Fake.
That word rolls in my head as I listen to Anwyn telling me about how happy she is with her husband, stroking her almost flat belly, and cooing over my ring. I cannot fall for Artem Moroz. Any more than I already have.
This is all way too good to be true, and it’s not true. That’s the point.
And now, fool that I am, I’m glancing over at Artem and smiling. That shared smile, the understanding between us feeling like it always did when he arrived for coffee every morning at the cafe, reliable as clockwork.
I admit, it is extremely hot seeing Artem in his element. All those terrifying mafia bosses were hanging on his every word. I don’t know what he said while Anwyn and I have been over here with the other women, but I’m very well aware they are the most powerful men in London. And when Artem told them to play along with that other mafia boss’ request earlier?
They jumped.
And my clit jumped too.
It’s nice to chat with Anwyn, and hear about her pregnancy. Even if we have to keep the non-baby conversation to coffee and books, rather than what I really want to know: how did she get her silver fox mafia boss to fall in love with her, and how can I replicate it? How can I get pregnant by my gorgeous kingpin? Could she get her husband to vaguely but anonymously threaten me, so Artem doesn’t let me go?
God, I am disturbed.
Excitement trembles in my belly when Artem rises from the table he’s been sitting at with the other mafia bosses, and comes over.
Holding out his hand, he looks down at me, head to the side, with what seems to be a sad smile. “Having a good time?”
I put my hand in his and, obviously I’m a fully grown adult and I don’t need his help to rise from the sofa Anwyn and I have been lolling on, sipping our drinks. But he’s so warm and steady, his hand is so big compared to mine. I kinda need him to help me or I might melt into a puddle. He smooths his thumb over the ring he gave me. That gorgeous ring. I wish I could wear it forever.
Artem draws me away from the hubbub of voices, into a secluded nook where sweeping curtains screen us from the rest of the room. He steps close, and shifts his hand to the small of my back, gently holding me to him. His other palm cups my jaw, and his thumb sweeps my cheek this time.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and looks so sad my heart begins to break for him. I’m on the cusp of asking what’s wrong when he takes a deep breath, releases my cheek and reaches into a holster at his chest that I hadn’t even noticed—I am so bad at this whole mafia thing. He pulls out a matt black metal gun. Making something click, he takes my hand and puts the weapon into it.
I stare at the thing stupidly, so heavy and unnatural.
“Artem…” Panic shoots through me.
Artem lifts my wrist and points the barrel of the gun at his chin. “If it’s you who wants revenge, kill me. I’m fine with that. There’s a silencer. Just walk out and never come back. Everyone will assume it was one of the others.”
I don’t move. I don’t dare.
“Take it away,” I whisper. I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t freaking like it. At all. I’m holding a king cobra, every instinct yelling to throw it far from me.
“Sure?”
“Yes!” I squeak. So slowly, with infinite care because I absolutely don’t want to trigger this thing to go off and I have never touched a gun before in my life, I move the weapon from Artem’s head.
“Take it,” I order him when it’s by my side, my voice seeming to come from a thousand miles distant.
Silently, Artem slips the gun from my hand, does something, then it disappears under his suit jacket, and I can breathe again.
I grasp his lapels and pull myself into his reassuringly warm bulk. A little hesitantly, his arms go around me.
“Well, that removes one of Crosse’s theories,” he mutters wryly, then kisses the top of my head.
“Theories?”
“He thought maybe you were part of the murder attempt.”
“Me?”
“I didn’t think it was very likely either.” And now I can hear a smile in his voice.
“His theories are bullshit,” I grumble and breathe in Artem’s scent like an addict.
Artem shakes with silent laughter, and we stand there, me in his arms, him stroking my hair, for I don’t know how long. Time enough for me to become aware of every place we touch. The heat of him. How solidly muscled he is beneath my hands and pressed to my soft curves.
“Now.” Artem sets me away from him and the grave expression is back, along with the distance between us. He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob just above his collar. “If you want to go with Anwyn and Crosse, I’ve arranged for him to look after you.”
