The penthouse suite. That could be a challenge, considering Maykl doesn’t trust me. Then again, he said he would bring me to his pakhan tomorrow.
Maybe. I made a friend.
Male?
Yes.
Good.
Where do I get the bugs? I ask.
Order food delivered with the Uber Eats app. The bugs will come with the food.
Okay. Don’t call or text unless you hear from me.
Right. Delete these texts.
On it.
I delete the texts as I hear a slight movement from the bedroom. Maykl’s large form appears. “What are you doing, little warrior?” There’s a dangerous note to his voice.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” I sound breathless. I go into the kitchen and open his cupboard and pull out a glass, then fill it with water. “The jetlag has my clock screwed up.”
He says nothing. When I swivel to face him and guzzle down half the glass of water, I find him watching me, brows down, a grim expression on his face.
My excuse is plausible. Hell, it’s probably true. At least he didn’t catch me sitting at his security desk.
“Do you have anything I can take to help me sleep?”
“No.” He’s not happy with me. “Come back to bed.”
I set the glass down on the counter and follow him obediently to the bed, trying to steady my nerves and calm my breath.
I’m skating on thin ice here. Seducing Maykl may have been a pleasurable diversion for the two of us, but it certainly didn’t build any trust between us.
I will have to do a much better job at this if I’m going to get him to bring me upstairs.
We climb under the covers, and I roll to face him. “I wasn’t entirely honest with you,” I offer. I need to give him more. Give him something he can believe. The truth.
He says nothing.
“My sister’s dead. I identified her body at the morgue today. I’m looking for her son, my nephew. I thought he might be here.”
Maykl reaches out a long arm and turns on the bedside lamp.
“Who is your nephew?”
“Mika Koslova. He’s fifteen.”
I watch Maykl’s face closely but see no flicker of recognition. He shakes his head slowly, a firm frown in place. “What makes you think he’s here?”
“He came to Chicago with the bratva. He and my sister both did. It would have been… eight years ago. I hoped–” I allow my true emotion to show in the tremble of my lips– “I hoped you might have him here.”
Maykl shakes his head slowly. “No, Kira. I’m sorry. There’s no one here that age, nor have I heard the name. I know everyone in the building.”
Real tears seep into my eyes, and a sob clogs my throat. I believe him.
He sees my emotion and cradles my face, lowering his lips to press a kiss to my forehead.
I’m not used to being shown tenderness. I didn’t grow up with it, nor have I allowed it in my few and far-between relationships. Under normal instincts, I would push him away. Pull myself together and be stoic.
But I intended to show him something real, and now that I have, I’m wobbling on the edge of losing my footing. My defenses were down, and he slipped in.
And I like it.
That’s the dumbest part. I enjoy the feeling of being comforted by this man, just as I enjoyed being tied up by him.
There’s something about him that makes me want to surrender a little control. Let him lead.
“What bratva?” Maykl asks, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “Men in the brotherhood don’t keep families.”
My tears dry up. The familiar bitterness returns. “They were not a family. The bratva took my sister as payment for a debt sixteen years ago. Left her pregnant and ruined her life. She became their whore to provide for herself and the baby. And me.” My stomach churns remembering those years.
Me skipping school to take care of the baby while Anya tried to earn enough money to keep a roof over our heads. There was a constant sense of dread–the fear of something even worse happening to us.
I realize now it was based in love. In protectiveness. Because at the tender age of thirteen, I fell in love with that baby boy, as much as if he’d been my own. And my need to protect him and keep him safe outgrew all other concerns.
So, Anya taking him when she moved to Chicago cut out my heart.
But I had no rights. I wasn’t his real parent. I may have thought her an unfit mother–I may have even said those words to her–but they made no difference. In fact, I made everything so much worse by driving a wedge between us.
Maybe she would have called me for help sooner if we hadn’t parted on such bad terms.
I believe I catch a look of recognition in Maykl’s expression–whether it’s because he knew my sister or because such behavior is familiar to him, I can’t be sure.