Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

VAR

" Y ou did what?" I roared.

Springing from the bed, I ran my hand through my hair as I paced.

The deadly implications of what she just told me ran like nuclear fire over my brain.

She could have been killed, or worse.

It was all I could do to rein in my rage.

It didn't help that my cock was still hard enough to pound nails.

She leaned up on her elbows as she yanked the rumpled bedcovers over her nakedness. "I told you, you would be angry."

Inhaling through my nose as I clenched my hands into fists, I turned to her. "Angry doesn't even begin to cover what I am right now, baby girl."

The very idea that she had returned to that bloody crime scene of a warehouse was bad enough. But to learn, almost a week later, that she had encountered a man who threatened her over the paintings that were in my possession, made my blood boil within my veins.

"The man was Russian. A fucking Russian, and you didn't think to tell me?"

Holding the blanket over her breasts, she moved up to her knees as she gestured widely with her free arm. "Tell you? I was lying to you by pretending I'd go to the police if you didn't hire me as your assistant. How was I supposed to tell you?" She tilted her head and raised the pitch of her voice. "Oh, by the way, the real reason I'm here is to snoop around your office looking for the paintings you don't know I painted because I currently have too many domineering Russian men in my life making demands."

Although rationally, I knew she was just doing it to make a point, I didn't like her even hinting at having two men in her life, let alone two Russian men.

I was the only fucking man in her life. Period.

" Chert voz ' mi, zhenshchina, ty svodish ' menya s uma! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"

"Of course I do! Why do you think I risked coming into your lair in the first place? Do you think I'd willingly be at the infamous Four Monks if I didn't have to be?"

"What is his name?"

"I don't know it."

"How do you contact him?"

"I don't."

"What do you mean, you don't? I swear to fucking God, Vivian, if you are lying to me again…" I warned as I continued to pace like an enraged lion at the end of the bed.

"I'm not lying. He didn't give me a way to contact him. He only said he'd be watching me." She tilted her head and stared off over my shoulder. "So it makes sense that it was probably him who broke into my apartment."

Pizdets. Since I had no intention of letting her leave my bed and return to her own apartment, finding out more about the break-in hadn't been a huge priority.

Now it definitely fucking was.

I rubbed my eyes. "Tell me everything you know."

I struggled to control my anger as she related all the details of the break-in.

"Are you telling me—you still went inside and searched the place—alone? You didn't call me, or at least the police?"

It was entirely possible I would die from a burst blood vessel in my brain if I got any more pissed off.

Instead of it being her, I was the one who picked up a precious antique Russian enameled box and threw it against the wall. The moment it smashed and scattered to the floor in pieces brought only a modicum of relief to the pressure building in my head.

Vivian ducked behind the blanket as she raised it over her face. "What the hell, Var?"

"What the hell, Vivian! I'm losing track of all the ways you could have fucking died since I've met you."

I ticked off on my fingers. "Tortured, shot, or worse by the Southside gang gunning for Abakar. Tortured, shot, or worse by this other Russian searching for the paintings. Again tortured, shot, or worse by the asshole who broke into your apartment. Attacked by the man at the club last night while you were incapacitated. Four fucking times in as many days. Goddammit, woman, you are a pain in my ass!"

She scooted her hips off the bed. "Fine! You've made your point."

With a dramatic flair only she could pull off, she marched stark naked with her bottom still bearing the marks from my belt into my closet as if she were the queen in full regalia.

Whatever point she thought I'd been making, I would bet money she was wrong.

She emerged seconds later with a pair of my basketball shorts on as she buttoned one of my dress shirts that was infinitely too large for her much smaller frame. "You can just forget we ever met. Goodbye forever, Mr. Varlaam I-am-the-mafia Romanovich Rubashkin."

Before she could even cross the bedroom threshold, I snatched her around the waist and pulled her back against my chest. I then growled into her ear, "Not a chance, Miss Vivian stubborn-as-hell-brat Grace Peyton."

Her back stiffened. "It's over, Var. There is no point in us being in each other's presence any longer. I'll talk with the Russian. His boss wanted the best for a reason. And a good forgery takes time. I know I can make him understand."

"That will be difficult."

"Why?"

"Because I have no intention of allowing you to return to forging art."

She twisted in my embrace until she was facing me. "I'm going to ignore the allowing me part and just say that art forgery is how I make my living. And for your information, I actually help a lot of people. It's not all gangsters and dictators."

The corner of my mouth rose. "It's also how you feed that incomprehensible designer purse and shoe addiction of yours."