My mouth falls open in shock. If I thought the gun was insane, this might be even more so. This wasn’t what I expected. Is that why he looks so sad? My mind whirls.
“I don’t understand,” I say eventually.
“Crosse thinks that whoever came after us at the Lazy Bean was internal. Not another mafia, but someone within Mayfair.” He visibly steels himself. I can see how much this is costing him. “And upon reflection, I agree. It makes more sense. But I haven’t figured out who it is yet, and I promised I’d keep you safe. So go with your friend. You’ll be better protected in Westminster.”
“I don’t want to be safe.” The words are out before I can consider whether they’re wise.
“Kisa—”
“What if I want to stay with you?”
“It’s dangerous.” But his hand tightens at my waist and his eyes aren’t bleak anymore, they’re filling with wary hope.
My heart leaps that he hasn’t said no.
“I’ll help you figure out who it is. There’s one man—”
“Not if it puts you at risk,” he cuts me off.
I grasp at a promise he made. I’m willing to try anything to stay with him. I’m in this now. His life. “When you kidnapped me, you said you’d protect me.”
“I did.” He nods. “And I meant it.”
“Well.” I summon my most bratty, insistent look. “You don’t get to pick and choose, sir.”
He heaves in a breath and exhales like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Kisa—”
“What does that mean?” I demand. He’s been calling me kisa for a year and suddenly I can’t bite my tongue any longer.
He steps closer, crowding me into the wall behind. I boost onto tiptoes as he dips his head.
“In Russian, it means kitten. My kitten.” Then he kisses me.
It’s sweet in a way, this kiss. Firm, but without filthy licks or nibbles. It’s a statement, a press of his lips to mine. A claiming almost. I cling to him, hoping that if I just hold on, I can keep him forever.
When he draws away, we’re both breathing hard.
“You want to stay with me, despite the risks?”
“Yes. I want to help.” A thousand times yes. I want his ring on my finger for real and to be in his bed every night. I want to hear all his hopes and dreams and fears and be the person he turns to—not only for coffee and a smile, like we were before—for everything.
“Well. My little kitten has been creeping around my house. Tell me who you don’t trust.”
“All your men are very considerate, except—”
“Bastard,” Artem growls.
“Nothing happened,” I hurry to reassure him. “I just felt uncomfortable.”
Artem’s scowl deepens. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know his name. He looks a bit like you, but younger.”
“Sergey? No. Was it…”
“You spoke to him the morning we arrived after you…” I’m reluctant to say the word now. Kidnap seems an ungenerous way to describe how Artem has cared for me. “Snatched me away.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh you’re kidding.” And then he’s holding me so tight I’m crushed to his chest. I don’t care. I love being close to him. “It took you, and the fucking London Maths Club, to help me put two and two together.”
In the car on the way back to his house, he tells me the plan as he drives, knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.
“Promise me you’ll stay upstairs,” he demands. “I’m not having anything happen to you.”
“I promise.” And I don’t have to even cross my fingers, because I know exactly how I’ll do as he tells me, but also see what is happening.
“Everyone in the main hall. We’re going out,” he says into his phone when I nod that I understand the plan. A message for his men.
Just as when we arrived at his house five years ago—correction five days ago—Artem walks around and helps me from the car. We walk together to the elevator. But this time, I catch his hand and hold it, my heart swelling with love even as my throat is dry with nerves. He pushes the button for the ground floor, and the one above. Then as we rise, he backs me to the mirrored wall and kisses me like I’m air. Then as the elevator stops, he sets me away from him.
“Go to my bedroom, kisa. I’ll feel the alert on my phone and know you’re safe. Wait there. I’ll be with you soon.”
I believe him. But I want to see Artem at his best and worst. I have to be by his side. Cheering. I nod, and he walks out of the elevator around the corner into the main hall as the sliding door shuts off my view.
My heart thumps and adrenaline courses through me as I step into the hallway upstairs and, checking left and right as Artem instructed, remove my high heels to walk silently down the smooth polished floor. I open Artem’s bedroom, dart inside and then straight back out. Long enough to trigger the cameras, but not to miss what’s happening downstairs.
