4. Radimir

4

RADIMIR

“You need to get yourself a woman,” Valentin told me.

I reluctantly looked up from my phone. My brother was leaning over the VIP room’s balcony, looking down on the crowd below. Three hundred of Chicago’s young and beautiful bounced to the thumping bass and there was no shortage of tanned, leggy women in flimsy dresses.

I scowled. “Why on earth would I want a woman?”

“She might make you a little less…” he imitated my scowl.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. I didn’t mind him making fun of me: he knows not to do it when anyone’s around. Valentin is the youngest of us and the most casual. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and midnight blue jeans and blended in with the club goers much better than me, in my three-piece suit. Only his long black leather coat made him stand out. I knew there’d be at least three knives hidden somewhere under it, maybe a gun, too. We were here for a polite, good faith meeting and in theory that meant no weapons. But the people we were meeting wouldn’t obey that rule and so neither would we.

“ You find yourself a woman,” I told Valentin. “I don’t have time for a relationship.” And it was true. My brothers and I ruled half the city, but when you have the throne, you have to fight to keep it. A new group had moved in from Armenia and were trying to take our territory. The mayor wanted my help to keep the lid on a scandal and I had my job as CEO of Aristov Developments, our property company.

But that wasn’t the reason I stayed single. Valentin knew it, and I knew it.

I checked my phone for the tenth time and my foot started tapping irritably. “Where are they?!”

“They’re not late,” said Valentin calmly. “You made us get here early.”

I had. I refused to be late for things. But I also hated waiting: it was inefficient. And I hated this club. It was wildly overpriced and too cool for its own good, with its black-walled VIP room and glass tables that seemed to float, and its DJs from Iceland and drinks served in light-up glasses. It didn’t even have a name, it had a symbol, a squiggle you were supposed to pronounce as Indigo, which was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. “At least when we meet the mayor, she does things properly,” I grumbled, jerking my waistcoat straight. “What’s wrong with a deserted construction site? They only picked this place to show off.”

“You’re in a foul mood, brother,” said a voice behind me. My head snapped around and I saw Gennadiy emerging from the shadows. He’d been almost invisible in his charcoal suit and dark, open-neck shirt. He sprawled next to me on the blinding-white couch and poured himself a shot of vodka from the bottle we’d ordered: at least this place had the good stuff. “Perhaps you need to get laid.”

“That’s what I said!” said Valentin.

I turned and glared at Gennadiy, who gave me one of his infuriating smirks. He’s the middle brother, older than Valentin but younger than me. What happened to the three of us—we just refer to it as Vladivostok —affected us in different ways. It left Valentin haunted. It made Gennadiy hard-hearted. And me? It taught me that love makes you weak. That’s why I’d never allow myself to fall in love.

The door swung open and Mikhail, our uncle, strolled in, leading his dogs. “Sorry,” he muttered, waving his hand at them. “The bouncer.”

Dogs, of course, are not allowed in nightclubs. But Mikhail doesn’t go anywhere without them, as the bouncer probably found out to his cost. I petted one of the four enormous Malamutes, and my bad mood lifted just a little. Mikhail has trained them since puppies and they’re superb attack dogs. But to members of our family, they’re just adorable fluffballs . Mikhail gave each of us a hearty embrace. “What are we talking about?” he asked.

“How Radimir should find a woman,” said Valentin before I could stop him.

Mikhail punched me playfully on the shoulder. “You should find a woman! I keep telling you to think about an heir!”

I huffed and scowled. “Everyone stay the fuck out of my love life!” I had enough to worry about, holding this family together after everything we’d been through, without worrying about starting a dynasty.

Mikhail settled on the couch, and we waited. The entire Aristov family lined up.

Valentin is our hitman. He spends most of his time up on Chicago’s rooftops, watching his targets, before descending to slit their throats in the night. Gennadiy handles the day-to-day running of most of our illegal operations. Mikhail, he’s our link to politics and power. He makes the introductions and handles the bribes: everyone who’s anyone in the state of Illinois knows friendly Uncle Mikhail, or Misha, as he insists they call him.

Then there’s me. I’m the CEO of our legitimate property business, make the decisions and hold everything together, bound by the promise I made my brothers and Mikhail all those years ago: family first. Family, always.

And as we sat there together, my mind did what it always did, as soon as there was a second of quiet. It slid to her.

