own interests at heart.

“Here,” he says, sticking to his few words as possible rule, steering me toward a doorway with the brush of his hand on my waist.

He has to duck as we step inside. It’s a speakeasy-style bar with low red lighting and tufted couches lining the far wall. Swanky. Relaxed. The kind of place I’d spend an evening with my friends just to gossip over surprisingly strong cocktails.

“This is yours?” I ask him, fighting my shock. I wasn’t expecting anything posh from the Abashins, and maybe I was selling them short. This was probably Oleg’s idea. He’s the only one in the family, apart from Nikita, who doesn’t seem like a brute.

“One such place, yes.” He’s guarded as ever, but he keeps his hand on my lower back as he guides me over to the well-polished bar.

It’s the afternoon, and the place is mostly empty apart from a handful of others scattered around the place and the bartender, who comes over to take our order when we find our seats.

I’m immediately reminded of my first night meeting Matvei, but this time I order a fruity cocktail rather than straight vodka.

“This isn’t what I meant,” I say, after the bartender drops our drinks. Mine has a skewer of fruit and tastes like the beach. “This is the legit side of things. I want to see where you really make your money.”

It’s the same damn problem I have with my own brothers, and it smarts to deal with it here, too. When will the world accept that I’m not a child? I don’t need to live a sheltered life. Whatever the men in my family can handle, I can handle. They just never let me try.

“This is part of the machine.” Matvei looks around the bar with fondness. “And it’s the first place we opened. Call me sentimental.”

I snort. “Don’t think I will. How long has this place been running?”

“Years,” he says with a careless wave of his hand. Then his face grows somber. “With the latest Shevchenko moves, I’m afraid it might become the next target. They’ve gotten bolder since your family’s alliance.”

I straighten up because I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak in one go. “What was it like before? Did you have the run of the city?”

It’s hard to imagine a small family like the Abashins pulling that off.

He tilts his head to the side and stares down at his drink. “Not really, but there was balance. Balance between the families here. Careful. Tenuous. But it was there.”

His voice thickens with frustration, and I can practically see the weight of responsibility crushing down on his shoulders, as my brothers all carry similar burdens. The head of the family never lives an easy life. Everyone relies on them, and their poor choices can topple a dynasty.

“What happened? Was there a war?”

Matvei swirls the drink in his glass and takes a swallow before responding. “The Shevchenko happened. When they moved in, they weren’t content to share, no. They had to take control of it all. Nothing would stand in their way.”

“But you held out,” I remind him. “You’re still here.”

“For now,” he replies. “With the new alliance between the Milov family, your family, and the Shevchenkos? I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time. We can’t stand against that. We have a target painted on our backs. In the Shevchenkos’ eyes, and now in the Milovs’, we are priority number one.”

I bite my lip. Two lines crease between his dark brows, and I want to reach out and rub them away.

Instead, I remind him of an ugly little truth.

“You can’t play innocent here when you guys were the ones to start it with us.

Killing our lawyers, sabotaging our construction sites, kidnapping Ella?

Yeah, you’re the ones that painted the target on your own backs. ”

He frowns, finally looking up from his drink. The low light gilds the obsidian of his eyes. “We didn’t… no, not all of that was us. The Shevchenkos pushed too hard, too fast, and they made enemies out of more than just us.”

I pop the straw out of my mouth, ready to argue. “Don’t lie to me. We know it was you. There was evidence.”

“Anya,” he breaks in, holding my gaze. “We didn’t kill your lawyers. The last thing I wanted to do was get on the Milov shit list when we were already facing the Shevchenkos.”

“But you admit you kidnapped Ella? She could’ve died.

” It might have been part of an insane plan on Ella and Anton’s part, but the danger was real.

She could’ve been killed, and it was definitely the Abashins that kidnapped her.

If he tries to lie to me now, I’ll call Anton the second we step out of this place and put the biggest target yet on him.

He reaches out to touch my hand, and I pull away, drawing a sigh from him. “It was my brothers’ doing.”

I blink and sit back. After this much time with Matvei, I hoped to have learned his tells, but the man is a closed book ninety-nine percent of the time. If he’s lying, I can’t see it.

