Chapter 37

Chapter 36

Luka

THE PHONE crackles to life, and a familiar arrogant voice comes down the line. "Phakan," Erik says from the other side of the call. I can tell he's smirking.

"Don't call me that, you know I'm not your boss!" I snort as I take in the scene of my room. It hasn't changed much over the years. There's the same old photo frame that sits on my mahogany desk, displaying the last happy memory I have with my family – my mother, my father, Yulia cradled in my mother's arms, a tiny bundle of joy. It's a bittersweet image, a ghost of the past that still lingers.

"How's Vegas?" I lean back in my chair.

"Oh, you know, the usual shit – glitz, glam, and grime," Erik replies in a tone that's half joking, half sarcastic. "It's practically oozing with my kind of charm."

"You've got news?" My gaze shifts to the window, where the sun reflects off the tranquil surface of the lake. The serene sight helps ground me, a temporary balm for the anger that never really leaves me.

There's a brief pause, and I can practically see the grin spreading across his face. "Da. You could say that."

Interest piqued, I lean forward, fingers drumming on the sleek surface of the table. "And that would be?"

"Oh, I managed to get our slippery friend to see reason." Erik's voice oozes with pride. "You remember Giovanni ‘The Viper' Ricci, don't you?"

I chuckle as an image of the ostentatious gang leader springs to mind. Ricci, known for his love of venomous snakes and treacherous alliances, didn't earn his nickname lightly.

"Ah, Ricci. Didn't think he'd ever tire of his diamond-coated reptiles long enough to care about the bigger picture," I retort, my words laced with humor.

There's a pause, then Erik laughs. "Seems Aleks's antics were more poisonous than any of Ricci's beloved pets. So, The Royal Serpents are in. Aleks managed to piss off the wrong snake this time."

My smirk widens, satisfaction spreading through me. "Good work, bratan. Let's see how Aleks likes playing with serpents."

Erik chuckles, the sound grating in the serenity of my vacation home. "I thought you'd appreciate it. I'll be flying back to Chicago tonight," he informs me.

"Dimitri will be—" I start, only to get cut off by a crash from downstairs. It's the distinct, reverberating clang of metal on stone – as if someone dropped a cast-iron skillet on a marble floor.

"What the—?" The unexpected noise startles Erik too. "Is that a fucking gunshot?"

"No, that's not—" I start, only to get cut off by another louder crash.

"Bloody hell, Luka. Is your place under attack or something?" Erik's tone is a mix of concern and amusement.

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see me. "Nothing so dramatic. More like…domestic disturbances." I say.

For fuck's sake!

"Speak tomorrow," I say, disconnecting the call and leaving Erik in the dark as I head toward the kitchen.

She's at the oven, her back to me as she attempts to navigate the territory. The clattering of pans and the mutterings under her breath are a clear sign that she's out of her depth. I lean against the doorway, feeling amusement swirl.

"Did the pans offend you in some way?" I taunt. She whirls around, cheeks flushing a bright red. "It sounds like a war zone in here." I observe the chaos. It's a shitshow.

"I can manage!" she retorts, turning back to the countertop, her brow furrowed in concentration. The sight is oddly endearing.

"No, seriously," I push off from the doorway, approaching her. "What are you trying to make?"

"Lunch." She sighs in resignation. "I- I want to make us some sandwiches," she admits.

"Quite the experiment you had here for some sandwiches," I laugh. Her cheeks flush even deeper, and she opens her mouth to respond, but I beat her to it. "Sit, watch, learn." Before she can protest, I stride over to her, moving her out of the way firmly.

"Hey!" she yelps, but I only smirk in response.

"Your reign of terror in my kitchen ends here," I say. She lets out an indignant huff, folding her arms across her chest as she hops up onto the stool I indicate.

My smirk deepens as I get to work. My fingers fly over the garlic, finely mincing the cloves with practiced ease. I can feel her gaze on my back, her curiosity piqued.

"You're…you're cooking?" she stammers, her voice filled with disbelief as she watches my hands.

"Seems like it, yes?" I reply nonchalantly, finishing up with the garlic and moving to the onion. "Didn't take you for the judgmental type."

"You-you just don't seem the type," she shoots back, a sarcastic edge to her words.

"Quite the stereotype you have there," I respond. With a casual stride, I head to the refrigerator and yank the door open. I rummage through the shelves, spotting a package of meat I've asked the housekeeper to get for today's visit.

"What's in there?" she asks.

"A body," I respond.

"What?" she squawks. Her horror makes me laugh out loud.

"Relax. It's just minced meat. I'll fry it up and cook it with some macaroni."

"Macaroni and mince? Wow, and here I was thinking you were the next Gordon Ramsay," she quips, the sarcasm in her voice as thick as syrup.

