Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

Trust is the sharpest blade ever crafted, and last night, Nova sliced me open without even trying.

I can’t stop replaying it: her small fingers curling into my shirt, her cheek burning against my chest, the way she instinctively sought comfort from me—me, of all fucking people—during her nightmare.

Like I’m someone who knows how to be gentle.

Like I’m worthy of that kind of blind faith.

“Don’t expect anything from me,” I’d warned her.

Should’ve warned myself instead.

The memory of her vulnerability haunts me as I stare unseeing at quarterly reports. My coffee’s gone cold, my phone’s been buzzing with ignored messages for hours, and all I can think about is how easily she burrowed past my defenses.

Which means she’s either genuine in a way I’ve never encountered, or she’s the most dangerous player I’ve ever faced.

My ex-wife wrote the book on using innocence as a weapon. I’d rather cut off my own hand than be played for a fool again.

“You look like shit,” Myles observes from my office doorway. “Time to make a decision about the girl?”

I grunt noncommittally as I grab my coat and head for the elevator. But he’s right: I need answers. Need to know if I’m seeing clearly or if I’m just seeing what I want to see.

That means it’s time to pay Kat a visit.

I’ve planned this lunch like the tactical strike it is. Avec isn’t just Chicago’s hottest restaurant—it’s our old battleground, where Kat and I used to wage war between courses. Back when I was stupid enough to mistake her hunger for love.

My driver brings me to the front door of the restaurant, a gleaming facade of black glass and ornate gold. Chicago wind sneaks in the doors after me as I stride in.

The hostess recognizes me at once and hurries to usher me in. I choose my position with military precision: corner table, back to the wall, perfect sightline to the entrance. A general preparing for his enemy’s approach.

I sit and check my watch. 12:47 PM. Katerina will arrive at 1:15 exactly, because being fashionably late is part of her armor.

Around me, the lunch crowd swells, their chatter a dull roar that does nothing to drown out the thundering in my chest. Not nerves. Anticipation. For once, I’m not the one walking into an ambush.

She is.

When Katerina appears in the doorway, time stretches like pulled taffy. She’s wearing that red dress—the one that used to make my mouth water, my hands itch to touch. The one she knows makes her look like sin itself.

But something’s different now. Because all I see is calculation in every pleat and seam. The desperate display of a woman who’s lost her power and knows it.

She hasn’t spotted me yet. I let myself savor these last seconds before the battle begins.

Kat weaponizes her walk as she approaches, each click of her heels a bullet aimed at my libido. Her signature perfume hits first—that cloying vanilla-jasmine blend she wore throughout our marriage. The scent memory punches straight to my gut, but instead of desire, it triggers revulsion. All I can think about is Nova’s clean scent, like sunshine warming fresh-cut grass. Like something real.

“Miss me?” Kat purrs as she comes to a stop at the edge of the table.

I gaze up at her. “Only when I run out of nightmares.”

She frowns as she lowers herself gracefully into the empty seat. Male eyes flick in her direction from every corner of the room. I can only pity the poor bastards. I remember when her charms used to work on me.

“You’re looking well,” she murmurs, reaching across the table with manicured talons. “Success agrees with you.”

“And yet you’re doing your best to bring that to a grinding halt.”

Her frown flashes again. Just for an instant, her lip curdles. “Oh, Sammy, what conspiracies have you talked yourself into now, hm?”

I let her fingers hover inches from mine, savoring her growing uncertainty. “You tell me. How’s the Andropov deal working out?”

Her laugh shatters like cheap crystal. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

The “darling” is her tell—has been since I first met her. But she’s always been good at lying, at making men see what they want to see. I watch her eyes, those amber pools that used to drown me. Now, I just see shallow waters hiding sharp rocks.

“Really?” I keep my voice casual, bored even. “Because their sudden interest in Litvinov’s European holdings seems suspiciously well-informed.”

She takes a deliberate sip of water, but I catch the slight tremor in her hand. “If you’re having trouble keeping your clients happy, that’s hardly my concern.”

Her shoulders are too straight, her smile too sharp. She’s trying to find her footing, to figure out my angle. I can practically see her running calculations behind those cold eyes.

“Speaking of things that are yours, I found something.” I let the words hang between us like bait.

Her perfectly shaped brows draw together. “Oh? And what would that be?”