It had been a week since I walked into that bookstore, and I hadn’t gone an hour without thinking of her. I’d be at the office, and I’d imagine her magnificent, denim-clad ass raised in the air as I bent her over the photocopier, or her copper hair tossing and pale legs kicking as I fucked her on the conference table. I was starting to obsess over what her pussy looked like: light pink or dark pink lips? The curls of hair red or brown, or shaved completely? I had to know.

The lust wasn’t the thing that unsettled me, though. There was a craving I couldn’t seem to get rid of, a little lift in my chest when I thought about seeing her again. I scowled. What’s the matter with me?

One of the club’s waitresses appeared at the door. The club makes them wear this ridiculous outfit, an indigo dress and knee boots and a platinum-blonde wig. “Your guests are here,” she told us, looking shaken. And the Nazarov brothers strolled in.

The Nazarovs are Russian, like us. Spartak was first, a giant of a man, almost as tall as me but much wider. He used to wrestle back home, and he was good at it. He’s an old-school, vicious bastard who likes to wrap his enemies in chains and drown them in the river. I only deal with him because I have to: he runs most of the drugs in Chicago, as well as some bars and a sleazy nightclub.

Behind him followed his brother, Borislav. Bald, leaner than Spartak but just as big and unpleasant, Borislav acts as muscle. He rides his brother’s coattails and spends most of his time drinking and partying.

“Do you need anything else?” asked the waitress. Her eyes never left Borislav, and she was holding her silver tray across her chest like a shield.

I stiffened, furious, and scowled at Borislav. He has a reputation in the city. He’s assaulted or raped several women, but only two have ever reported him, only one led to charges being filed and that case was dropped when the woman suddenly disappeared. Everyone hates him but no one can do anything because he’s Spartak’s brother. My guess was that Borislav had slipped his hand up the waitress’s dress on the way upstairs and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s men who mistreat women. “No, thank you,” I told the waitress. “We don’t need anything else.” She hurried away, leaving Borislav looking disappointed.

The door closed and we settled down to business. Our families have managed to maintain a grudging, fragile peace for years, an agreement brokered by the Vosem, “The Eight,” an unofficial sort of high council of senior Bratva members back in Moscow. I don’t like working with lowlifes like the Nazarovs, but peace is better for business and disobeying The Eight would see our family isolated and quickly wiped out.

The Nazarovs were just leaving when my phone vibrated with a message from Lina. She calls me Uncle even though she’s my cousin’s daughter because I’m the closest thing she has to one.

Lina

Uncle Radimir, could you please get me the next book in the series?

Already?!

You read that book in five days?!

No, in two days. YOU HAVE NO IDEA! She didn’t know the king was in love with her but she just found out ARGH please please!

I felt a rare bloom of warmth, deep within my chest. The innocence of childhood, when just a book can make you happy. It should probably have made me nostalgic for when I was like that. But my childhood was nothing like Lina’s.

I could still make her happy, though.

Yes, Linyushka, I will get it for you.

Thank you, thank you!

I felt a trace of a smile touch my lips. I’d pick the book up that afternoon?—

At the bookstore. Something unfamiliar unfolded in my chest, expanding to fill me. I’ll see her again!

I froze, glaring at a spot on the floor, careful to keep my face a mask. I stamped on the rogue feeling hard . Then I carefully analyzed it, like a scientist putting a new and possibly dangerous insect under a microscope. I hadn’t felt it in so long, it took me a moment to identify it. Excitement.

“Bullshit,” I said aloud. My family all turned to look at me. But I was their Pakhan, their boss. I didn’t owe them an explanation. And I certainly wasn’t getting giddy over seeing some woman. I wanted to fuck her, that’s all it was. I wanted to plunge my tongue between those soft, pink pussy lips, feel those milky thighs clamp hard against my ears as she came.

That’s all it is.

Later that day, Valentin parked the car opposite All You Need Is Books . It wasn’t snowing today but it was still bitingly cold. “I’ll be two minutes,” I muttered as I climbed out.

“Don’t wait in line, this time,” Valentin told me helpfully.

I ignored him and stalked across the street, the wind making my overcoat billow out behind me like a cape. She might not even be there, I told myself, mentally shrugging. Or she might be so busy with customers that we’ll barely speak. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. I was relaxed. Casual. So why had my chest gone tight?

I pushed open the door, repeating nonchalantly in my mind: she might not even be here, she might not even be here…

I froze in the doorway. A woman with ash-blonde hair was behind the counter. She’s not here?! I’d been repeating it, I hadn’t thought it would actually happen!

