Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1 Page 15

  Realizing I’m staring at him like a star-struck groupie, I force my vocal cords into action. “Hi.” My throat is still a bit raw from smoke, but I’m hoping he ascribes the raspiness in my voice to the late hour. “How was your flight?”

  His sensuous lips curl in a warm smile. “Uneventful. Why are you still awake? It’s past midnight over there.”

  “Just… not sleepy.” Especially now that I’m talking to him. Getting this call was like downing five shots of espresso; even my tiredness is gone, replaced by a jittery sort of excitement—one that’s only partially related to what I was reading.

  As I suspected, the Molotovs are filthy rich and a huge deal in Russia. “One of the most powerful oligarch families” is a Google-translated quote from one Russian article, and there are plenty of mentions of Nikolai and his brothers—and before that, of Vladimir, their father—in the Russian press. I even found a photo from last year in which Nikolai is sitting next to the Russian president at some black-tie event in Moscow, looking as cool and comfortable as at his family dinners.

  What I didn’t find, to my huge relief, is anything about the Molotovs being mafia or having criminal affiliations, though maybe I just didn’t dig deep enough. Even with the help of web translation tools, it’s hard to come up with the right search terms in Russian, and there’s surprisingly little written about Nikolai’s family in English—a passing mention on CNN of a pipeline in Syria laid by one of their oil companies, a paragraph on Bloomberg about a new cancer drug developed by one of their pharmaceutical companies, a line about Vladimir Molotov in a New York Times article discussing the enormous wealth in Russia. There are no Wikipedia entries on them, nothing in the tabloids. They don’t even appear on any Forbes lists, though several Russian billionaires do, and the Molotovs sound even richer.

  Of course it’s possible I couldn’t find anything because of all the Molotov cocktail references clogging up search results. I’ll have to ask Nikolai or his sister if they’re any relation to the Soviet foreign minister the homemade explosives are pejoratively named after.

  At my reply, Nikolai frowns into the camera, looking concerned. “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?”

  I shake my head with a smile. “I just haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

  Maybe it’s the lack of any alarming discoveries in my search, or the simple reality that he’s not here to make my body hum with physical awareness, but I feel calmer talking to him tonight… safer. After all, it’s possible that my experiences over the past month have shredded my nerves, leading me to see danger where none exists, and all the supposed red flags—his bullet wound scar and busted knuckles, the guards and all the security measures—have innocuous explanations. In fact…

  “Were you ever in the military?” I ask impulsively, and more tension leaves my shoulders as Nikolai nods, a faint smile dancing on his lips as he leans back in his chair.

  “My family has a long history of distinguished service to the country, and my father insisted my brothers and I follow the tradition. All three of us enlisted at eighteen and served for several years.” He tilts his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Were you wondering about this?” He touches his left shoulder.

  “I was,” I admit sheepishly. I’m beginning to feel like an idiot for letting my imagination run wild before. “What happened? Were you shot?”

  He nods. “A sniper sent a bullet my way. Luckily, he missed.”

  “Missed?”

  His white teeth flash in a grin. “I’m not dead, am I?”

  “No, thank God.” Still, my chest squeezes as I picture that scar and the pain he must’ve experienced as the bullet tore through his flesh. “Did it take you long to recover?”

  “A few weeks. I was only twenty at the time, which helped.”

  “Still, I can’t imagine it was fun.” Unable to resist the temptation, I ask, “Do you keep up with your training to this day? Like… fighting and stuff?”

  I’m trying to be subtle, but he sees right through me anyway.

  Grinning wickedly, he holds up his hands, turning them to show the bruised knuckles to the camera. “You’re asking about these, I assume? That’s from sparring with a few of my guards. They’re from my former unit, and we go at it once in a while—at least when Pavel can’t oblige me.”

  I grin back at him, so relieved I could cry. Of course his guards are his army buddies; that makes so much sense, and speaks volumes about his character. “Was Pavel in the army with you as well?” I can easily picture the man-bear in army fatigues, toting an M16 and maybe carrying a tank on his shoulders.

