Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Niko

When Charleigh and I get to my office, she exhales a deep breath. “That guy was creepy,” she says. “I mean, there are lots of creeps here, but that one—” She glances up at me, realizing she just stuck her foot in her mouth, talking about club members.

I burst out laughing. Charleigh is puzzled for a moment, horrified by her slip-up, until it dawns on her I’m not only not insulted, but that I also think what she said is freaking hilarious. So raw. So innocent. So impulsive.

That’s what feels nice. The impulsivity. I’ve not been around her for more than a few days and can already tell she doesn’t worry about choosing her words carefully like most people I know. She’s not of that world, where people say the wrong thing and end up on the wrong end of a gun. She has no idea anything like that even exists.

Another reason I’m drawn to her.

She’s so… fresh.

“Here, Charleigh, have a seat,” I say, gesturing toward a leather sofa once we’re in my office.

I take the chair opposite. I want her to relax, maybe have a drink. Kick back and chat. I am guessing she’s been on edge since my brothers and I showed up at her dad’s place last week. We’ve tried to make her comfortable with lush accommodations and chef-prepared meals. But she’d rather not be here. I can’t blame her. She’s in a difficult position, having to save her father. I get it.

If Vadik or Kir find out I have such compassionate thoughts on my mind, they’ll shit. They will not be happy.

Charleigh takes a long draw on the Perrier I gave her, after turning down something harder. “Niko,” she says, “you’re blond but your brothers are dark-haired.”

She doesn’t ask a question. She just states the obvious in a way that an answer is expected. Or at least hoped for.

To most people who bring this up, I offer nothing. It’s not their business. I don’t give a shit how curious they are. But Charleigh is a different story. I’ve lived betrayal, like she has. Maybe not on the same level, but it sticks with you. I can see it in her the same I see it in myself.

I start slowly. I am not accustomed to sharing my story. “The guys and I don’t all have… the same father.”

I take a deep breath. Fuck me. It’s hard enough to spit those few words out. How the hell will I continue with the rest of the story?

“I see.”

I nod, staring down at my fingers, now spread over my thighs.

I consider stopping. Sending Charleigh away to go do whatever she has to do, and getting back to work. Not thinking about anything else.

But I want to talk. I want her to know me just like I want to know her.

“For most of my childhood,” I start, “I thought Grigory Alekseev was my father. But when I got to be twelve or so, my mother sat me down and told me I had a different dad than Vadik and Kir. A dad who was not Grigory Alekseev.”

“Whoa,” Charleigh says.

“It turned out,” I continued, “my mother had an affair with… well, it doesn’t matter who. Anyway, I am the result of that. My real father wanted nothing to do with me, so Grigory adopted me.”

I glance over at her, anticipating pity or disgust, that I’m the product of an illicit relationship. That I’m walking, living proof that my mother did not stay faithful to her husband, despite her marriage vows. That I’m a reminder to my family every day of my mother’s fuck up.

Even though my philandering father deserved every bit of betrayal that came from her. And then some.

But double standards and all that.

Charleigh’s look contains none of these things. She nods evenly. Without judgment. She knows there’s nothing to gain from throwing sympathy at me. Nothing to be gained by trying to placate me.

She’s a person with her own problems and knows everyone else has them too.

When I was born, fortunately for me—and my mother—Grigory stepped up to the plate, and just like my brothers, treated me like a full member of the family from day one. There was never a moment in my life they let me feel like an outsider. And for that, I will be unwaveringly loyal to them until my death.

That made losing Grigory that much harder. He’ll never get to see what I can accomplish.

Which makes me hate Dimitri Yegorov that much more. He stole the father I owed everything to.

Everything.

* * *

Charleigh

I slouch into Niko’s deep, well-worn leather sofa, thrilled to be off my feet after three hours of serving drinks in the club lounge, and kick off the stripper high heels Dominika makes me wear. I rub some circulation back into my cramped toes, and don’t care if it’s an inappropriate thing to do in front of Niko.