The tension in my chest shifted to raw panic. Where is she? Does she work a different day? A different shift? And then a horrible possibility hit me. What if she doesn’t work here anymore? What if she never worked here, what if she was just filling in for one shift on that day I came in and now I’ll NEVER FIND HER AGAIN?!

My woman stood up from where she’d been ducked down behind the counter. She was holding a silver-and-black hardback. “I saw you pull up. I’m guessing she wants the next book?”

I stared at her. I was panting like I’d just run three blocks; my eyes were wide and... had I just thought of her as my woman? I took a deep breath and walked slowly forward. “Miss Hanford.”

She pursed her lips and looked up at me through her lashes. “Mr. Aristov.” She was scared of me. But there was just a hint of humor, too, gently making fun of me for being so formal, and that daring teasing made my cock instantly swell in my pants. I wanted to seize her by the waist, lift her over the counter and mash my lips down on hers.

I took another deep breath. My heart was still pounding from that moment of fear when I thought I’d lost her. What the fuck is happening to me? “ Yes, please, the next book.” I swallowed, trying to make my voice coldly impassive. “My cousin’s daughter said how much she liked the first one.”

She grinned, innocent and happy, and it made her whole face light up. Suddenly, nothing else existed but those sparkling, forest-green eyes. She almost reminded me of a librarian: smart and sexy and good , shut away here in her snug little world of books. “Would you like me to gift-wrap it, this time?” she asked.

I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t acting like myself. But my brain wasn’t interested in investigating, right now. All that mattered was that gift wrapping meant more time with her. “Please.”

“It’s three dollars extra,” she said apologetically.

“Fine.” Three hundred would have been fine.

She gave me another one of those grins and I felt my chest... lift. I fought to focus, to try to be analytical. She cared about every sale, every extra, far more than if she just worked here.

“This is your store,” I realized.

She nodded, entirely focused on smoothing the creases on the gift wrap. She was using expensive, delicately stenciled paper and scarlet ribbons: she couldn’t make much money, even at three dollars per book. She was doing it right, not ruthlessly cutting corners for profit. A good woman running an honest business. The polar opposite of me.

She expertly cinched the ribbon tight and tied a bow, then held out the package. And now I’d calmed enough to see that she was breathing fast, and her cheeks were flushed. Excited. Nervous. Not completely in control. I held my card out to the card reader, and it beeped, far too quickly.

“I’ll keep a copy of the third book for you, Mr. Aristov.”

I wasn’t walking away without knowing her name. “Radimir.”

She swallowed. “Bronwyn.”

Bronwyn. It sounded faraway and magical, like she should be walking through a misty forest, and it suited her perfectly. I nodded, then turned and walked out.

On the sidewalk, the freezing air slapped me in the face and my steps slowed. What just happened? The way my stomach had plunged when I thought I’d never find her again. The way I tried to spin out the encounter as long as possible. Something about her made me lose control and I’m always in control.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at the gift-wrapped book in my hands. This is dangerous. Feelings make you weak.

Then I shook my head and marched across the street with long, determined strides. Ridiculous. Of course I didn’t feel things for her. I just wanted to fuck her, and I’d been disappointed when I thought she wasn’t there, and of course I’d wanted more time with her so I could gaze at the swells of her breasts under her sweater and the ripe curves of her hips under those tight, tight jeans.

Feelings make you weak. And that’s why I never felt anything for anyone.

Life went back to normal for a few days. But then I started to get this...itch. I could feel a certain street on the west side with a certain, warmly lit storefront calling to me. No. Not until Lina asks for the next book.

A week came and went but Lina didn’t message. By now, the itch was more of an ache. What’s taking her so long?

Two weeks passed. I started checking the messaging app every few hours to see if Lina had messaged. This time, I’d paid extra to courier the book to Russia in twenty-four hours, so she’d had it for over twelve days, now. What’s the matter with kids today? Don’t they read anymore?

Then my stomach knotted. What if it wasn’t any good? What if the author had gone off the boil and the second book wasn’t as good as the first?

What if Lina doesn’t want the final book?

After sixteen days, I couldn’t take it anymore and I messaged Lina.

Have you finished the new book yet?

She messaged me back immediately.

Haven’t started it yet. I have exams.

I kicked my desk so hard I bruised my foot.

