I jerk my thumb toward the door. "So find a hotel." I speak in English to see if she understands me.
Her pale brows draw together, but she replies in accented English. "I can't stay here? Just for a few days until I get a job and find my bearings?" She unbuttons her coat, and I take in her slender but feminine form. She's in pants that hug her hips and a pair of lace-up boots that give her a mildly punk look. Her sweater is asymmetrical, falling off one shoulder and molding to her perky tits.
She appears alert. In command of herself. She's taken in the opulent lobby as well as the gun at my waist without any apparent surprise. Like she expected as much.
Her gaze travels from my face, to my chest, and down my tattooed arms. When she sees the tattoo that marks me with the sin of patricide, her lip curls slightly with what appears to be distaste. Like she knows what it means.
I narrow my eyes. "What are you really here for?"
She goes still for a moment then draws in a breath and lets it out. "I came to Chicago to find someone. But… it seems they may be harder to locate than I expected. I need a place to stay, and I don't know the area. I can pay a little. Or I could work it off."
I relax a bit because I recognize the note of truth in her voice. Or maybe her demeanor.
She wasn't being suggestive when she offered to work it off, but my mind jumps to all the jobs I'd love to give her.
On her knees, at my feet.
In my bed.
Maybe some light cleaning while she's scantily clothed.
Blyad.' My mind isn't normally this clouded by sex. Something about this waif of a warrior in front of me has me dying to conquer her.
"I heard back home that this place is a bratva stronghold but safe for someone like me." She holds my gaze with hers, and I picture her tied to my bed while I go out and slay dragons for her.
The fact that she admits she knows what we are relaxes me even more. That was the vibe I got. She didn't just wander in off the street. She understands we are a criminal organization. Dangerous-but not to her. It explains her demeanor. But where is she from? How does she know about us?
These are problems that need to be solved before I just let her into the building.
I consider her.
Her beauty does strange things to my decision-making skills. Something about that bowtie mouth. The exquisite bone structure. The egg-shaped birthmark on her cheek that looks like a fairy's kiss.
She seems both fragile and strong at the same time.
I can't tell if I'm uneasy because I know something's off about her or because of my dick's reaction. I'm dying to throw her over my shoulder, carry her to my apartment and spread those legs. Find the juicy pink heart between them and feast until she screams.
And that's how I arrive at the answer. The wrong one, I'm certain.
"The apartments are not mine to rent out, but you can stay with me tonight until I can take you to my pakhan."
She swallows like she's afraid of what that might mean, but she bobs her head. "Thank you…" She lifts her brows as she holds out her hand.
I clasp it. Her grip is firm, her skin soft. "Maykl."
"Maykl." She gives me the glimmer of a smile.
Seeing that softness on her makes me want to learn her secrets. Earn a full smile. An easy one.
I lock the front doors and reset the alarm then pick up her suitcase. I tip my head toward the elevator. "Let's go."
Kira
Maykl is gruff but not a mudak. Not like the bratva men Anya serviced. They were less civilized than this guy appears. Unintelligent. Certainly not chivalrous. I'm not the type who needs a man to carry her suitcase, but I admit it feels nice.
But that doesn't mean I find Maykl any less dangerous or menacing.
I know what his tattoos mean. The black X's across his knuckles signify his kills. The apple shoved down a tree's throat means he killed his own father. That one is shocking but also not entirely surprising. Most men get into the bratva young. They are street kids, usually with bad home situations. The bratva lures them in with the illusion of glory. The promise of power. They indoctrinate them into manhood through violence and crime.
He leads me to an elevator, which requires a keycard to start.
High-tech. That's interesting. Clearly, this American branch of bratva is swimming in money to be able to afford this kind of stronghold right on the shore of Lake Michigan. I don't know Chicago, but it's obvious this is prime real estate, and the building is new and luxurious. The brass edging and handrails in the elevator gleam. Everything smells fresh and clean and expensive.
We get off on the third floor, and Maykl stomps with his untied boots to a door where he uses his keycard again. It shouldn't be too hard to steal that card from him and have a look around. He's the doorman. He seems in charge of security for the building–a gatekeeper of sorts. I wouldn't be surprised if his particular key opens everything.
Whatever I imagined or expected this place to be is very far from what I found. It's not some kind of crack house for Russians. It's a beautiful, modern, high-tech fortress.
Which means sleeping with Maykl–I mean, in his apartment–is probably the luckiest break I could have. I'd probably be smart to seduce him to really win his trust and ensure I can stay.
That's not my specialty, but honestly? With Maykl it probably wouldn't be a hardship. He's over six feet of solid muscle, wide across the chest, chiseled in the arms. Any guy who carries a woman's suitcase can't be a total prick in bed. He at least has some level of consideration for others.
Not a total sociopath like the bratva men I've known.