“I know Oleg didn’t do that.”

The thought of his most reserved brother doing something like that brings a ghost of a smile to his face. “No, not Oleg. He prefers his life at a desk. It was Timofey and Diomid leading that foolish gambit.”

That, I can imagine. Diomid seemed bold and brash just at the dinner table.

It’s not a stretch to picture him leading a venture like that.

Timofey, poor man, seems to have more brawn than brains, as evidenced by his help in my first escape attempt, and I could see him going along with Diomid’s suggestion if Matvei weren’t around to put a stop to it.

But as the head of the family, it’s his job to make those decisions.

“My brother Rigor would say that no matter who carries out the action, if they’ve got the Milov name, it’s on him. Head of the family means you take full responsibility for what happens. So where were you?”

His eyes dim, and I see his hand move to where his pocket would be if I weren’t wearing his jacket. I stick my own hand into that pocket and find, to no surprise, his pack of smokes. He pulls a lighter from his jeans instead and spins it, over and over, in the palm of his hand.

“Out of town.” He glances at the pocket, then up at my face, and for the first time, I see the man behind the mask. It’s gone in a flash. “Yes, it is still my problem to deal with, but I didn’t sanction it.”

It does change things, somewhat. If he didn’t commit the worst of the crimes I’d been assigning to him, is he really that much worse than anyone in my family? As long as he’s telling the truth.

“And you didn’t kill the lawyers?”

“We didn’t,” he confirms.

I finish my drink and push the empty glass away. “Your brothers are idiots.”

“They have their moments.” Matvei waves the bartender over, and we order a second round. “I’m sure yours do as well.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me and I bite back a smile. “You have no idea.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol swimming through my system, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me right now, like he’s hanging on my every word, but either way, I spill my guts at that bar to the devil himself.

“They don’t give a shit that I’m twenty-one years old now. To them? I’m twelve forever. They don’t let me get involved in anything. Clean, dirty, doesn’t matter. They say it’s not safe. Well, it’s not safe for them either!”

“Our families are not in the safest lines of work,” he agrees.

“But it’s okay for them to put their necks on the line? It’s insulting. Like, beyond insulting. They’re never going to see me as an adult, never mind an equal in the family business.”

There it is. The ugliest fear I have. That no matter what I do to prove myself, it won’t be good enough for my brothers.

And beneath that? That I’m actually not good enough.

Not strong enough, smart enough, or brave enough to be a real Milov.

After so many years of them doubting me, I guess I’ve started to doubt myself.

Matvei considers my words, head hanging, giving the lighter another spin. “My father nearly ruined my family. Drove the Abashin name into the ground. My uncles wanted nothing to do with us.”

I suck in a breath, surprised. This is the first time he has ever shared anything personal with me, and something in my chest tightens at the raw tone of his voice.

“My cousins thought we would fade away. A dead branch, cut off from the family tree. They never took me seriously. Not until I forced them to.”

Easy for him to say. He’s huge. Intimidating. People take him seriously just because he looks like he’d knock their brains out if they didn’t. It’s a major advantage, and I tell him so.

“Fair enough. I have an advantage.” His fingers brush the back of my hand, and this time I don’t pull away.

“But Anya, you are not without your own. If your brothers do not see what an asset you could be to them, you must make them see. You are not meek. Why do you let them treat you as if you are?”

His words hit home. If I really wanted to, couldn’t I have forced my brothers to listen to me earlier? Part of me liked being the spoiled one in the family, the one who didn’t have to deal with the stress and responsibility of the Milov life. For a time, that was enough.

“Careful, husband,” I say, teasing to hide the prickle of wet at the corners of my eyes, “you almost sound as if you like me.”

“I’m merely stating a fact,” he replies. “You’re a monstrous pain in my ass and I have no doubt you are capable of extending that ability to your own family.”

I scowl at him, and he bumps his shoulder against mine. In here, like this, I almost forget to hate him. He’s right; I should push for more, and I’m going to start right now.

Looping my arm through his, I get to my feet and tug him along. It’s like trying to drag an elephant. “Come on. Take this monstrous pain your ass to the real Abashin business.”