Page 10 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“I have to take this,” I told Irene. “It’s my brother.”
I switched calls and immediately regretted it.
“Pack a bag,” Maxim said without preamble. “You’re flying to Italy tonight.”
“What? No.” The refusal was automatic, instinctive. “I can’t leave Chicago right now. The show is in two weeks—”
“The show can wait. Your safety can’t.”
“Maxim, I’m not in any danger. I’m at the house, surrounded by security, working on the most important collection of my career. I’m not abandoning everything because you’re being paranoid.”
“Paranoid?” His voice went dangerously quiet, the tone he used right before he did something that made headlines.“Mike Antonov is dead, Anya. Shot six times in his own driveway. This isn’t paranoia—this is war.”
War. The word landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of fear through my carefully constructed peace. This was why I’d built my life outside the city, why I’d refused to get involved in Maxim’s world despite the blood we shared.
“I’m sorry about Mike,” I said, and I meant it. “But that doesn’t change anything. I’m not running away.”
“You’re not running. You’re being smart.”
“I’m being stubborn. And I’m staying in Chicago.”
The silence that followed was so complete I wondered if the call had dropped. When Maxim spoke again, his voice was ice and steel and barely contained fury.
“Fine. But if something happens to you, if one hair on your head gets touched because you’re too proud to accept protection, remember that you chose this.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, my brother’s words echoing in my head like a threat and a promise wrapped in concern. He was afraid for me—genuinely, desperately afraid—and that knowledge sat like a weight in my chest.
But I wasn’t leaving. Not when everything I’d worked for was finally coming together. Not when the show that would define my career was two weeks away. Not when….
Not when Lev was somewhere in this city, alone and grieving.
The thought came from nowhere and everywhere, hitting me with a force that left me breathless. I tried to push it away, tried to focus on the rational reasons for staying—the collection, the venue, the hundred moving pieces that required my attention. But underneath it all was a truth I’d been avoiding for five years.
I cared about him. More than I should, more than was safe, more than made any kind of rational sense.
Hours passed in a blur of failed sketches and abandoned phone calls. I tried to work, tried to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of creation, but my mind kept drifting to steel-gray eyes and the memory of hands that had touched me like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time.
By the time Irene arrived at my door, I was pacing the length of my studio like a caged animal, my nerves stretched so thin I felt like I might shatter at the slightest touch.
“You look like hell,” she said by way of greeting, settling onto the couch with the ease of someone who’d been navigating my emotional crises for years.
“Thank you. That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear.”
“Anya.” Her voice was gentle but firm, the tone she used when she was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “We need to talk.”
I stopped pacing and looked at her—really looked at her. Irene had always been the steady one, the voice of reason in a world that often felt like it was spinning out of control. If she was worried, if she’d driven across town to sit in my studio and have this conversation, then maybe I was missing something important.
“Talk about what?”
“About why you’re falling apart over a man you claim to hate.”
The words hit me like a slap, partly because they were true and partly because I’d thought I was hiding it better than that.
“I don’t hate him,” I said quietly.
“I know. That’s the problem.”
