52. Chapter 52

52

Dimitri

P oshol na khuy! I limp through the halls, a bloody mess, snarling curses under my breath. Fuck the pain, fuck everything. The hidden meeting room waits at the bottom of this fucking mansion.

My body's a fucking mess, but worse is to lay down for weeks without seeing Wren.

I need a drink.

Or ten. Anything to drown out these thoughts, this… whatever the hell it is I'm feeling.

The door creaks open. I drag my sorry ass inside, gritting my teeth against the pain.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, mudak ," Erik drawls, sprawled in his chair like he owns the place.

I grunt, easing into my seat. My shoulder throbs, a constant reminder of Elena's parting gift. Three weeks, and it still feels like yesterday.

The meeting room's dead silent, all eyes on me. Oleg stands stiffly by the door, face carved from ice. Saveliy lounges against the wall, spinning a knife between his fingers. Alina's at her laptop, fingers flying over the keys.

"Alright, blyat ," I growl, "What's the situation with Zimniy and that suka Elena?"

Erik raises an eyebrow. "No ‘How've you been?'"

I glare at him. "Shove it and give me answers."

He chuckles, the bastard. "They've gone dark. Vanished like smoke. Alina's been working her tech magic, but…"

Alina cuts in, her accent thick with frustration. "Nothing. It's like they never existed. Someone's erased them from the grid."

" Yob tvoyu mat ," I mutter. "So, someone's helping them."

Erik leans back, fingers drumming on the table. "They can't hide forever. This is our city."

I nod, jaw clenched. He's right. The Ivankov Bratva owns every shadow in this shithole.

"What've you got?" I ask, eyes narrowed.

Erik smirks. "A few leads. Industrial district, abandoned warehouses. Perfect rat holes for our friends."

I grunt. Typical. "And?"

"And," Erik continues, "we've got eyes on the borders. They try to leave, we'll know."

Alina pipes up, not looking away from her screen. "I'm monitoring all communications. Any whisper, we'll catch it."

Good. At least someone's doing their job.

Erik clears his throat. "There's… something else."

I raise an eyebrow. "Spit it out."

"It's about Wren," he says, watching me carefully.

My chest tightens. Fuck . "What about her?"

"She was used to get to you," Erik says bluntly. "We can't let that happen again."

I grind my teeth, memories flooding back. Her lips on mine, then… nothing. Just gone.

"We've been watching her," Oleg chimes in. "Nothing unusual. Working constantly. And…"

I glare at him. "And what?"

Oleg hesitates. "Her father. He's… back on the streets. Drinking."

Something hot and ugly twists in my gut. That fucking deadbeat…

" Blyat ," I mutter. "Anything else?"

Erik leans forward. "D, we need to talk about her. She's a liability."

I slam my fist on the table. "She's not our fucking problem anymore."

The room goes silent. I can feel their eyes on me, probing. Judging.

"Sure about that?" Erik asks quietly.

I stand up, ignoring the pain shooting through my body. "We're done here. Focus on finding Zimniy and Alena. That's the priority."

As I turn to leave, Erik's voice stops me. "You can't avoid this forever, D."

I don't turn around. "Watch me."

I storm out, slamming the door behind me. My feet carry me down the hall, no destination in mind. Just… away.

Wren's face flashes in my mind. That last kiss, three weeks ago. The way she looked at me before walking away.

My chest aches. Fuck . What is this?

I find myself in my office, reaching for the bottle of vodka in my desk drawer. The liquid burns down my throat, a welcome distraction.

One drink. Two. Three.

It doesn't help. I can still see her. Still feel her.

" Yob tvoyu mat ," I mutter, running a hand over my face.

A knock at the door. "What?" I snarl.

Erik steps in, eyebrow raised. "Feeling better?"

I glare at him. "Fuck off."

He ignores me, closing the door and leaning against it. "We need to talk about Wren."

"No, we don't," I growl.

Erik sighs. "D, you're my friend. But you're also the boss. And right now, you're compromised."

I stand up, fists clenched. "Say that again. I dare you."

He doesn't flinch. "You're compromised. And it's putting us all at risk. Wren, especially. She's vulnerable now, a pawn in this game. We have to be strategic, or she's gonna end up collateral damage."

I slump back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "What do you want me to do?"

Erik's voice softens. "Deal with it. Whatever this is… figure it out. Before it gets us all killed."

I nod, not looking at him. "Fine. Anything else?"

"Yeah," he says, heading for the door. "Stop drinking alone in your office. It's pathetic."

I flip him off as he leaves, but my heart's not in it.

Alone again, I stare at the half-empty bottle. Wren's face swims in my vision.

