by Roxie Rivera
Trailing my gaze down his handsome face, I finally noticed the incredible amount of ink covering his lower neck, shoulders and torso. All these years we’d lived side by side and I had never seen him without a shirt. Now I understood why.
A tattooed dagger pierced the skin of his lower neck. Blood dripped from the pointy end. Lower down on his chest were spider webs crawling with black widows. Scorpions crept across his clavicles. A snarling devil and a fanged cat wearing an ostentatious hat decorated his biceps. There were Russian words I couldn’t read and other symbols I couldn’t quite make out in the dim morning light.
Savannah’s warning from last night rang loud and clear in my mind. What had she said about Erin’s husband’s tattoos? They meant bad things, right? But what bad things?
“You can ask.” Kostya’s gravelly voice startled me. Embarrassed to have been caught ogling his hard body and those interesting tattoos, I cast a sheepish glance at his face. He had one eye open and followed my movements with it.
Not sure I wanted to hear the answers he might have for the tattoos, I said, “I was going to ask if you wanted me to cook breakfast.”
His other eye opened with surprise. He lifted his head off the pillow and gazed down at me. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know that, but I want to.” I pushed up on my elbow and bravely traced the outline of the dagger on his neck. I felt his shuddery breath on my arm as he exhaled shakily. Did I do that? Is it my touch? “You’re here. I’m here. I’m hungry. You’re probably hungry. So…”
I could feel his throat move as he swallowed. His voice still thick with sleep, he said, “I am hungry.”
“Good.” Feeling rather brazen, I crawled over him and right out of the bed. As I stood up, the tactical style pistol on my nightstand caught my attention. He must have seen me looking at it because he quickly said, “The safety is on.”
“I can see that.” I opened the top drawer of my nightstand to reveal my pistol rack. Because I never had kids in my house, I had gone with something easy to access over a more secure lockbox. “I’d prefer you stow it here when you’re staying over.” Realizing what I’d said, I hurriedly added, “I mean, you know, if you’re here again for whatever reason.”
Cringing at the way I’d stumbled over that invite to sleep with me again, I waited for him to say something. Kostya’s smile set me at ease. “I understand what you mean.” He slipped his SIG Sauer into the slot next to my Walther. Seemingly impressed, he said, “I never figured you for the gun-next-to-the-bed kind of girl.”
“Then you’re going to be really surprised when you peek inside my Tory Burch and see that little .38 Special hanging out in my purse holster.”
He seemed to relax right at the mention of my concealed carry weapon. “You’re armed always?”
“Mom demanded it. The world is full of sickos, you know?”
“Yes, I do.” He sounded sad as he confirmed that. Considering his line of work, I could only imagine what kind of crazies he came across when setting up security systems for his clients. “We should go to the range sometime.”
“Only if you promise not to pout when I beat you at target practice,” I warned.
Kostya laughed and crossed his heart with his fingertip. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Deciding I liked the sight of him in my bed with that big grin, I headed for my bathroom. I paused in the doorway and looked back at him. He’d rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, and watched me with the same intensity of a predator scouting prey. A frisson of wild delight burned through my belly and into my chest.
“You can use the guest bathroom across the hall.” I didn’t know what was happening between us right now, but it felt a little too intense and rushed so I pumped the brakes. “There are extra toiletries in the top drawer of the vanity. Oh! And your phone was ringing.”
“Was it?” He frowned and patted the pocket of his jeans. “Sorry that it woke you.”
“I have to get into the salon soon anyway so it’s no big deal.”
“Do you need me to drive you this morning?” He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized me. “You were dizzy last night. How do you feel now?”
“I feel great.” I shrugged. “I have no idea what happened last night. I think I’ve got to start being a bit kinder to myself and put a stop to those late nights.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” He sat up, and I marveled at the way his lean stomach rippled with movement. I had always suspected he was seriously cut underneath his clothing, but this was ridiculous. I could actually count the ridges of his abdominal muscles. “Holly?” The amused expression on his face told me he knew exactly what I’d been doing. “Was there something else?”
“Nope.” I quickly ducked inside the bathroom and shut the door. Leaning back against it, I inhaled a steadying breath and tried to stop smiling. Suddenly, I was fifteen-years-old again and on the verge of an excited giggle fit because Dean Chavez, the hottest high school quarterback in Houston, had invited me to a homecoming dance.
Not that my mother had allowed me to go, I remembered with a scowl. She had been aghast and had subjected me to a two-hour talk about the evils of older boys and how it was important to be a strong woman with an established career before adding the complications a man would bring.
At the time, I had been so mad at her for killing my chances with the cutest boy in town. Now, of course, I understood what she had been trying to help me understand. Everything I had accomplished so early in life was due to my mother’s support and guidance. Even when we butted heads and went after it like angry hens, I always knew deep down inside that she was trying to help me reach my full potential.
Climbing into the shower, I couldn’t help but wonder what she would think of this development with Kostya. She had only met him once, briefly, and I had immediately sensed that she didn’t like him. Knowing how her own Russian affair had gone so badly, she wouldn’t be very enthused about me dipping my toes in that poisoned water.