  To my surprise, Nikolai shakes his head. “He actually served with my father. He enlisted at fourteen, and they let him, since he was already his current size and looked all of twenty-five.”

  “Oh, wow. So he’s known your family since before you were born?”

  “Long before,” Nikolai confirms. “My father hired him straight from the army, and he’s been with our family ever since.”

  “Lyudmila too?”

  “No, they’ve only been married for about ten years.” He laughs. “Alina just about had a fit when he first introduced Lyudmila to us. I think my sister was under the impression that Pavel was her exclusive property.”

  My eyes widen. “She had a crush on him?”

  “Not precisely, no. I think she thought of him more as a second father.” His smile fades, and something bleak flickers in his eyes before his lips take on their usual darkly sensual curve—that cynical, seductive smile that, I’m now realizing, hides his true emotions. Leaning closer to the camera, he says softly, “Enough about them. Tell me about your day, zaychik. What did you and Slava do while I’ve been gone?”

  Right, that’s why he’s calling: to get a report on his son. Concealing an irrational pang of disappointment, I put on my tutor hat and fill him in on our activities and the progress Slava’s making. He listens attentively, interrupting occasionally to ask follow-up questions, and as our conversation continues, I realize I have to revise yet another negative opinion I had of him.

  Nikolai does care about his son. A lot.

  I caught a glimpse of it this morning, when Slava and I lay there on the bed, and I see it now in the way his face softens when I talk about the boy. I don’t know why he refuses to protect his son from such obvious dangers as a sharp knife, but it’s not because he doesn’t love him. He does—though judging by the way he is around Slava, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has trouble admitting it.

  I think Nikolai wants to be closer to his son but doesn’t know how.

  I think… he may be a good man, after all.

  Alina’s warning intrudes on my mind again, but I push it away. She was high, and there’s clearly tension between brother and sister, some kind of history I’m not privy to. Besides, I don’t know what she thinks is happening between me and Nikolai, but love is nowhere on the table. Sex, maybe—I’m realistic enough to admit that my determination not to sleep with my boss is proving to be no match for the powerful attraction between us—but love is a whole other game. I’d be an idiot to fall in love with a man like Nikolai, who’s undoubtedly used to the most beautiful women in the world throwing themselves at him. If we slept together, it wouldn’t mean anything to him—and I can’t let it mean anything to me.

  Better yet, we shouldn’t sleep together.

  That way, nobody gets hurt.

  We talk about Slava for another twenty minutes before the late hour catches up with me and a yawn overtakes me in the middle of a sentence. I stifle it right away, but Nikolai isn’t fooled.

  “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyeing me with concern. “You should’ve said something, zaychik. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just…” Another uncontrollable yawn interrupts my words, and I cover it with the back of my hand before giving him a rueful smile. “Okay, yes, it’s sleepy time for me. How are you so awake? You must be jet-lagged on top of everything.”r />
  The green flecks in his eyes gleam brighter. “I don’t need much sleep.”

  Of course he doesn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was part superhuman—that would explain those extraordinary good looks he shares with his sister.

  “Well, goodnight anyway,” I say, fighting another yawn. “And good luck with whatever business you have there.”

  “Thank you, zaychik.” His smile holds a tender note. “Sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow evening.”

  He hangs up, and as I put away the laptop, I’m cognizant of my heart beating in a new, uneven rhythm, my chest filled with a warmth I don’t dare examine.

  33

  Nikolai

  I close my eyes after we disconnect, trying to hang on to the unaccustomed feeling of well-being talking to Chloe has generated, but it’s fading fast. In its place is grim awareness of what I must do today, mixed with dark anticipation.

  It’s been six months since I’ve been in this world. Six months since I’ve let myself get involved in our business on any level beyond the most superficial. And while I’d like to say that I hate being back, I can’t deny that a part of me revels in it all… that my blood is pumping faster through my veins.