Instead of answering, I reach for my phone. The way her fingers tighten around her water glass is subtle—you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

But I am. I always am.

I slide my phone across the white tablecloth like I’m dealing the winning hand in poker. The video plays: Rufus sprawled across my leather couch like he owns the place, his giant head resting on Nova’s lap while she scratches behind his ears.

I study Kat’s face, cataloging what isn’t there. No worried mother demanding her fur baby’s return. No questions about her dog walker’s safety. Not even a flicker of concern that her eight-thousand-dollar purebred is essentially being held hostage.

Just that familiar curl of her lip, the one that always preceded her cruelest cuts.

“Keep the stupid mutt.” She tosses her hair back, all pretense of seduction gone. “It always preferred your closet anyway. Probably sensed a kindred spirit—another dumb beast who can’t let go of the past.”

The words are meant to wound, but they reveal so much more than she intends. Because a woman who actually cared about her dog wouldn’t say that. Wouldn’t react like this.

“You should’ve told me you were bringing me here to waste my time,” she spits. “The martinis taste like piss anyway.”

Then she’s gone. Her stilettos stab the floor like daggers as she storms out.

But as she departs, truth hits me with the force of a knockout punch—two devastating blows in rapid succession.

One: Kat’s complete lack of concern about Nova. No rage about a stolen employee, no hints of a plan gone wrong.

Which means Nova almost certainly isn’t working for her. Probably never was.

Two: The stark difference between them. Nova knows where Rufus likes to be scratched. She sings to him when she thinks no one’s listening. Compared to Kat, who just dismissed him like last season’s handbag, she’s a fucking saint.

The relief hits so hard my knees nearly buckle. I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself against the weight of what I’m feeling. What this means.

The restaurant air suddenly feels thick, unbreathable. I throw enough cash on the table to cover both bills and a generous tip—not because Kat deserves the courtesy, but because I refuse to let her affect even this small detail of my life.

Back at the office, I close the door and boot up my computer. As soon as I cue it up, security footage plays on my monitor in crisp high-def, like some twisted reality show where I’m both producer and captive audience.

It shows Nova curled up on my couch, reading aloud to Rufus from what looks like a dog training manual. Her laugh when he licks her face makes something in my chest squeeze painfully tight.

But watching her like this—it triggers something darker. A little boy sitting in his father’s study, forced to watch grainy footage of his mother taking money, signing away her rights, walking away without a backward glance.

“Look,” my father would say as he jabbed the screen and made me watch, his breath hot with vodka when it fanned against my neck. “Look at what women do when you trust them.”

The memory hits like acid in my throat when Myles appears in my doorway, tablet in hand.

He closes the door behind him, his expression carefully neutral. He’s been with me long enough to read my moods, to know when to tread carefully.

“Got those background reports you wanted,” he says, sliding the tablet onto my desk. “Nothing unusual in the financials. But there’s something about the timing of when Hope’s Helpers started servicing Kat’s accounts that feels off.”

I look up from Nova’s lounging form on the screen. “Explain.”

“They took her on as a client right after your divorce was finalized. Could be coincidence, but…” He lets the word hang.

“But you don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I believe in being thorough,” he corrects. “My vote is that we should expand surveillance on Hope’s Helpers. Dig deeper into their connection with Katerina.”

On screen, Nova’s curled up with Rufus, both of them dozing. Her face is peaceful, unguarded. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

Myles’s offer makes me physically ill. Because I suddenly see myself becoming exactly what I swore I’d never be—a man who cages what he claims to protect. Who turns trust into a weapon, love into evidence.

Nova doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve to be watched, recorded, reduced to pixels on a screen that can be rewound and analyzed for betrayal.

And yet what kind of fool would I be to put my faith in her?

I go back and forth, back and forth, wrestling with thoughts I can’t tame. To trust or not to trust? That’s always had a very fucking obvious answer in my life: never, ever do it.

But now… With her…

Fuck. I don’t know.

“Do what you like,” I tell Myles. “Let me know what you find.”

He gives me a curious look, but then he shrugs and ambles out without another word.

I close the surveillance window with a sharp click. The ghost of Nova’s peaceful expression lingers, an accusation more damning than any evidence my father ever collected.

Trust is a fucking blade, alright. The question is: who’s it going to cut worse?