She humiliated me in a manner I never expected when she turned down my order to return home. Larissa, my own flesh and blood, the sister who became my world from the moment she entered this world, loved him more than she did me.
Family was everything in our world, I believed. Until she proved it wasn't.
I was now fueled by six months of rage, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find an outlet for this rage outside of nights like this. Back home and at work, my brothers started showing impatience with my changing moods. But when I hit the town every night, I had the privilege of being anyone I wanted, the chance to forget about Larissa’s betrayal. Some nights, I lost myself in the arms of a woman; on others, I drank myself into a drunken stupor.
Enigma was my sanctuary tonight. No woman has been draped across my lap so far. Tonight had the makings of aneasy night. So far, it was just me and my fourth, or maybe fifth, whiskey. The pounding music made thinking harder, though, of course, I still thought. But there was a chance that a couple of more drinks and my men might have to carry me out.
It was exactly what I needed.
I glanced down at my phone. Another missed call from Carlo. My younger brother had been relentless lately, trying to broker some bullshit peace between us and the Lebedevs. As if I'd ever find peace with the family that had stolen my sister and made me look weak in front of all of New York.
“Fuck that,” I muttered, pocketing the phone without returning the call.
The waitress approached with another drink. I nodded my thanks, and she gave me a coy little smile I ignored. Women had been easy distractions these past months. Different face, different body every other night. But even that had grown stale.
The drinking, though, still helped. Not enough to make me forget, but enough to blur the edges.
I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. My knuckles still bore the bruises from last week when I'd put one of my own men in the hospital for suggesting we should “move on” from the Lebedev situation.Move on?Like, my sister having birthed the child of my enemy was something to just accept?
I closed my eyes, remembering the day we discovered Larissa was missing. The way my blood had frozen at the news. I'd mobilized every soldier, called in every favor, turned the city upside down looking for her. And all for what? To find out, she didn't want to be rescued. That she'd fallen in love with her captor?
Stockholm syndrome, I'd told myself at first. She needed time, therapy maybe. I'd been so fucking understanding. I had offered to accept her child if she returned home.
But she refused. Wanted to raise it with him, under their roof.
Those damn Lebedevs.
I downed the fresh whiskey in one burning gulp.
Carlo and Dino, my younger brothers, had gone to the fucking baby shower. Ababy shower. With the Lebedevs.Like we were one big happy family.
Carlo called me afterward, excited about being an uncle, telling me how Larissa had asked about me, how she missed me.
Missed me? She was the one who left. She was the one who betrayed everything I built for us, for her.
Another drink appeared. I hadn't even noticed the last was gone.
The club was alive around me, the hour growing late. Beautiful people were scattered across every corner of the club, dancing, drinking, and making merry.
I envied them their simple pleasures.
I continued to watch the crowds when my eyes landed on a curvaceous goddess with luscious brunette locks, so different from the trying-too-hard modelesque figures around, in a burgundy dress that wrapped around her like sin.
I sat up straighter, watching as she moved closer… and closer…
For once, I stopped thinking about Larissa and found myself wondering who she was. The way she moved those hips,it was like she owned this whole damn place, like she had fire in her veins and a confidence that showed it.
So, when she got closer and her face got clearer to my sight, I felt myself freeze.
What the hell was a Lebedev doing here, in my club? Well, not my club, but you know what I mean.
I recognized her instantly. Elena. She was the second youngest, I believe, at twenty-five. My hands instinctively moved toward the gun holstered beneath my jacket.
“Don't bother,” she said, sliding uninvited into the booth across from me. “If you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it the moment you saw my face.”
Her voice was low, confident. I hated how she had the audacity to act like we were friends. I kept my face impassive, but let go of the gun, even though rage bubbled up like acid in my veins.
“What the hell do you want?” I glowered at her.
