Age 17
Iwas in trouble with my father again. Tonight, I’d been cuffed roughly along the cheek for failing to respect his need for quiet after a long workday. As I’d cheerfully spoken to him about my school art project, trailing him into his office, he’d turned and hit me so hard I’d landed on the floor.
My cousin, Silvio, had found me sitting with my back to the door, my hand clamped on my cheekbone.
“What’s up, little Sofia?”
I didn’t know Silvio well. He was a good ten years older than me, and I wasn’t allowed around the made men in the family very often. He crouched to my level and looked at me with something that might have been worry in his eyes.
“Did your father do that?” he asked, his gaze lingering on my rapidly swelling cheek.
I shrugged.
Silvio chuckled. “Old bastard. Doesn’t he realize you’re not a kid anymore? How old are you now?”
“Nearly eighteen,” I muttered.
He whistled and raised an eyebrow at me. “Eighteen? All woman.”
I squirmed at his attention on me, and not in a good way. I felt uncomfortable and on display and wished I could be in my room.
Silvio stared at his watch and clicked his tongue. “You know what makes you feel better in this kind of situation? Breaking rules. I’m going to a party. Want to come?”
I blinked at him. I could never go to parties, and besides, I didn’t have any friends who would invite me. It was difficult to make friends when you had bodyguards waiting for you outside school.
“Antonio will never let me,” I protested, wishing I could go anyway.
I wasn’t particularly comfortable with Silvio, but he was my cousin, and the thought of going out to a party with other people was too enticing. Sometimes I felt so lonely, locked in the mausoleum of Casa Nera, I thought I might go insane.
“So, we won’t tell him. We won’t take any bodyguards either. I’ll look after you,” he said and smiled.
It wasn’t a reassuring sight, but the desire to go out and be normal for a night was too strong.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I stood with his help, and Silvio’s shark-like smile followed me out of the room.
Whatever I’d expected, going to party in a real live club in New York City was not it. The place was downtown, and Silvio walked into the flashy building like he owned it. Maybe he did, for all I knew. I avoided eyes in the line as we passed them by and entered the club.
I tugged the hem of my dress down. It felt too short, even if it was perfectly modest. Antonio disapproved of short skirts for his daughter, only for the endless procession of women he brought home, so I had few options to wear. However, I had customized a tight sheath of a dress by cutting the hem. It rode up my thighs as I followed Silvio closely down a steep staircase to an underground level.
Low music and the hum of conversation reached my ears when we made it down, and I looked around. The dimly lit room was hazy with smoke, and there were poker tables laid out, each filled with men. Some turned and nodded to Silvio when we entered.
Silvio held out a hand, summoning me to his side. “You’ll bring me luck tonight. Get us some drinks. Scotch for me, and get yourself something strong. Put it on my tab,” he instructed, his gaze landing on an empty spot at one table.
Just like that, he shooed me away and walked toward the players, entering the game and leaving me alone.
I turned toward the bar and wobbled my way toward a stool. It wasn’t busy, as servers were circling the tables. I pulled myself up on a bar stool, putting my hands over my legs. Now that I was sitting, the hem of my customized dress was much shorter than I’d liked.
“What can I get you?” asked bartender with so many piercings I couldn’t count them.
“Um, a scotch and an… an old-fashioned.” I’d seen someone drink one on TV, and they sounded sophisticated. I wondered for a second if the bartender was going to ID me, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.
“What scotch?” she asked, pointing to the shelves of amber bottles behind the bar.
“The most expensive one,” I decided and smiled.
The bartender moved away to make my drinks, and I glanced around. So, this was it, an actual bar. It was darker than I’d imagined, and no one was dancing. I supposed that this was Silvio’s kind of bar, and I couldn’t imagine him dancing, so that checked out.
Upstairs had seemed livelier, and I wondered if he’d let me go up there on my own to see if anyone was dancing. Probably not.
My gaze moved toward the staircase that descended from the top level and landed on a man ambling down the stairs.
He looked young, way younger than Silvio, nearer my age. Something about his lithe, barely controlled movements drew my eye. He was a coiled spring at one moment and a lazing jungle cat at others. He wasn’t dressed like any of the older men either. Low black jeans hung on his slim hips, shoved into shit-kicking, steel-capped boots. A heavy biker jacket hid the exact proportions of his broad shoulders, and the hood was up on his black hoodie. The only skin I could see easily was the skin on his his hands, which were richly decorated with tattoos.