Yet her words do little to mask her growing curiosity. She's still rooted to her seat, watching my every move. The small twitch in her lips every time I make a swift cut, the quiet hum of interest when I toss the minced meat into the hot pan – she's intrigued, no matter how much she pretends otherwise. Or maybe she's just checking out my ass. Either way, I'm not complaining.

After a moment of silent observation, Sophia finally breaks the silence. "You're pretty good at this," she notes. "Doesn't exactly align with the image, though."

"And what image would that be?" I cock an eyebrow at her. I'm certain I can guess.

She swallows hard. "The, um, unfeeling, relentless – mafia boss, you know?" Her voice drops as if just saying the word "mafia" might shatter the strange peace we've established.

It's almost endearing. Almost.

"And yet here I am, making us macaroni." I grin back, finding her frankness refreshing. "Life's full of surprises, yes?"

She chuckles. The sound is light, genuine, and it does strange things to my insides. But for once, I don't mind.

"Hmm," she muses. Her eyes dart around the room, landing on everything but me. "You're surprisingly…domestic. I didn't expect that."

I snort. "Should I be offended?"

Her gaze finally meets mine, defiance igniting there. "Just don't let it go to your head."

I shrug, turning my attention back to the task at hand. The sounds of chopping and boiling fill the room, a pleasant change from our usual tension-filled encounters.

"Who taught you to cook?" she asks, her interest suddenly sparked.

"Jamie Oliver," I reply nonchalantly. At her puzzled look, I clarify, "His shows, his books. Instructions aren't as hard as you think."

"Really, now?" She raises a brow at me as if questioning the credibility of my statement.

"Da," I respond, moving toward the stove to tend to the simmering pot of macaroni. I stir the contents, the familiar motion bringing a sense of calm. I look at her again; this time, her expression is soft, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

"Da," she mimics mockingly. "Guess you have hidden talents, then," she adds.

I shrug. "We all have our secrets, yes?

Sophia frowns slightly, an unreadable expression on her face. "Guess we do."

"And what's your secret, Sophia Williams?" I ask, turning from the bubbling saucepan. My tone is light, but I'm watching her carefully.

She looks like I just asked her to walk through fire. "I, uh…I don't…" she fumbles, her eyes not meeting mine, her discomfort as clear as day.

"Never mind," I say, giving a dismissive wave, turning back to the cooktop. She breathes out a sigh, clearly relieved I'm not pushing for an answer.

What are you hiding, exactly?

I'm not an idiot. My interest is stoked, but I file away the curiosity for another time.

"You know, my ma used to make macaroni," I steer the conversation back to safer grounds. "It was a family thing." She exhales and relaxes. I have no doubt she's pleased I've changed the subject. "I guess I also learned from watching her." My mother's face flashes in my mind – her warm smile, her gentle hands. I feel a pang of longing, a yearning for simpler times.

The look of surprise on her face is priceless. "Your mother?"

I nod, stirring the macaroni absentmindedly. "Da. She was an incredible woman. Tough, loving, and stubborn as hell."

Sophia is silent for a moment, and then she smiles. "Sounds like someone I know," she murmurs.

"And who would that be?" I ask, daring her to say it.

She gives me a pointed look, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "You."

I chuckle, shaking my head at her words. But inside, feeling a strange warmth spreading through me.

"My…Dad used to make French toast on Sundays. It was the only thing he knew how to make, but it was our thing. Just me and him." She pinches her lips together.

I look at her, really look at her. In this quiet moment, she seems less guarded. And I am drawn to that.

Fuck, how long has it been?

This feeling of connection, a thread of understanding. Seems like forever. Despite our differences, we're not so unalike after all.

"What about your mother?" I venture, my tone cautious. She doesn't speak immediately, but her expression grows wistful.

"She…she was always there, you know?" Now she's melancholy. "Always ready with a joke, always trying to make things…light. Fun. She was the kind of woman who'd play video games with me, let me put makeup on her. A real…friend."

"But I'm guessing she barricaded the kitchen door whenever you got too close?" I joke.

She sticks her tongue out at me but continues sharing, "And she loved pancakes. Every morning, she'd cook a big stack for us. It's been years, but I can still remember the taste. Warm and fluffy, drowned in maple syrup. And Dad…he'd always complain about how much syrup I put on, but Mom… She'd just laugh."

She gives a small smile at the memory, but there's a hint of sadness in it. I can tell she misses her family, that she yearns for those simpler times. Just the way I do.

"The accident," she continues after a moment, her voice husky, "took her and my dad away."

"Accident?" I stop what I'm doing.

"They both died." She doesn't elaborate. I don't press. "I was ten. Life was…different after that."

I say nothing, simply listening as she unravels her past. I've seen this kind of pain before – a dull ache that never quite goes away, a hole that never quite fills.

I've felt it, lived with it. Now, I recognize it in someone else.