It was three days after that, still with no word from Lina, that my assistant, Irwin, poked his head into my office. He’s a civilian, like all the workers at Aristov Incorporated, and doesn’t know about our illegal activities. He’s nervous and awkward, with a slender build and thick glasses. But he’s an excellent assistant and he’s a lot less distracting than some gorgeous woman in a short skirt and high heels.

Bronwyn. She’d look amazing dressed as an assistant. With that red hair all piled up and pinned tight, so I could have the fun of un pinning it when I pulled her across my desk. And an indecently short skirt, and four—no, five-inch heels. And she’d call me Mr. Aristov in that soft, slightly teasing voice and?—

I shook my head and forced myself to focus. “What is it?” I asked Irwin.

“Your brothers are here.”

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Send them in.”

Gennadiy and Valentin strolled in, followed by Mikhail and his dogs. Gennadiy made sure the door was closed, then stalked over to my desk, his face grim. He glanced at the ceiling, the walls, then raised a questioning eyebrow. Are we safe?

I nodded. “I swept for bugs this morning.” I leaned forward in my chair. I knew it must be urgent: we don’t discuss family business at my office if we can help it.

Gennadiy leaned close. He looked shaken and it takes a lot to shake him. “I had a call from The Eight this morning. They want us to end someone.”

I nodded, confused. It didn’t seem like a big deal. We’d kill the person and then?—

“Brother,” said Gennadiy, “it’s Borislav Nazarov!”

I froze, horrified.

“It will start a war, Radimir,” said Mikhail. “One we’ll lose.”

He was right. The peace deal with the Nazarovs had allowed us to move into legitimate business and mainly white collar crime. But the Nazarovs had used the peace to build up their drug empire. Spartak was in business with a drug cartel in Mexico and sold their product all over Chicago. Plus, somewhere in the city—no one knew where—he had a factory churning out hundreds of thousands of pills. The money from those two operations had bought him a lot of soldiers and a lot of guns. If it came to war—and Spartak Nazarov would absolutely go to war with us if we killed his beloved brother—we’d be wiped out.

“Can we refuse?” asked Valentin.

I shook my head. You don’t say no to The Eight.

“Why would they ask us to do this?” asked Gennadiy. “They were the ones who got us to make peace!”

“They must have a good reason,” I said, steepling my fingers. “We all know Borislav’s reputation. My guess is, he’s raped another woman, or killed her. Some district attorney has finally gotten serious about putting him away. And The Eight think a trial would put too much attention on the Bratva.” I looked at each of them in turn. “I have no problem killing the piece of shit, after all the women he’s hurt.”

“But Spartak will declare war on us,” said Gennadiy.

I cocked my head to one side. “Only if he finds out it was us.”

“It’s his brother!” said Gennadiy. “Spartak won’t stop until he finds out who did it.”

I thought. “Then we make it look like an accident.”

“I can do it,” said Valentin.

I shook my head. “This one I’m doing myself.”

Valentin’s eyes widened. “It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

I nodded sympathetically. Valentin is our hitman, and he really is good at his job, one of the best I’d ever seen. Only a guy I used to know in New York was on the same level. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, brother,” I said gently. “There’s just too much at stake. If this goes wrong, I want it to be on my head, not yours.”

Valentin nodded unhappily and I showed them out, taking the opportunity to give Mikhail’s dogs ear scratches as they passed. I better get this right, I thought as I watched them leave. Or we’re all dead.

At that moment, my phone buzzed with a notification. I was so distracted, I had to read the message a few times before the implications sank in.

Lina

I read the second book in A DAY! OMG they’re going to make her Queen but the King’s missing and there’s a traitor!!! Please next book please thank you you’re the best!

Borislav and Spartak were instantly forgotten. I marched out of my office and loomed over Irwin’s desk. “Move up my afternoon meetings,” I told him. “I have an errand to run after work.”

That evening, Valentin parked opposite the bookstore for the third time. “Maybe next time, you should just buy all three books at once.”

I caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror and gave him a sharp glare. Did he know? If he did, his face showed no trace of it. So what if he does know? So I want to fuck the bookstore owner. So what? There was nothing wrong with lust. It was feelings that were the problem.

As I crunched through the snow towards the brightly lit store, it sank in that this was the last time. The series was a trilogy: once she finished this one, I’d have no reason to go back. Maybe she can recommend another series for Lina. A nice long one…

I pushed open the door and stopped dead in the doorway. What the fuck?