When he reached the bottom, the tension in the room seemed to heighten. I noticed more than one man taking him in. His entrance was far more noticed than Silvio’s had been. Maybe it was the energy he was giving off. A restless feeling of suppressed power and anger. Like a bomb that could go off at any second.
“One scotch and an old fashioned.” The bartender’s voice made me jump, and I turned quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring at the magnetic stranger who’d entered.
“Thanks. Put it on Silvio De Sanctis’ tab, okay?” I requested.
The bartender merely raised an eyebrow and nodded. Turning, I grabbed the scotch and headed for Silvio. He was deep in the game already and barely acknowledged me as I put the glass beside him.
Returning to the bar, I froze as broad, leather-clad shoulders sat right where I’d been sitting. I thought about sitting somewhere else, but then I remembered my drink. Weaving my way back toward the stranger, I stopped at the bar beside him and looked for my drink. He had pushed his hoodie down, and I was struck by his dark beauty. He had tanned skin and dark jet-black hair. His stubbled jaw was effortlessly hot, and tattoos climbed his neck.
“What?” His sudden word sent my heart all but jumping to my throat.
He was drinking a cocktail already. I peered at it, recognizing the curl of orange peel in the bottom. He was drinking my cocktail.
“Um, I think you have my drink,” I said and then cursed myself. Why not just get another drink? For my first outing to a club, I wasn’t coming off very cool.
“You left it unattended. It’s my drink now,” he drawled.
His deep voice whispered along my skin. It had a hint of a growl to it. I’d once read a steamy romance about a hero with a growly voice, and the author had described it as a bedroom voice. I hadn’t got it then, but I got it now.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” I said stupidly as the silence dragged between us. “Are you going to buy me another?” The question popped out before I could think about it.
He shook his head.
Embarrassment flushed through me. “Why not?”
“Because, lastochka, I don’t have enough money,” he said, finally turning to face me.
His eyes were dark gray, the strangest stormy, magnetic sight I’d ever seen. His winged black eyebrows and thick lashes were so much prettier than the rest of him. Too pretty for someone with such a thick aura of violence.
“You don’t?” I squeaked.
He shook his head, raising an eyebrow as if amused, waiting to see what I was going to say about it.
“Okay. Fine. I can buy my own drinks,” I muttered.
His attention was warm on my skin. I slid onto the stool next to him and flagged down the bartender in what I hoped was a cool way.
“What does lastochka mean?”
“Little swallow.”
“Like the bird?”
“Yes, like the bird. You look like a little bird who’s flown her cage tonight.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t hate the nickname, but was it so obvious that it was my first night out?
“I’ll have another old-fashioned,” I said, and then a pang of manners hit me. “Two,” I tacked on lamely.
The bartender moved away, leaving me in awkward silence with the man beside me.
“You drink two of these, and you’ll need to be carried out of here,” he said conversationally.
“The second one is for you. You said you don’t have any money, so…” God, why was talking to a handsome man so hard? Books and movies hadn’t prepared me for it.
I could feel his gaze on the side of my face and steeled myself to glance at him.
His lips were turned up in amusement again. “Two drinks? Are you trying to get me drunk? I warn you, I have a high tolerance for alcohol.”
“No, of course not! I just didn’t want to be rude, but I guess you know nothing about that,” I pointed out, my annoyance with the mysterious man growing as he put me on the back foot. “You stole my drink,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, I did, because you left it unattended in a bar. Anyone could have put something in it. You’re welcome.”
I turned to him fully, and my knees bumped his thigh. I considered his words, and blinked at him. “Huh.”
He grinned at me, suddenly transforming his already handsome face, hitting me with a smile that knocked my breath from my chest. I struggled to breathe as the bartender placed the fresh drinks on the bar and moved away, clearly remembering whose tab I was using.
“Who do you belong to?” the tattooed mystery man wondered, sending me back to reality with a thump.
“Excuse me?”
“Whose are you?” The guy twisted in his chair, looking at the room’s occupants.