And it feels like a homecoming.

?

Chapter 37

Sophia

I TRY so hard not to reveal anything personal to him.

But right now, I'm failing miserably.

I'm surrounded by the pristine, chromed perfection of this kitchen. The place is welcoming, warm, yet every shiny appliance screams money. It's such a far cry from what I'm used to, it's dizzying.

In this space, Luka's a different kind of intimidating. He's big and broad, looming over the stove, stirring the pot with a weird concentration. I like how serious he is about it. Like an artist painting his masterpiece, a maestro conducting a symphony, or maybe a god concocting a recipe for perfection.

The air is heavy with the tantalizing aroma of garlic and spices, pulling me in, making my stomach rumble in appreciation. His transformation from cold mafia boss to this domestic god is astonishingly alluring. He's like a pin-up model who's jumped straight from a Pinterest board into my reality.

God, he is so beautiful.

It's hard not to stare, to watch the play of muscles under his shirt as he moves. The whole scene feels weirdly normal. But it's anything but normal considering it's Luka – a man with a reputation for not thinking twice before taking a life.

The image of him in the kitchen feels at odds with the man from last night, his face a cold mask of fury when he discovered I'd lied about my name to gain entry to his party. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, stirring the fear that constantly simmers in my stomach.

I could've died!

The thought rings like a silent scream in my head.

But I'm here. Alive and in his kitchen, watching him cook while my heart does somersaults in my chest. It's terrifying, this conflict within me – the fear of losing my life and the growing, irrational attraction to this dangerous man.

Why do I feel this pull, this magnetic draw toward a man who's a living, breathing threat? Every logical part of me screams to run, to get away from him as fast as possible. Yet here I am, rooted to the spot, my eyes tracing his form, my heart pounding a dangerous rhythm. It's a madness I don't understand, a madness I fear I'm losing myself to.

He disrupts silence, his voice catching me off guard. "Tell me more about your parents."

I blink at him. "My parents?" The question hangs in the air, a specter of long-ago grief. "Honestly," I admit, a lump forming in my throat, "I barely remember them now. Sometimes, I even forget what they looked like.

There's a pause, and I see something in his eyes. Sympathy, maybe? He nods, urging me to continue.

I inhale, look away. "Yeah, they were…good, you know? All about the hustle. Did everything they could for me and Nilo."

At the mention of my brother, I bite my tongue, sudden fear creeping in. Can't say too much. Can't risk it. Information is a currency I can't afford to throw around."

"Nilo. Your crackhead brother?"

What the fuck?!

My heart pounds in my chest at the mention of Nilo. That's a wound that's still too raw.

"You've been checking on me." It's not a question. The realization hits me hard, yet I can't say I'm surprised. This is Luka we're talking about.

Luka doesn't deny it, his gaze steady on me. "I needed to know who I was inviting into my house. And it's my job to know who's around Yulia. To ensure my family's safe."

I suck in a sharp breath, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"How much do you know?" I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. But it's there; I can hear it, and so can he. He knows about Nilo. And about Aleks, too?

God, does he know everything?

It's impossible. I wouldn't be standing here if he did.

"That your brother is a fucking crackhead, Sophia." His words are blunt and cutting.

"He- he's not a crackhead!" I snap, my voice echoing sharply in the room.

"So, what would you call him then?" Luka's question carries a loaded undertone.

"My…my brother… You had no right…" My words stumble out, shock paralyzing any coherent thoughts. In a burst of defiant anger, I slide from the high stool. My feet hit the ground with a thud, hands clenched so tight my knuckles turn white.

People don't just casually drop these bombs into conversations. People don't stir the pot on the stove while talking about your drug-addicted brother.

But Luka isn't "people" people.

Luka talks like this.

Luka acts like this.

Luka just…does this

"I've done my homework, Sophia," Luka says, his voice carrying an edge. "You've been playing Mama Bear to your crackhead brother for too long. Do you ever say ‘no' to him?"

His words sting, but the truth in them hurts more. Nilo has always been a trouble magnet, and I have always been there to bail him out, to clean up his messes.

"I also know about your grandma and the three jobs you're juggling just to make ends meet," he continues, a hint of respect flashing across his face. "It's commendable, Sophia. But you're no nanny."

"But…why would you…?" I can't finish the sentence, too shocked to find the words.

The realization floors me. He'd dug into my life, seen all the skeletons in my closet. He'd seen the mess, the secrets, the sacrifices…and he hadn't turned me away. No, he'd done the opposite. He'd let me in.

I try to form words, to respond, but my throat closes up. The words fail to come.

"Sophia…" Luka's voice is surprisingly gentle. The intensity in his gaze is unnerving, a contrast to the casual disinterest he usually exudes. "I respect you. You've been holding the fort all alone, looking after a brother who couldn't give a damn, a sick grandmother. And you've done it all without a word of complaint. That shows strength." His eyes hold mine for a moment. "I admire strength."

