9. Andrey

9

ANDREY

It had to be done.

Natalia was looking at me like she wanted to cook me dinner and tell me about her day. She was looking at me like she wanted me to stay .

As I walk down seven flights of stairs, lit by bare flickering bulbs, I tell myself again and again that cold cruelty was the only thing that could correct her deluded notions of who she thinks I am.

Not the man you cook dinner for.

Not the man you share your day with.

Not the man you ask to stay.

I tell myself I did it for her. But the truth is, the moment she stumbled towards me, her eyes bright with hope, her lips pursed up in a shy smile, I sensed danger.

Fucking her didn't scratch the itch like I assumed it would.

On the contrary, when she came down from her orgasm, clutched in my arms, my sweat covering her skin, my cum dripping out of her, and my promise fulfilled because she did smell like me, only like me, all I could think was…

I want more .

It would have taken so little to convince me to stay. That's exactly why I had to leave.

Because the last time I decided to stay, I got to know the woman behind the pretty smile. And now, I can't think about that smile without also thinking about her cold, gray lips the very last time I kissed her.

Forgive me, Maria.

Shura is sitting patiently in the SUV when I emerge onto the moonlit pavement. I'm desperate for a smoke, but if I indulge, Shura will know something's up. It's a dead tip-off that something's on my mind, and I'm not in the mood to talk about this shit. Not any of it.

Even still, Shura eyes me curiously when I get into the passenger seat. "That took longer than I expected. I'm assuming you got something?"

I control my expression. "She appears to be clean. Did you find anything else?"

He holds up his phone. "Not much. She lost her parents when she was young. Carjacking."

I glance up to the seventh-floor window I know is Natalia's living room. A shadow flickers behind the curtains.

She wears the tragedy well, all things considered.

"I can keep digging into her background," Shura continues, pulling away from the curb. "She certainly fits Nikolai's usual profile—lonely, isolated, no family."

"What would be her motivation?"

He shrugs. "Money. Just like everyone else. Look at that dump she lives in—she obviously needs it."

"For now, she's a dead end. I'm more interested in the kid Nikolai sent to spy on me."

"He's being held in the Moir brownstone."

It's late to keep working, but I need the distraction. There's no fucking chance I'll be able to sleep tonight, anyway. "Fine. Let's go."

Shura changes course and, thirty minutes later, we're pulling into a quiet part of the Upper West Side. It's not the type of place anyone would expect to be hiding secrets and hostages, which is exactly why we use it.

Shura drives into an underground garage. The door closes behind us, trapping every last sound echoing between the walls. I step out of the vehicle and through a door that leads deeper into the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, Anatoly is snoring softly. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, his head dangling off the back of a plastic chair.

He's facing another chair. This one holds a scrawny teenage boy with a mess of dark brown hair and roving blue eyes that seek me out the moment I walk into the room. He's got a purple bruise snaking up his jaw and dry blood caked around his nose.

Blyat'. He's a child.

I kick Anatoly awake and he comes to with a huffed snort. "Boss," he mutters, lumbering to his feet and vacating his chair.

I dismiss him with a nod and drag the chair over to the boy. Swinging it around, I straddle it. "Do you have a name, boy?"

He glowers. "I'm not a boy."

I snort. "My Aunt Olga has more facial hair than you." His clothes are ripped in places, revealing just how skinny and malnourished he is. I see ribs through the tears of his shirt, like a beaten street dog. "This will be a lot easier if you cooperate."

"I'm no snitch."

"Admirable," I concede with a nod. "But ultimately, stupid. Especially if you're loyal to scum like Nikolai Rostov." Rostov's name gets the desired reaction; the boy flinches and looks away guiltily. "He's not coming for you, you know. He has probably already forgotten you exist."

The words I said to Natalia— my words—echo in my head again and it takes everything I have not to grimace. I've already forgotten you exist.

"I'm not waiting to be rescued," the boy hisses. "I can take care of myself."

"You're certainly doing a great job of that right now."

Another dark scowl. Somehow, it just makes him look younger. "Go ahead and kill me then. I'm not afraid to die."

"Smart. Being afraid of death is a waste of time." I get to my feet and kick the chair away. "But pain … Now, pain is something else entirely."

His blue eyes teeter up towards me. There's a tremble in his jaw. And then… "Do your worst."

I have to give it to the kid: he's got a pair of balls on him.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." The word comes out sharp and loathing. "Andrey Kuznetsov. I've heard enough to know I don't like you."

"Have you now? I'm curious. What have you heard about me?"

The boy's mouth clamps shut as though he's just realized he's said too much. He stares at the stone floor silently.

"Go on," I coax. "You won't hurt my feelings."

Shura takes a step into the room, cracking his knuckles. "I could loosen his jaw for you, ‘Drey."

I pretend to think about it. "He might be smarter than he looks. Maybe you won't need to rearrange his face before he learns he's fighting a losing battle."

"You don't scare me," the boy says. "None of you do."

I actually believe him. This kid's been through a lot. I know the look of cigarette burns on the inside of his forearms—God knows he didn't put them there himself. The neat row of them is entirely too organized to have been an accident, either.

"Fair enough. Shura, he's all yours." I start to walk away.

I don't get far before the boy's voice echoes against the stone walls. "Wait…!"

I turn, oozing disinterested. "Yes?"

"Wh-what are you going to do with me?" As soon as the words are out, he winces. He looks furious with himself for stuttering.

"I haven't decided yet," I say honestly.

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Not today." I turn to Shura and Anatoly. "I want him moved to my estate tomorrow. He won't get freedom of the grounds, but make sure he's cleaned up and given a proper meal."

Anatoly's eyebrow arches. "You sure you want to waste a good meal on this street rat? He's a dead man walk?—"

"Misha."

All three of us turn to the boy. "What was that?" I ask.

His blue eyes are fixed on mine, level and unafraid. "My name is Misha."

"Then I have a question for you, Misha. One that doesn't require you to snitch." He looks suspicious, but he says nothing. "Is the name ‘Natalia Boone' familiar to you?"

The lack of any reaction says it's not.

"What about Katya Petrova?"

He shakes his head.

Fuck. I was hoping for a reason to justify visiting the little lastochka again, but it seems she really is a dead end.

It's just as well. I have enough on my plate. I may have stopped Nikolai Rostov's skin trade for the time being, but that doesn't mean I've stopped him.

We're a long way from the end of this story.