“I don’t belong to anyone, thanks very much. I’m here with my cousin, Silvio De Sanctis,” I said primly.
He raised an eyebrow, but I couldn’t read how serious he was.
“Is that right? So, you’re a De Sanctis? What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” I parried.
He studied me for a moment longer as though genuinely considering whether to tell me. “Nikolai. Nikolai Chernov. Most people call me Niko. And you are?”
“Sofia. Sofia De Sanctis.” Before I could question it, I stuck my hand out to shake his.
He smirked, taking my hand but not shaking it. He wrapped his fingers around mine and squeezed lightly. It felt oddly intimate. His pointer finger slid up my wrist and pressed against my pulse, sending it through the roof. No one touched me. No one except my father, and that was only for dispensing his measures of discipline. A kind touch? I couldn’t even remember the last time.
“Sofia, vieni qui,” Silvio called across the room, and the spell was broken.
Niko let go of my hand, and I turned to look at my cousin. He was focused on the game and tense as hell.
“Off you go. Your master is calling you,” Niko said, turning back to the bar.
I felt dismissed and disappointed, as well as stung.
I got up, forced my shoulders back, and held my head high. “He’s not my master, but thanks for the put-down,” I muttered.
“Don’t get upset, lastochka. We both have masters, at least for now,” Niko murmured. “Acknowledging that is the first step.”
“The first step to what?”
“Breaking free,” he said, all without looking at me.
He sipped his drink, and I watched him, strangely mesmerized. I’d never met anyone like him before. No one spoke to me like he had. No one had insulted me and challenged me, only to soothe and comfort me all in the same breath. He was like the poison and the cure.
“Sofia!” Silvio snapped,
My feet moved before I could stop myself, and brought me to his side.
“Sit here and bring me luck.”
I sat beside my cousin, wishing I could still be at the bar with the enigmatic man who had seemed completely unbothered by the aura of danger in the air.
As if my thoughts had summoned him, Niko approached the table. He looked right at my cousin, and Silvio straightened.
“Niko. I’m surprised Viktor let you out two nights in a row,” Silvio said.
I stared between them, aware of the rising tension at the table.
“Well, he appreciated the need to set the record straight after last night.” Niko grinned, rocking back on his heels.
Silvio glanced around at the men at the table. “The buy-in is a grand. Got enough left after last night?”
“Only just,” Nikolai said, pulling a wad of cash from his pocket.
“But you said you didn’t have any money!” I blurted before I could help it.
Silvio shot me an annoyed glance.
Nikolai merely shrugged. “I lied.”
He pulled up a chair across from me, shrugged his leather jacket off his shoulders, then hauled his black hoodie up and off his head. The movement rucked his black t-shirt up his lithe abdomen, revealing all kinds of muscles I’d only seen in magazines before. The men around the table seemed to tense at the sight. It was a stark contrast to their lazy, thick figures.
He sat, not seeming to realize he had just challenged the masculinity of every man around the table. His arms were just as inked as his hands had promised they’d be. He lit a cigarette, seemingly uncaring about the venue’s restrictions, and concentrated on the game.
I watched them play as time ticked past. They were playing poker. Although I wasn’t very familiar with the rules, I could tell Silvio was putting in more than he was getting back. A steady pile grew in front of Nikolai. Other men at the table fell away because it was clear where the power here lay. This wasn’t how I’d imagined spending my night of freedom, but now that I was here and had met Nikolai, I couldn’t imagine moving from the spot.
“You’re tapped, De Sanctis. I was going to raise you, but there isn’t any point, is there?” Niko said after an hour.
It seemed like he’d cleaned Silvio out. Silvio had been drinking steadily and sweating through his shirt. He cast a glance at me and at the men sitting on either side. He was clearly embarrassed about losing to the youngest player, and Nikolai was doing nothing to reduce the sting of that with his shit-eating smirk.
Silvio looked at me again, his gaze falling to the hem of my skirt. “I wouldn’t say that. I have one last thing to raise you, but she’ll cost you,” he said, leaning back and looking at the gathered men smugly.
Tension formed in the pit of my belly. “Silvio—” I started, nearly a whisper in the tense silence.
“What? Her?” Niko interrupted, jerking his chin toward me. “I’d prefer cash.”