Luka's words came like a sucker punch, tender and utterly unexpected. His usual aloof demeanor was now replaced with a warmth that clawed at the walls around my heart. His next words shock me even more.

"I'd like to ease some of your financial burdens, Sophia. Consider it a gesture of appreciation for the help you're providing with Yulia."

Fuck! Is he serious?

I want to laugh, to cry, to scream. The irony tastes bitter on my tongue. Here he is, trying to be my savior, oblivious to the fact that I'm the storm brewing on his horizon. If only he knew about Aleks, about the real reason I that I'm here.

"I… Thank you." The impact of his words hits me like a truck. It's like he's peeled back my skin and peered into my soul. It's too much, too raw. A tear escapes, trickling down my cheek.

Before I can even think about wiping it away, Luka's there, closing the distance between us in two long strides. He sets me back on the high stool before pulling away to look at me. There's a new kind of intensity in his gaze, something that makes me feel seen, really seen, for the first time in my life.

He's so close now, his breath warm against my cheek. I can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the barely noticeable scar just under his jaw. And then he leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that's so gentle, so filled with understanding that it steals my breath away.

It's a kiss that says more than words ever could. It's not a promise of love, not an expression of desire. It's something far more profound. It's a promise of protection, of shared burdens, and silent strength. And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel alone. I feel…protected.

No! You are a spy.

Nilo. Wren. Remember?

"No. Wait," I choke out, breaking the kiss and pulling back. The taste of him still lingers on my lips, intoxicating and distracting. "I…uh," I stammer, my mind spinning. "I should check on Yulia. And…and where will I be…uh…sleeping?"

Luka raises a brow, clearly surprised by my abrupt shift. But he doesn't question it. "Of course," he says, stepping back. His expression returns to its usual stoic calm. "Second floor, third door on your right." He indicates the direction with a slight nod of his head.

Stumbling in my haste, I slip off the high stool, scrambling for my footing. Without a backward glance, I rush out of the kitchen, away from the warmth of his gaze, away from the tempting promise of his kiss.

Away from everything I cannot have.

Keep it together, Sophia.

I scan the room. It's a modest space, void of personal touches. Sparse. Functional. An austere bed in the center, a sturdy oak wardrobe standing in one corner, and an unpretentious desk in the other. The bathroom, though small, is clean and well-lit.

Exhaustion gnaws at my bones, but my mind's a whirlwind of thoughts.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

These feelings I have for Luka… I have to stop it.

Slowly, I shuffle toward the small white bathroom. The mirror confronts me with a reflection of a woman on the brink – eyes too wide, skin too pale. I turn on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, hoping to douse the anxiety simmering beneath my skin.

Lugging my tired self to the bedside table, I rummage through my purse, retrieving the burner phone. The device is cold against my sweaty palms, a notification on the screen making my heart pound. I tap open the message app, a message from an unmarked number glaring back at me. The sight that greets me has my throat closing up.

It's a picture of Nilo. My older brother, who was never the same after he succumbed to addiction as a teenager. His face now looks more gaunt than ever, his body wasted to a skeletal state. His eyes, once alight with a rebellious spark even in the throes of his addiction, now show only a chilling emptiness. Fear grips my heart and twists like a knife.

Oh, God. Nilo…

The second image loads, and I feel a lump forming in my throat. Wren. She's strapped to a battered chair, her body rigid. But the fury in her gaze is blinding, an inferno of wrath and defiance that would make even the bravest soul shudder.

I clutch the phone tighter. The edges bite into my palm, grounding me in the horrifying reality.

"God, Wren…I'm so sorry." The murmur barely leaves my lips, a ghost of an apology echoing in the room.

It's my fault. I dragged her into this mess, into Nilo's world of chaos and disaster. My fingers hover over the screen, tracing the outline of her face.

Beneath the horrific images lies the ultimatum. "Lost bird found the nest. Feed the bird the secrets of the nest." My mission parameters – monitor Luka, record his actions, his words, and Yulia's schedules.

Every beat of my heart rattles in my chest like a drum warning of impending war. The information I could feed them would ensnare Luka and Yulia into this sick, twisted game of chess.

Fuck!

Yet, I have no choice. The lives of Nilo and Wren rest in my hands!

"I have to do this. For them to live, I have to do this," I whisper into the sterile air of the room.

Heaving a shuddering breath, I reply to the message, my fingers starting their treacherous dance on the keys. Detailing Luka's day, his life, his night meeting with Dimitri and Erik… The digital transcript of betrayal begins to take form.

Every word I punch in is another knife in Luka's back, but the alternative… I can't afford to think about the alternative.

"Luka, Yulia, and I will stay a night here at his lake house."

I jab "send" just as my door gives a telltale creak.