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Authors: Helena Newbury
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willing the picture to change, but it stubbornly refused to. Yes, it fucking is.
The picture had been taken in a forest. There was Irina, just as gorgeous as she was in the flesh. One arm was wrapped around a kid who might be a younger sister. And her other arm….
Her other arm was wrapped around the waist of a silver-haired man in his sixties. A man I knew very well.
“Irina,” I asked, fighting to keep my voice level. “What’s your last name?”
She stared up at me in confusion. “Malakov.” She glanced at the photo and then my horrified expression. Her voice went tight and cold. “Vasiliy is my uncle.”
The picture slid from my fingers. I heard the glass break as it hit the floor.
I got up off the bed, stumbling a little. It felt as if the whole room was spinning.
Irina’s eyes narrowed in anger. “What?” she snapped. She tugged her dress down over her thighs. “So what?”
Seeing her mad made me chest ache. Ruining everything we’d been building towards cut me deep...but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even reassure her that it was okay—my mind was whirling too fast.
And telling her it was okay would have been a lie anyway, because it most certainly was not fucking okay.
She was Vasiliy Malakov’s niece.
My body seemed to move by itself. I saw myself grab my coat and head down the stairs to the front door and then I was away, off into the night.
8
Angelo
I had no idea where I was. I had no idea where I was going. I just walked.
It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but I’d been in worse. Plus, if anyone got any ideas about messing with the guy in the nice suit, they’d change their minds when they got a look at my expression.
Vasiliy Malakov. I’d been about to fuck the niece of my sworn enemy. One of the most dangerous men in Russia and, since he partnered with Mikhail, one of the biggest crime bosses in New York.
I’d known he had at least one kid—Luka, who’d pretty much taken over from his dad back in Moscow. I’d had no idea he had a niece, or that she was right here in New York.
My mind darted through images of Irina: on stage at the ballet, frozen in midair with those long legs akimbo; glaring at me in Central Park, eyes full of suspicion; standing outside the restaurant watching me through the glass, her blonde hair gleaming in the streetlights…. And finally, in my arms, looking up at me and begging me to kiss her. I wanted her. I needed her.
You must never, ever see her again. The leaden truth of it slammed into me so hard that I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Don’t see her. Don’t call her. Just pretend it never happened. She clearly had no idea I was Cosa Nostra —we’d both been as clueless as each other. As long as I disappeared into the night and never saw her again, she never needed to find out. She’d write me off as just some asshole who’d walked out on her.
That thought stabbed deep into my chest.
But the consequences, if it had gone any further, would have been unthinkable. When Vasiliy found out, it would have tipped our two sides into full-on gang war...hell, he’d probably have put a hit out on me. My own people would have lost all faith in me. How can you trust your leader when he’s literally in bed with the enemy? And my bosses—the aging pack of old-school Cosa Nostra who oversaw New York—they would have gone fucking apeshit. They hated the Russians even more than me. I would have been busted down to errand boy or just shot in the head.
I took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d stepped on a fucking land mine and heard the sickening click. Now I had to back away, very carefully, and pray it didn’t go off. Being a leader is about making sacrifices. I couldn’t risk everything I’d built. Not even for her.
* * *
B y the time I got to my apartment, it was the early hours. I tried to sleep, but I just lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to get Irina out of my head. I could see her lying there on her bed, looking up at
The picture had been taken in a forest. There was Irina, just as gorgeous as she was in the flesh. One arm was wrapped around a kid who might be a younger sister. And her other arm….
Her other arm was wrapped around the waist of a silver-haired man in his sixties. A man I knew very well.
“Irina,” I asked, fighting to keep my voice level. “What’s your last name?”
She stared up at me in confusion. “Malakov.” She glanced at the photo and then my horrified expression. Her voice went tight and cold. “Vasiliy is my uncle.”
The picture slid from my fingers. I heard the glass break as it hit the floor.
I got up off the bed, stumbling a little. It felt as if the whole room was spinning.
Irina’s eyes narrowed in anger. “What?” she snapped. She tugged her dress down over her thighs. “So what?”
Seeing her mad made me chest ache. Ruining everything we’d been building towards cut me deep...but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even reassure her that it was okay—my mind was whirling too fast.
And telling her it was okay would have been a lie anyway, because it most certainly was not fucking okay.
She was Vasiliy Malakov’s niece.
My body seemed to move by itself. I saw myself grab my coat and head down the stairs to the front door and then I was away, off into the night.
8
Angelo
I had no idea where I was. I had no idea where I was going. I just walked.
It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but I’d been in worse. Plus, if anyone got any ideas about messing with the guy in the nice suit, they’d change their minds when they got a look at my expression.
Vasiliy Malakov. I’d been about to fuck the niece of my sworn enemy. One of the most dangerous men in Russia and, since he partnered with Mikhail, one of the biggest crime bosses in New York.
I’d known he had at least one kid—Luka, who’d pretty much taken over from his dad back in Moscow. I’d had no idea he had a niece, or that she was right here in New York.
My mind darted through images of Irina: on stage at the ballet, frozen in midair with those long legs akimbo; glaring at me in Central Park, eyes full of suspicion; standing outside the restaurant watching me through the glass, her blonde hair gleaming in the streetlights…. And finally, in my arms, looking up at me and begging me to kiss her. I wanted her. I needed her.
You must never, ever see her again. The leaden truth of it slammed into me so hard that I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Don’t see her. Don’t call her. Just pretend it never happened. She clearly had no idea I was Cosa Nostra —we’d both been as clueless as each other. As long as I disappeared into the night and never saw her again, she never needed to find out. She’d write me off as just some asshole who’d walked out on her.
That thought stabbed deep into my chest.
But the consequences, if it had gone any further, would have been unthinkable. When Vasiliy found out, it would have tipped our two sides into full-on gang war...hell, he’d probably have put a hit out on me. My own people would have lost all faith in me. How can you trust your leader when he’s literally in bed with the enemy? And my bosses—the aging pack of old-school Cosa Nostra who oversaw New York—they would have gone fucking apeshit. They hated the Russians even more than me. I would have been busted down to errand boy or just shot in the head.
I took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d stepped on a fucking land mine and heard the sickening click. Now I had to back away, very carefully, and pray it didn’t go off. Being a leader is about making sacrifices. I couldn’t risk everything I’d built. Not even for her.
* * *
B y the time I got to my apartment, it was the early hours. I tried to sleep, but I just lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to get Irina out of my head. I could see her lying there on her bed, looking up at
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