Page 188 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

My brow furrows. “I left once I knew you existed. I stayed away from him. I’ve been doing my best, but when he decides to drug me and throw me in a plane, there’s only so much I can do, Xena.”

“I know, I know, sweetheart. I’m just saying… Make yourself useful. Show that you’re on our side. Maybe then, if everything goes wrong and my brother is given the chance to kill you, he’ll choose to spare you instead.”

I’m not sure whose side I’m on anymore. Nikolai may be a criminal, but the Simatous aren’t any better. It just so happens that Xena is the one offering to help me escape.

And really, if the Simatous weren’t in the equation at all, I think things would be different. Nikolai confessing his love might have changed things. Maybe I’d be able to stay here with him. Maybe we could live together. He could help me raise our child and take care of Elise.

Maybe… we could have been happy.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. A whole field of maybes, each one as worthless as the last.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” I say softly. “But I’m not going to risk getting caught. The only reason I’m doing any of this is to protect myself and my sister. If it gets dangerous at all, I’m out.”

Xena lets out a low whistle. “Atta girl. About time you found a little backbone.”

Her compliment, as backhanded as it is, shouldn’t matter to me, but I find myself smiling anyway.

“Snoop around while he’s out, gather what you can, and we'll try meeting again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” The confidence I felt a minute before fades. “You don’t think it’s risky to try again so soon?”

“No. This time, I’m sending in someone more capable of getting the job done properly.”

An image of the two dead men flashes across my mind. I quickly try to shove it away. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else taking a bullet to the head. “Who?”

“Myself,” she says.

“You?Xena, do you think that’s a good idea? If Nikolai catches you—”

“He won’t,” she interrupts. “Life amongst all these useless men has taught me one important lesson: if I want something done right, I have to do it myself.”

We say our goodbyes and hang up. I sit in the closet for a long few breaths, steeling myself to do what I just promised I’d do.

Then, when I can’t wait anymore, I stand and get to work.

The house is silent as I move down the hallway. I stop outside Nikolai’s doorway. I don’t hear any movement from inside. And after a minute with my ear pressed against the door, I finally feel confident enough to crack it open.

The room is dark, but I can make out the rumpled bedding and a sleek wooden dresser standing against the back wall. I can also tell the bed is empty. It’s a good thing, but I wouldn’t have been disappointed to see a sleeping Nikolai. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him without a scowl on his face.

I consider looking around his room, but as soon as I open the door, I’m immediately overwhelmed by the peppermint citrus scent of him. Standing in his bedroom doorway is like being wrapped in his arms.

I close my eyes and inhale. When I’m gone, I’ll miss this smell.

Ridiculous tears well in my eyes, and I spring back into the hallway before I do something stupid like flop face-down on his mattress to breathe him in.

After checking to make sure the library is empty—and blushing when I see the shelves Nikolai shoved me against just yesterday, my handprint still marked in the dust—I move across the hall to his office.

Like his bedroom, his office smells like him, but it’s disguised by the scent of leather and old books. The room looks remarkably similar to his office at Zhukova Incorporated. There’s a large desk in the center of the room, bookshelves along the back wall, and a filing cabinet and bar cart off to the side.

Also like his office at Zhukova Inc., it is next-level neat. I half-expect to see a “For Display Purposes Only; Do Not Touch” sign planted somewhere.

“Don’t touch anything,” I mutter to myself. I try to step lightly across the plush carpet. He’ll probably notice the footprints I leave behind.

I push the door mostly closed, leaving a small crack for plausible deniability in case I’m caught, and then tip-toe around his desk.

The top right drawer has a lock in the center of it, so I go for it first. To my surprise, it slides right open when I pull. Inside is a stapler, some blank sticky notes, and a bundle of highlighters. It looks like any normal person’s desk. Like my old desk, back when I was a run-of-the-mill accountant and not a sleaze-trap bartender.

The rest of the drawers are equally as mundane. A stack of printer paper, some empty manila folders, a book of stamps. If I didn’t know any better, I’d look through this desk and think Nikolai was actually the CEO he pretends to be—as opposed to the murderous don I know he is.

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