Bronwyn was behind the counter, working through a long line of customers who all clutched thick stacks of books. Not surprising when hand-lettered signs offered 25%, 30%, even 40% off. A banner hung overhead: red paint on what looked like a white bed sheet. CLOSING DOWN SALE.

I marched past the line to the counter. Bronwyn looked even paler than usual and thinner, as if she hadn’t been eating. “What’s going on?”

Her shoulders sank as if every time she told the story, it drained something, and she had nothing left. “I was losing money already,” she told me. “I thought maybe I could turn things around, but then…” She shook her head. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Things changed.”

“ What changed?” I knew I was being snappy and terse but I couldn’t help it. I was worried.

She sighed. “It’s nothing that can be fixed.” She looked at the floor and in that second she didn’t look like the confident businesswoman I knew. She looked... broken.

Without thinking, I reached out and gently lifted her chin so that she had to look at me. “Bronwyn,” I asked, my voice soft but firm, “ what?”

Big green eyes blinked up at me. “The guy who owns the building wants to sell it so it can be turned into apartments. He has to get rid of the businesses: me and the coffee shop next door. So, to force us out, he used a loophole in the lease to double the rent.”

I stiffened. A storm cloud started to form in my chest, blacker than midnight and shot through with lightning.

Bronwyn inhaled and it was shaky. “There’s n—no way I can pay so—” She broke off, unable to continue. She gave a brave little well, that’s life shrug and even managed a weak smile. But those forest green eyes were shining.

I watched them fill, the storm cloud in my chest billowing outward, expanding exponentially...

A single tear escaped and ran down her cheek.

I tugged my waistcoat straight. “This,” I said, my voice tight, “is unacceptable.”

And I turned and marched out of the store and across the street. I climbed into the car and slammed the door.

Valentin saw my face and immediately knew it was no time for jokes. “Home?” he asked quietly.

“No. Back to the office.”

When I walked in, Irwin was lounging in his chair, feet up on his desk, playing a video game. He looked up, saw me and almost fell off his chair. “Mr. Aristov! I thought you’d gone for the day!” He scrambled to clear the screen.

“I’ve decided to expand our property portfolio,” I told him, taking off my coat. “Find me the owner of 302 Wychwood Avenue. Who he is. Where he lives.”

Irwin scrambled to take notes. “Yes sir. No problem.” He glanced at the clock: by now, it was well after six. “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.” His eyes flicked up and he saw my expression. “I’ll get on it right now, sir.”

An hour later, I was climbing the stairs to the top floor of a huge house in the Gold Coast. The building’s owner was called Lewis Van Peterson, and he’d had his maid show me up rather than come down to answer the door himself, just so I knew how important he was. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t in the mood to be fucked with. On the drive over, that black storm cloud in my chest had swollen until I was almost shaking with rage.

He was waiting for me on a little balcony that overlooked the city, a balding, flabby guy in his sixties with an accent that was firmly Chicago old money. “Mr. Aristov!” He pushed his plate of steak aside but didn’t bother to get up. “I don’t normally take visitors at this time of night, but I’ll make an ex?—”

“You’re selling the building at 302 Wychwood Avenue.”

The ice in my voice cut through all his posing. “Yes?” he said uncertainly.

“You’re going to sell it to me.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. When I just stared at him, his smile collapsed. “I already have a buyer.”

“I know. And I know what they’re offering. I’ll pay the same.”

He balked. Then he thought and I could almost see the dollar signs appear in his eyes. “Clearly you really want this building. I’ll consider it if you offer five percent more.”

The anger in my chest was still swelling, my fingers twitching with the need to let it out. But I wanted to settle this peacefully if I could. “Take the offer,” I advised quietly.

“No!” he said, petulant as a child. “In fact, I want seven percent.”

And the rage exploded outward, taking control.

I marched over, picked up his fork, and slammed it down into the meat of his hand, hard enough that I buried the metal prongs in the table. He screamed, but I’d already clapped my hand over his mouth.

It’s about respect, I told myself. Making sure people know they can’t fuck with us.

But I knew that wasn’t why. He made her cry.

I pulled a thick sheaf of paper and a pen from my coat pocket and dropped them on the table. “Sign.”

He stared at me over the top of the hand gag, terrified. But he didn’t pick up the pen.

I picked up his steak knife and traced it over the fingers of his pinned hand. “You need one hand to sign,” I warned. “You don’t need both.”