  Opening my eyes, I close the laptop and rise to my feet.

  Time to get to work.

  * * *

  Pavel is already waiting in the hotel lobby, and we walk out together. Our destination is a small tavern a few blocks away, or more specifically, its basement.

  The sight that greets us when we descend isn’t pretty. A man is hanging by his wrists from a chain bolted into the ceiling, the toes of his booted feet just barely scraping the bare concrete floor. His pale face is bruised and swollen, the area under his off-center nose crusted with dark blood. Two of Valery’s men stand next to him, their faces hard and eyes emotionless.

  “Any luck?” I ask one of them, and he shakes his head.

  “Claims he doesn’t have the entrance code. It’s a lie. We saw him use it.”

  “Hmm.” I approach the captive and make a slow circle around him, noticing how his breathing picks up as I do. An acrid urine scent emanates from his crotch area, and there are dirt and blood stains on his beige Atomprom uniform.

  The poor guy knows he’s fucked.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, stopping in front of him.

  He stares at me, mouth trembling, then bursts out, “I don’t know the code. I don’t!”

  “I asked for your name. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Iv—” His voice cracks, as if he were a teenage boy instead of a twenty-something man. “Ivan.”

  “Okay, Ivan. Tell you what: I know you don’t want to piss off your employer, but you don’t really have a choice.” I give him a sympathetic smile. “You see that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know the code!” Beads of sweat form on his forehead. “I swear—I swear on my mother’s life.”

  “But she’s dead, Ivan. She died in a factory fire when you were fifteen. That was tragic, I’m sorry.”

  His face goes linen white, and I continue in the same sympathetic tone. “Look, you’re not a bad guy, Ivan. You’ve had a rough life, and you’ve done all you can to help out your family and take care of your younger sister. She’s what, in tenth grade now?”

  “Y-you…” He’s shaking almost too hard to speak. “You fuckers!”

  I tsk-tsk. “Insults will get you nowhere. Now listen to me, Ivan. I can let them”—I gesture at the emotionless guards—“beat the answer out of you. And if they fail, there’s always my associate”—I glance at Pavel, who’s quietly standing in a corner—“and his skill with knives. Not to mention all sorts of other, less savory tactics that my brother likes to use. But why go there when we can make a deal, you and I?”

  His Adam’s apple moves in a nervous swallow. “W-what kind of deal?”

  I smile at him gently. “You’re afraid of the Leonovs, aren’t you? That’s why you’re being so brave. You couldn’t care less about the plant you’re guarding. What’s it to you if we get the entrance code, right? But the Leonov family…” I make another slow circle around him. “… they can do things to you, to your loved ones. To your baby sister.” I stop in front of him. “Nod if I’m on the right track.”

  He dips his chin in a barely perceptible nod, sweat running down his face.

  “That’s what I thought.” I pull out a tissue from my pocket and dab at his forehead. “So how about this: You tell us the entrance code and share everything you know about the security protocol at the plant where you work, and we put you and your family on the nearest flight to a destination of your choice. It can be any place: Zimbabwe, Fiji, Thailand… the Cayman Islands. Name it, and we send you there with a new identity and a hundred grand in cash as a relocation bonus. How does that sound?”

  Breathing raggedly, he stares at me, hope warring with fear in his eyes.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Ivan,” I continue softly, letting the soiled tissue drop to the floor. “How can you trust me to hold up my side of the bargain? What’s to stop us from killing you as soon as you tell us what we want to know, right?”

  He swallows again. “R-right.”

  “The answer is nothing.” I let a hint of cruelty seep into my smile. “Absolutely nothing. But that doesn’t matter, because trusting me is the only option you have. If you don’t, you’ll tell us everything the hard way—and when the Leonovs learn of the breach at the plant, they’ll look for the culprit. When they discover it’s you, they will come after your family. Do you understand, Ivan? Do you understand what you have to do if you want your sister to live?”