Humiliation stained my cheeks at his words. A few men chuckled, while others clearly disagreed.
“She wasn’t on the table when I folded,” one of the other players said and shifted in his seat. One of Silvio’s friends. He leered at me.
His face was far too close to my folded arms and my cleavage pressing against the material of my too tight dress. He couldn’t seem to pull his eyes from the deep valley of my low-cut top, and I felt sick. I looked at my cousin, shifting my body away from his old, lecherous eyes.
“This is hilarious, Silvio, but be serious now,” I hissed at him.
He leaned toward me. “Don’t worry. I won’t lose. I have the winning hand; I just want to flush out anything extra that bratva bastard might be holding on to before I claim my victory. Relax. I said I’d take care of you.”
His words didn’t reassure me in the slightest. He put a hand on my bare knee and squeezed. I looked up to see Niko’s eyes fixed on the movement. I felt horrible, but what was I going to do? Stand and run out of here alone? I couldn’t go home without Silvio. My father would be livid, and I knew what that meant. I never wanted to endure the punishments that came when Antonio De Sanctis was truly angry.
Before I could protest, Nikolai spoke. “Vladna, I see you, and I’ll match it.”
I struggled to understand what exactly he meant in poker terms. He pulled something out of his pocket. He set the object on the center of the felt-lined table. It was an expensive-looking watch. Silvio collected them. He often boasted about his latest extravagance. Silvio leaned in and picked it up, seeming pulled to it.
“A Greubel Forsey 2010—one of only ten in existence.” Silvio’s voice was reverent.
“So, is it enough?” Nikolai sounded bored.
They were haggling over my worth against a designer watch. I could only observe, outraged, as Silvio smoothed a thumb over the watch, transfixed.
“How’d you get it? A guy like you couldn’t buy this.”
“That’s right. I’ve more sense than that. Is it enough?”
“It’s enough,” he said.
I shot out of my seat. “Silvio!”
“Sit down now and stop embarrassing me, or I’ll tell Antonio how you begged to be brought out tonight,” Silvio snapped.
Sinking back into my chair, I looked at Nikolai. He was watching me with an unreadable expression.
The game progressed, and the time came for both men to turn over their cards. They did so in silence. I studied them, not knowing exactly what to make of the result, but my gut suspected. It had known the moment Silvio had put me on the table as a bargaining chip.
“Cazzo,” Silvio swore, throwing his cards across the table. One of them hit Nikolai’s arm.
“What does it mean?” I asked numbly as Silvio stood.
“It means we are leaving. It’s time to go, Sofia,” Silvio said and grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.
I cried out as he dragged me out of my seat.
“I think you’ll find you have your hands on my property, De Sanctis,” Nikolai said, unfolding himself to his towering height and looking down at Silvio.
Silvio chuckled, but it sounded nervous. “You aren’t serious? She’s Antonio De Sanctis’ daughter. Do you think I’d trade her in poker to a piece-of-shit Moscow peasant like you? Get real, Chernov.”
Something dark and utterly terrifying moved through Nikolai’s eyes. He stayed still as Silvio dragged me toward the door, his hard fingers biting into my arm.
“Think carefully about what you’re about to do,” Nikolai called after him. “You don’t want me as your enemy, De Sanctis.”
“You don’t scare me. Run back to Coney Island and cry to Viktor about it if you’re sad.”
With that, Silvio tugged me so hard that I tumbled to the floor. With a curse, he wrenched me up and pulled me from the room and up the stairs.
I couldn’t look back or I’d risk falling again, and it already felt like my arm was coming out of the socket. I could have screamed or protested, shouted at him for hurting me, but I was brought up in this world of powerful men, and I knew what dangers lay that way. At the end of my father’s discipline, I’d learned the consequences of making a scene.
Besides, I was glad we were leaving. Whatever Nikolai Chernov wanted with me sent freezing-cold shivers, followed by roiling heat, through me. He might be a similar age to me, but we were decades apart in experience. I had no idea how to handle a man like that. He was terrifying and enthralling, and getting too close would burn me. I could taste the singed flesh already. He’d agreed to win me in a game, for fuck’s sake. He was dangerous, and every instinct in my bones was telling me to run away.