"Precisely. So if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it," she stated primly as she attempted to break our embrace by pushing against my chest.

"Oh, but I do mind," I countered as I tightened my arms around her. "Since I will be taking care of you from now on, there is no need for you to work. I assure you, I have enough money to keep you in plenty of Gucci purses and Jimmy Choo high heels for the rest of your life."

"Which would be a girl's dream, if I didn't hate your guts and had no intention of ever laying eyes on you again," she ground out through clenched teeth.

My phone vibrated.

Keeping a tight grip on my unwilling captive, I reached into my back pocket and pulled it out. "Yeah?"

Mac said, "The helicopter is ready."

"I'll be down in five," I answered, then disconnected the call.

We were taking the helicopter to our private plane hangar at Midway Airport for the New York meeting today. I needed to leave soon if I was going to make it in time.

After shoving my phone back in my pocket, I turned my attention back to Vivian. Leaning forward, I kissed her forehead. "Just pick up the kitchen phone to get the Four Monks' concierge. Order whatever food you want from the restaurant. Oona, our concierge, can also arrange for personal shoppers from Bloomingdale's to swing by with some outfits for you. Buy whatever you want on my account. I will be back later tonight."

Reluctantly releasing her, I leaned over and snatched my folded blazer off the back of a nearby chair and shrugged into it.

Vivian, looking adorably mismatched in my oversized, silky basketball shorts and dress shirt, placed her hands on her hips and scowled at me. "Were you not listening to what I said?"

With my hand around the back of her neck, I pulled her in for a hard kiss. "You hate me. Yes, I heard."

Pressing her fingertips against her now bruised lips, she arched an eyebrow. "And?"

"And… it changes nothing. The other bathroom has a Jacuzzi if you're interested. See you later tonight."

After another quick kiss, I headed out the door.

Anton checked his watch. "What the hell took you so long?"

Reaching for the handles on either side of the open door, I hoisted myself into the helicopter. "I had a bomb to defuse."

Later, once we were settled in our private plane on our way to New York, I discussed the Vivian issue with Anton and Mac.

Mac leaned back in his seat. "She's certain the man is Russian?"

Anton smirked as he reached for a breakfast pastry. "It's not like one of us could be confused for an American."

Despite the gravity of the situation, we all laughed. Each heavily tattooed and above average in height thanks to a childhood diet of harsh Russian winters and generations of stoic resiliency, it would be hard to mistake a Russian male for being from anywhere else but the motherland.

Mac shook his head. "I can't imagine anyone with that amount of balls operating in our territory without our knowledge."

I nodded. "I thought the same. Isn't Gregor Ivanov coming into town soon?"

Anton brushed crumbs off his suit vest before responding. "Affirmative. He, Damien, and Mikhail are escorting their wives to Chicago for some massive photoshoot on Michigan Avenue. We're providing security. Gregor and Mikhail are staying with Dimitri and Emma, but apparently Yelena wants to gamble, so she and Damien are staying in one of the club's penthouse suites."

I frowned. "Isn't she the one who almost got herself killed cheating the Colombians over a gambling scheme?"

Anton nodded. "Already on it. Damien assures us she absolutely will attempt to cheat at the tables, so we'll fill the seats with staff members."

"Maybe Brynn could join in." Mac chuckled, alluding to how Anton first met his girl when she'd tried to cheat at the tables.

"The last thing I need is Yelena teaching Brynn how to be better at cards. Strip poker night wouldn't be half as much fun if she started winning."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "What you really mean is you don't want Yelena cluing Brynn in to the ways you already cheat at strip poker."

Anton winked as he pointed at Mac. "Exactly."

A frustrated sigh escaped my lips. "Can we get back to my problem?"

Mac nodded. "Already on it. I'll call Gregor and ask him if he knows of any Russians attached to high-priced stolen art who are in town right now."

Anton reached into the black leather satchel on the seat next to him. He pulled out a thick manila envelope. "And your other problem is already solved. Serg gave this to me to give to you."

I opened the envelope and checked the contents. It was a new passport, identification, birth certificate, and other documentation for Vivian.

Anton pointed to it. "She now has everything she needs to safely leave the country. We'll make good on our promise of a million euros for her silence. She'll no longer be a liability to us, and she'll be out of danger from this mystery Russian. Problem solved."

I tossed the envelope onto the table between us. "I had a different, more permanent solution in mind."

"What was that?"

"I thought I'd marry her instead."