I have no idea what sort of rules of decorum they have here, but I am guessing when I break them, someone will let me know. I mean, if they don’t want me rubbing my feet in front of them, they shouldn’t make me wear these shoes.

But Niko says nothing, just watches, the corner of his mouth turned up like he’s amused or something.

His office is beautiful, paneled in the dark wood I’ve seen all over the club, clearly some expensive decorator’s idea of masculine décor. The built-in book shelves are fully loaded and not with tattered paperbacks like we have at my house. These are serious books with dark covers and gold lettering running down the spines. I’d like to go over to see what Niko has on offer but the books are probably just for show.

They can dress this place up any way they like, but it doesn’t hide who these guys really are.

I reach for one of the sofa’s throw pillows to pull into my lap to cover my thighs. The short skirt they gave me doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and when I sit, I’m pretty much exposed for the world to see. But I need to play it cool instead of hiding behind a pillow, so I just pretend to stretch. I won’t let them know they have me uncomfortable. That I have no idea what’s around the next corner, and that I’m scared shitless. That I know these aren’t nice people, and that they wouldn’t hesitate to eat me for lunch.

Especially that Dominika. The woman is a witch, plain and simple. She looks like one with that hair piled high and makeup applied with a spatula, she sounds like one with her high-pitched voice and Russian accent, and she acts like one, screaming at people and ordering them all over the place.

The only time she acts like a normal human being, I’ve noticed, is when she’s with guests, or the brothers, Vadik, Kir, or Niko.

What’s interesting, though, is that I was not in the club twenty-four hours before I grasped how much she clearly dislikes them, in spite of smiling to their faces. It could hardly be more obvious. She knows she has to watch herself around them, though. Defer to them. Let them remain in charge. As insincere as all that is.

Maybe I could learn something from her. This fake-compliance is a survival tactic. And I’d like to survive.

“I’m having a drink,” Niko says, getting up.

Jesus. People here drink around the clock. While I’m not sure what time it is—I don’t see any clocks and the windows in Niko’s office are darkened—I figure it’s noon-ish. So yes, I’d love a drink. And I don’t drink. I want to forget where I am, and stop thinking and worrying about what lies ahead. But I have to keep my wits about me. Stay sharp. Look for opportunities to get the hell out.

Leaving will probably mean the worst for my father. But how far does my loyalty, my obligation extend to a man willing to use me to alleviate his problems? And what if my younger sister, Evie, is next in line, next time Pops messes up? If I find a way to leave—I mean when—she’s got to come with me.

I force a polite smile. “I’ll have another water. Thank you, Niko.”

He looks at me approvingly as if this is some kind of test, and reaches into a small fridge for another Perrier. He twists the cap off and hands it to me.

Of course this is a test. Everything is a test. They are constantly watching me, trying to figure me out just like I am trying to figure them out. We have conflicting objectives, and we both want to win. Problem is, they are pros at this and I don’t know shit.

When Niko passes me my water, his fingers brush mine. He holds them there for a moment, both our hands on the green bottle, and strangely, like the time he stroked my hair in the hallway, his touch is comforting.

Good god.

The man made me sign a contract to agree to essentially being kidnapped, and I like the way his fingers feel on mine?

What is wrong with me?

And what is with this place?

They give me a beautiful room and nice food as if I’m some sort of important guest. Then, they subject me to Dominika’s hellish orientation, including painfully tearing out all my pubic hair, and make me walk around half-naked in stripper heels serving cocktails at nine in the morning to a bunch of gross old pervs. I get stopped in the hallway by some greasy criminal, and Niko whisks me away to his plush office, smiling his handsome smile and giving me fancy bottled water. Not all prisons have bars, as the saying goes.

If these people are trying to fuck with me, they are doing a great job. I’m completely off-balance.

Who do I trust?

What’s coming next?

Will I have the chance to get the hell out? And if so, where do I go?