Suka, you're a sick fuck.

I slouch in the corner of the Ritz-Carlton's 40th-floor lounge, nursing a glass of Macallan 25. The Chicago skyline stretches out beyond the windows, all glitter and glass. It's early, the bar's still quiet. Just how I need it.

The waitress approaches, lips stretched wide. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

I wave her off without a word. She scurries away. Smart girl.

My eyes keep darting to the staff entrance. She's not here yet. Fuck, what am I even doing here?

I drain my glass, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. It doesn't help. Nothing does these days.

The elevator dings. My head snaps up, but it's just some suit. Disappointment twists in my gut. Pathetic .

I order another drink. The bartender gives me a look but keeps his mouth shut. Good. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

Time crawls. I check my watch.

Again.

And again.

Yebat , this is torture.

Then, finally, the staff door swings open. And there she is.

Wren.

My breath catches. She's tied her hair back, showing off that face that's been haunting my dreams. The uniform can't hide her curves.

Blyat , she's so fucking beautiful.

She doesn't see me.

Good.

I watch as she greets the other bartender, her smile lighting up the whole damn room. Her teeth flash white against her olive skin. The overhead lights catch the soft curve of her cheek, and I swear I can see the pretty boy bartender's eyes following the same path.

Something hot and ugly twists in my chest. I want that smile. I want… That fucking smile. That seductive, knee-weakening look. It's not for him. It's for me. I want her, all of her.

My eyes follow her every move.

She grabs a rag, starts wiping down glasses. Her hands move quick, efficient. Professional. But all I can think about is how those hands felt on my cock.

Wren.

My instincts scream at me to shield her. To walk over there and stand between her and every fucker in this room who dares to look at her. But I can't. Walking away is the only way to keep her safe. My chest aches at the thought of her hurt because of me.

The pretty boy leans in, whispering something in her ear. She throws her head back, laughing.

Her neck stretches, smooth and inviting. I remember how it tasted, how she gasped when I—

Fuck .

I grip my glass tighter, forcing myself to look away. But my eyes are drawn back to her like a magnet. Always back to her.

My mouth goes dry. I take another swig of whiskey, but it does nothing to quench my thirst.

Only she can do that.

Yebat , I'm losing my mind.

I slouch deeper into the corner, my eyes locked on Wren. The fact that I'm here, skulking like some lovesick mudak , says more than I want to admit.

I watch her from where I sit.

Far enough that she won't catch me staring, but close enough that I can see every goddamn twitch of her lips, every blink of her eyelashes.

She's wiping down the bar, a little tune whistling through her lips. Is she happy? Or just faking it?

Suddenly, her head snaps up. Our eyes lock for a split second.

Yob tvoyu mat!

I nearly choke on air, leaning back so fast I almost topple my chair. Thank fuck for the pillar blocking her view. My heart's pounding like I've just gone ten rounds in the ring. Pathetic.

I take a deep breath, trying to get my shit together. That's when I notice them. Three suits, strutting toward the bar like they own the place.

Cocksucking yuppies.

They lean over the bar, way too close to Wren. One of them, a greasy fuck with slicked-back hair, is practically drooling. His eyes are glued to her chest as she moves, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

The second one, a balding prick, flags Wren down. As she approaches, he leans in, his mouth moving. Can't hear what he's saying from here, but I see Wren's polite smile falter for a split second.

Why is she smiling?

Blyat . My grip tightens on the glass. The ice clinks, whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

The balding prick leans in closer.

My eyes twitch as I watch. His mouth's moving, but I can't hear shit from here.

Wren takes a step back, her smile strained now. Good. At least she's not enjoying this bullshit.

But then the greasy fuck reaches out. Grabs her wrist as she tries to move away. Yanks her close and whispers something in her ear.

Suka! My blood's rushing in my ears. Vision going red. I'm on my feet before I even realize what I'm doing. In three long strides, I'm almost at the bar.

And then I see it. A flash of frost in her gaze. A calculating smirk curling her lips.

Wren's jaw tightens. Her fingers flex once, twice. She glances at the hand on her wrist, then back at the fucker's face.

"Look, dickhead," she says, voice low. She leans in close like she's sharing a secret. "I don't care if you're Joe fucking Biden or Putin's long-lost son. You don't take your hands off me now, you're gonna regret it."

The guy blinks, swaying on his feet.

"What you gonna do, sweetheart?" he slurs, spittle flying from his mouth.

Wren's eyes narrow. She turns her head, slow and deliberate. Her gaze locks onto mine across the room.

Blyat. My heart stops for a second.

"Well," she says, not breaking eye contact. "My boyfriend's gonna kill you."