We had never spoken about my father or why he had left her to raise a child on her own. Sometimes I worried she was keeping a dark secret from me. What if my father had another family? A wife and children? Or maybe he was a corrupt politician she’d met through her oil and gas connections? Or—heaven forbid—a criminal?
As I stood at my vanity blow drying and styling my hair, I couldn’t stop thinking about the tattoos on Kostya’s body. I applied some makeup, nothing too heavy and just enough to highlight to my eyes and mouth, and decided I would just ask him. If he got cagey or weird, I would have my answer.
I plucked a black shift with a deep V neckline from the side of my closet where I kept all my work apparel and slipped it on over my underthings. I settled on one of my favorite pairs of Manolos and picked turquoise jewelry to complement the all-black outfit. After tidying up the bathroom, I made my bed and scooted out of my bedroom.
Kostya stood in my living room with a cup of coffee in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He was tapping away at the screen with his thumb while watching the morning news. I noticed his lingering gaze as I stepped up beside him to catch the latest updates around Houston.
“They’re forecasting rain this evening.” His gaze drifted down to my high heels. “You might want to throw your wild pink rain boots in your car so you aren’t wading through your parking lot tonight in those thousand-dollar shoes.”
He had a point. Knowing I would forget, I segued to shoe rack by the door to the garage, grabbed my rain boots and put them in my car. When I came back inside, Kostya’s mouth quirked with a smile as he leaned back a little to ogle my backside. “I’ve never understood how you can wear those for twelve hours a day but I do appreciate the effort.”
“Pervert,” I said, smacking his arm lightly. Before I could continue flirting, my attention was snagged by the horrible news flashing across the television screen. There had been some kind of cartel murder spree during the night. The screen was a
blur of images—yellow police tape, police cruisers with flashing lights, state troopers in their Stetsons, crime scene techs and bloodied sidewalks.
“What in the hell is happening to this city?” I cast a look of sheer disbelief at Kostya as he calmly sipped his coffee. “It’s a good thing we were just minding our own business and hanging around my salon last night! At least we were safe there.”
Nodding, he slowly sipped his coffee before turning his gaze to me. “Do you want help with breakfast?”
“I’ve got it.” I headed into the kitchen. “I hope you like pancakes because that’s my specialty.”
“I like pancakes.” He followed me and took a seat at the island on one of the counter height stools. “I grabbed the paper from your driveway. You want me to read the front page to you?”
I made a face. “No, it’s probably just violence and mayhem. Just toss it in my recycling bin when you’re done.”
As I pulled the necessary ingredients from my pantry and refrigerator, he read quietly at the counter. “Your new ad is nice.” He flashed the half-page above-the-fold spot at me. “I’ve seen a few of your new billboards around town, too.”
“That’s all Savannah.” I cracked the eggs into a bowl and tossed the shells in the compost container under the sink. “She’s the brains behind all the promo and marketing we do.”
“It must work.”
“I think word of mouth has grown our business more than any flashy advertising, honestly.” I splashed some milk into the bowl and popped the egg yolks with a fork. “Frankly, Lena Cruz bringing Vivian and Erin into the salon has led to our biggest business boom ever. We used to get most of our word of mouth business through Bianca and her brides, but these days most of our new bookings are from ladies who know Vivian or Erin.”
“I can only imagine how many new faces that brings into the salon.” He turned the page and scanned the next set of headlines. “Those two have never met a stranger.”
I smiled at the way he described the two friends. Figuring this was a good opening to ask about the tattoos, I said, “You know Erin’s husband, right?”
“Yes.”
“From Russia?”
He lowered his paper. “Are you asking me if I know that her husband is Russian or if I knew him back in Russia?”
I huffed at him. “Obviously, I’m asking if you knew him back in Russia.”
He smiled before raising the paper again. “Yes, I knew him back then.”
When he didn’t offer any further comment, I wondered why he was being deliberately vague. I measured out some pancake mix and dumped it into the bowl. He kept reading his paper while I heated a pan and dropped the first scoop of batter onto the hot surface. I prodded the pancake with the tip of the spatula and decided to be bold. Standing sideways at my gas cooktop, I could keep an eye on our breakfast and him. “Kostya?”
“Yes?” His gaze was glued to the newspaper in front of him.
“Your tattoos…” My voice trailed off as I tried to think of how to ask without being, well, rude. “They look a lot like the ones Erin’s husband has on his hands.”
He slowly raised his head and put down the paper. I couldn’t read his impassive expression. He smoothed his fingers over the newsprint. With a steady gaze, he didn’t blink or glance away. It was almost as if he wanted to assure me that he wasn’t lying when he said, “They look a lot like Ivan’s because we got them for the same reasons.”
Unsure what to do with this opening he’d allowed, I flipped the pancake. Kostya stood up and walked to the cabinet where I kept the plates. He selected a pair of them and held them out for me so I could place the cooked pancake onto one of them. Our gazes clashed. It was almost as if he were daring me to ask.
So I did.
“Are you in the Russian mob?”