Closing the door behind me, I creep down the hallway to the sheltered spot at the top of stairs where I’ve spied on Artem before. His voice echoes up.
“I’ve dealt with Mayfair, and you all, differently to my brother’s way.”
He’ll feel my eyes on him, I’m sure. He always does. But hopefully it will be in a good way.
On my hands and knees, I peek one eye around the corner of the bannister.
I haven’t seen all of Artem’s men gathered together before. It seems when I first arrived that wasn’t all of them. They’re standing in an arc with Artem in the middle, every face turned towards him as he levels a stare at the men.
“If you don’t like the way I run things now, you’re free to leave. Go now, peacefully, and that will be the end of it.”
Seconds tick by. No one moves. With slow deliberation, Artem draws the gun and points it into the crowd of men. “But I won’t have anyone endangering my fiancée, Vlad.”
Warmth seeps into me. I’m still his fiancée, even as I’m shocked by Artem calmly pointing a gun at the scuzzy man who looked at me like I was meat.
Vlad sneers and steps forward. “You got Mayfair by blood inheritance from Victor. My claim is just as good. His son, who will restore things to the way they were. Who’s with me?”
“I liked Victor’s ways better,” says a voice.
Two shots ring out and I freeze, all my muscles bunching me into the smallest possible space. But I continue watching, not even daring to blink, unable to look away like if I do everything will end.
A body lies crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling at his head.
“He was going for the stairs, boss. To get your girl, I assume,” a man says, almost sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
Shit. Coming for me? The air solidifies in my lungs.
“Not at all, Kirill,” Artem replies coolly. “You’ve just been promoted to my second-in-command.”
My gaze darts to Artem. He has a gun in both hands, and another man lies dead among the crowd. The man who said he preferred Victor’s ways.
“Anyone else?” Artem drawls.
Oh, I see now. Artem shot the vocal supporter, and Kirill shot another man who had silently gone for the stairs.
Good. It’s deranged, but seeing what Artem will do to build a better organisation, and to protect me, fills me with bloodthirsty pride. I don’t want to wield guns myself, but hell yeah, I like that he doesn’t hesitate to kill for me. For us.
“Now. Give me one reason not to kill you, Vlad.”
A space has opened up around Vlad, where Artem’s men are distancing themselves from the traitor. He’s upright, smirking, hands loosely by his sides, and his gaze flicks to where I’m hiding.
“You took my father from me, Artem,” Vlad says. “But I’m a Moroz.” He shifts a hand casually to his pocket. And from this angle, I can see what no one else can. A gun.
Fear punches my gut. Nausea inducing, sharp terror.
Artem might die without me having told him I love him. Without him having been inside me. Without having the chance we’d have a child together, a part of him to live on.
No. No way.
“Even if you think you’ve won, I learned more from Victor than you did,” Vlad continues.
What can I do to help? Make a distraction? I look around.
“I’ll ensure you regret your win—”
I shift backwards just as there’s a barrage of shots, a shriek loud in my ears, pain that flares across my head, and a thump.
Then I’m on my feet, and running downstairs, regardless of what Artem said. Because if he’s injured, if anything has happened to him, I’d rather die by his side than never see him alive again.
Where is he? He was—I slam right into his chest and his arms brace me.
“Lina. Are you hurt?” Artem’s mouth finds mine and our kiss is desperate, life and death, need him right now intense.
One hand at the back of my head, he forces me to look at him, scanning over me before growling. “You’re bleeding. That fucker shot you.”
“I’m fine…” But he’s right. There’s wetness in my hair. I reach up and touch it, and it’s red.
“The bullet must have grazed you.” He holds me closer as he turns around. Like he’ll never let me go again.
His men are where he left them, some holding their guns, some not, all staring up at us on the landing where the stairs turn.
“That is what happens to anyone who harms a hair on her head.” He jerks his chin towards the dead body of Vlad. “Kirill, secure the house. Everyone else, get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new start.”
