24. Max

The guy who attacked Natalya last night is currently tied to a chair in one of our warehouses. Kolya questioned him but didn't learn much, other than he and his friends were given a photograph and paid to frighten Natalya by any means necessary.

I feel like I'm missing a whole lot of information. I have no idea what Natalya does for a living, but she was targeted for a reason. Sasha's already running a background check after I pulled her info from her ID card, the one she keeps tucked away in her purse.

Just as I'm in the kitchen, hunting for food to prepare for breakfast, Sasha calls.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" My muscles tense, wondering what the fuck he's managed to dig up on Natalya. Perhaps I should have looked a bit more closely at her before bringing her back to my apartment. Twice.

"Go on."

"Well she isn't a cop, so not so bad." I exhale a sigh of relief, not that I ever considered she was. I've met more than a few cops in my time, and none of them are soft and sweet like her. "But she is a journalist with the Daily Journal."

"That covers a lot of things, Sasha, so get to the point." I pull out a box of eggs and some hard cheese to make omelets with herbs.

"From what I've found, she started as an intern and was taken on as a features writer a couple of years ago. One of her articles won an award. She's talented."

"Features is what, lifestyle content and shit? 20 ways to lose a guy in a month, kind of thing?" Sasha snorts at my dismissive tone.

"Yeah." He hums as he clicks his keyboard, presumably looking for the juiciest snippets of information to tell me. The guy likes to tease me.

I whisk the eggs and add herbs while the skillet heats up on the burner. There's a pot of coffee ready so I pour a small cup and add a touch of cream. Normally I prefer my coffee black, but this morning I feel like making it less bitter. Natalya's habits are rubbing off on me.

"So what's the problem then?" I don't see why a woman who writes articles on relationships and shit is an issue. Besides, she knows nothing about my business interests. I kept it deliberately vague when she asked.

"She did an interview with the mayor on the night of the gala and my sources suggest she's currently investigating him."

Fuck my life.That's not good. If she starts digging into the mayor, she will come across links to me, and also Uriov. Well, assuming she's any good at her job, but having spent some time with her I would assume she is.

The woman is far too smart to fudge an investigation into the mayor.

"You think last night's attack is connected to that." It's all starting to make sense now. The mayor has a lot to lose, not least the lucrative position that lets him enjoy frequent cash sweeteners to approve permits and ignore illegal activities.

"Yes. There isn't an obvious link between the guy we picked up and the mayor, but there is a loose link between him and Uriov, and we both know the mayor is in bed with that fucker."

Just as I'm about to reply, I hear the door from the bedroom click open. Natalya walks in, her hair wet, dressed in one of my shirts and nothing else. I swear my brain temporarily short-circuits because I can hear Sasha in my ear but nothing registers.

"I'm sorry for borrowing one of your shirts," she says, her cheeks tinged a pretty shade of pink. "I knocked over the glass of water you left me and the stuff I wore last night is now soaked. If you have a laundry room, I can probably dry it pretty quickly?"

Not wanting Sasha to hear any more of this conversation, I end the call. I'll speak with him later. Right now, my only focus is on Natalya. And how fucking sexy she looks wearing my shirt.

My dick is hard as stone and all I want to do is rip that damn shirt off her. It's several seconds before I realize the oil in the skillet has started to burn.

"It's not a problem," I manage to say, quickly turning off the burner before the kitchen goes up in flames. "You look good in my shirt." I throw her a heated look and she flushes a deeper hue.

"What are you making?" she asks, looking at the eggs and block of cheese on the counter.

"Omelets. Sit while I cook yours."

I turn my attention back to the stove and quickly wipe the burned oil from the skillet before adding some fresh oil. I can feel Natalya watching me but she says nothing. Considering I rarely have anyone in this apartment, other than my trusted vors, it doesn't feel strange cooking for someone.

Cooking is something I enjoy, and taking care of my malyshka makes me feel warm inside.

Am I going soft in my old age?

Probably.

Do I care?

No.