  His chin quivers as he stares at me, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Finally, he bobs his head in defeat.

  “Good. Now tell these gentlemen what they want to know.”

  Turning away, I nod at Valery’s men, and they promptly step up, pulling out their phones to begin recording.

  * * *

  “You didn’t have to do this personally, you know,” Pavel says in a low voice as we walk out of the tavern. “They could’ve gotten the answers out of him. If not, I would’ve stepped in. Would’ve been cheaper that way.”

  “Maybe. But this way, we know he’s not bullshitting us to make the pain stop.” I glance at my lifelong bodyguard, whose gaze is restlessly sweeping our surroundings despite the fact that Valery’s guards have already secured the perimeter. “Numerous studies have shown that information obtained under torture is unreliable.”

  “Not the information I obtain,” he says darkly, and I chuckle.

  “Afraid your knife’s getting rusty?”

  Pavel doesn’t deny it. He misses being in the thick of things, just like I do—or did. Right now, I’d much rather be in Idaho with Chloe. I want to be there in case she has another nightmare. I want to hold her, soothe her, comfort her… and eventually, seduce her. Her resolve is already wavering, I can feel it—which is why I decided to reassure her about the bruises on my knuckles and the scar on my shoulder.

  I don’t intend to lie to her about the kind of man I am, but I don’t want her to fear me.

  I won’t hurt her… not in that way, at least.

  “Did you already set up a meeting with the head of the Energy Commission?” Pavel asks as we stop at an intersection, and I nod, pulling my thoughts away from Chloe.

  “I’m meeting him for lunch on Monday,” I say, stepping onto the street as the light in front of us turns green. It took three phone calls to get through to the guy, but I succeeded, as I knew I would. “That’s another reason I went this route with Ivan,” I continue. “There was no time to break him properly—we needed that code ASAP.”

  “Wouldn’t have taken me long either,” Pavel mutters, and I laugh—just as a motorcycle roars around the corner and barrels straight at me.

  34

  Nikolai

  I react in a split second, but Pavel is even faster. He shoves me just as I dive to the side, and we both hit th
e ground hard as the bike roars past us, so close I feel a whoosh of hot air on my face.

  Adrenaline propels me to my feet straight away, but the biker is already halfway down the block, weaving through the traffic with race car speed. All I can tell from this distance is that it’s a man wearing a black leather jacket and a helmet.

  Pavel is already on his feet as well, jaw taut with fury. “Did you see his face?”

  “No.” I straighten my jacket and tie and brush the dirt and gravel off my scraped palms. My shoulder throbs from landing on it, and cold rage burns inside me, but my voice is calm. “His helmet had a mirrored visor. Maybe one of Valery’s guys caught his license plate.” I take in the gathering crowd of eyewitnesses, some of whom are pulling out their phones, presumably to call the police. “We better get out of here.”

  Pavel nods grimly, and we swiftly make our way to the hotel.

  * * *

  Levan Abkhazi, Valery’s local security chief, meets us in my room an hour later. A burly Georgian about Pavel’s age, he’s completely bald but sports a thick black unibrow and a matching beard.

  Pulling out a folder, he lays out a series of grainy photos on the desk. “This is all we were able to pull from the nearby store and traffic cameras,” he reports in heavily accented Russian. “The team stationed on the rooftops didn’t have a good angle on the license plate at any point, and there were too many civilians to risk taking a shot at him.”

  Pavel and I examine the photos. On one of them, it’s possible to make out a portion of a digit, but the other pictures show a corner of the license plate at best. The biker is either the luckiest son of a bitch to ever walk the earth, or he knew where Valery’s team was stationed.

  I look at Pavel. “Thoughts?”

  “A pro, definitely.” His face is set in harsh lines. “He didn’t slow down, didn’t react in any way to almost running you over. And he knew how to handle that bike—and how to avoid the cameras.”