“Yes.” Standing this close to him, I could see the tension fade in his jaw and neck. He looked relieved to confirm my suspicion. “Do you want eggs?”
His question threw me, and I frowned at him. “I ask you if you’re in the mob, and you ask me if I want some eggs?”
“I like eggs with my pancakes,” he said matter-of-factly.
Unsure if this was his way of changing the subject or his way of trying to buy some time to decide how much to tell me, I pointed at the pot rack over the island. “You know where the pans and eggs are if you want them.”
“Fair enough.”
While I finished the pancakes, he scrambled some eggs, offering me some as I gathered butter and syrup and silverware. I poured a glass of almond milk and refilled his coffee cup before joining him at the island.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” he asked before digging into his breakfast.
“What am I allowed to know?” I stabbed my fork into the eggs. This was new and—frankly—frightening territory for me. I wasn’t sure what I could or should ask.
“I think you probably already know more than I’d like,” he said in between bites. “I think you’ve wondered about Vivian and Erin, about their husbands and their tattoos and if the rumors about how they make their money is true. I think you know exactly what Nisha Jackson’s uncle does, and I’m sure you know all about her ex-husband doing his stretch in the pen for drugs and guns. I think you’ve probably heard things about me that confuse you.”
I sipped my almond milk confessing, “Savvy told me that you own strip clubs.”
“Yes, I do.” He smeared some butter on his stack of pancakes. “Does that bother you?”
“Of course, it does!”
He made a strange face. “Why?”
“Really?” I didn’t for one second believe he was that dense. “You have to ask why I think it’s skeevy that you own clubs where women take their clothes off for money?”
“No one forces them to dance. They’re independent contractors, and most of them—the ones who understand their craft and take advantage of their natural assets—are compensated very well.”
“Konstantin!”
He seemed taken aback by the strident tone I’d used. His eyes flashed wide. “That’s the second time you’ve called me by my full name in the last eight hours.”
“And?”
“And I like it,” he admitted in a rough voice.
A bright thrill arced through my chest at his heated gaze. Pointing my fork at him, I warned, “Stop trying to distract me with your Russian hotness. I’m not done with this nasty strip club business.”
He grinned and acknowledged that I was onto his game with a slight nod. “Have you ever been inside a strip club? A high-end one,” he clarified. “A real gentlemen’s club.”
“No!”
“Would you like to visit one?”
Something wild and wicked flared inside me. The taboo of a strip club was one I had never dared to indulge. The idea of going to a strip joint with Kostya, of seeing a lap dance up close or going into one of those VIP booths alone with him, had me clenching my thighs together.
“You don’t have to decide today.” He cut a neat triangle of pancakes with his fork. “The invitation stands.”
We ate in silence for a few moments. Eventually, I asked, “Why strip clubs? Doesn’t your security business make good money?” My stomach clenched as another thought struck me. “Your security business is real, isn’t it?”
“It’s real, and yes, it’s very profitable.”
“But?”
“But strip clubs make it easier to launder money,” he stated.
I regarded him with surprise and a little bit of suspicion. “You’re being awfully candid today.”
“Maybe it’s time we had a little honesty in our relationship,” he grumbled.
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I’ve never lied to you, Kostya.”
“I meant me,” he said, his tone filled with loathing.
“Well, I mean, I assume the mafia thing only works if you keep secrets, right?”
“That’s generally true, yes.” We shared a look that made my chest ache. “You und
erstand that everything I’ve told you this morning has to be our secret now. If anyone thinks that you know more than you should, you’ll be in danger. If you tell your friends, you put them at risk, too.”
“I understand.” The weight of his admission was heavy on my shoulders. Savannah would never ask, but she would know. She had a way of reading me just like my mother.
My mother…
Oh, hell.
She was going to be furious if she found out that I was getting involved with a man tied to the Russian mafia. Whenever she spoke of her time in Russia—and that was rare—it was to warn me about how dangerous and corrupt the country was and how the mafia controlled every level of it.
Kostya finished his breakfast, grabbed an orange from the bowl on the counter and produced a terrifyingly sharp knife from his pocket. He sliced the top and bottom off the orange and cut out a slice before unfolding it to reveal perfectly sectioned wedges. Seeing his neat work and the easy way he handled the knife, I started to wonder just what exactly he did for the Russian mob.
“Is money laundering your specialty?”
“Not even close,” he replied while wiping clean his knife and folding it closed. Catching my eye, he warned, “You can ask questions, but I won’t always answer them. It’s not that I don’t trust you to keep quiet. I simply don’t think you need to be burdened with the reality of what I do.”
His ominous tone scared me. I gripped a napkin as it occurred to me that maybe he’d used that knife to cut into something other than oranges. I wanted to ask him. The question was right there on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t make my lips move.
Was this what it was like for Vivian Kalasnikov? If the rumors were to be believed, her husband was the boss of the family Kostya served. Did she sit at home wondering what her husband was up to all day? Did she worry about the risk of arrest and prison? Did she worry that someone might put a hit out on her man or even her?
“What are you thinking now?” He studied me closely while peeling free another orange wedge.