Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

To think I left Nova for this bullshit.

I’m reconsidering all my life decisions as I stare at Vasily Chernoff’s nostrils on my laptop screen. The old bastard has his camera angled so low, I could probably map his sinus passages.

But despise him or not—which I very much fucking do—he’s still a client of my business. An important one.

And right now, all my cold, cruel attention is focused on making sure he doesn’t take his billions elsewhere.

“I give you my word that we’ll deliver record profits next quarter. It’s as good as done, Mr. Chernoff.”

“You seem confident, Samuil,” he replies in that thick Russian accent that sounds like granite being crushed. “But this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve promised the moon and I end up holding nothing but losses.”

As a matter of fucking fact, I am confident. I’m also annoyed, exhausted, and fighting a savage urge to slam my laptop closed and go home to Nova. To strip her bare and remind myself what matters beyond these walls of glass and steel and bullshit.

Instead, I grace Chernoff with a nod. “How long have you been doing business with us, Mr. Chernoff?”

“Thirteen years,” he answers.

I already know this. Just like I know his wife’s name is Anya, his mistress’s name is Svetlana, and his dog’s name is fucking Pushkin.

But sometimes, you have to lead a horse to water and practically drown it with your bare hands before it takes a drink.

“And in which of those years did you take losses?”

He squints down at his own notes. “The first five were incredibly rocky, to say the least.”

“And the last eight?”

“A significant improvement. Steady improvement,” he admits.

“Coincidentally, I have been at the helm of this ship for the last eight years.”

Chernoff rocks back in his chair. “Hm. You make a valid point.”

“I understand you’ve been hearing some… let’s be charitable and call it ‘noise’… through the financial grapevine.” I tent my fingers together. “But rest assured, Mr. Chernoff, those rumors are nothing but falsehoods being spread by a disgruntled former client. His interests lie in lining his own pockets at the expense of his colleagues.”

Chernoff clicks his tongue. “Danovic has always been a selfish motherfucker.” Still squinting down his nose at me, he asks, “Did he really go to the Andropovs?”

Even now, that name makes me grimace. But I keep my mask firmly in place as I say, “He’ll regret that choice sooner rather than later.”

The man chuckles, which is a disturbing sound, like a warthog gargling. “Alright, Samuil, I’m convinced. I’m your man, as always. And I’ll ignore any temptresses Andropov Group tries sending to my door.”

At the curious arch of my brow, he explains, “The story is that Lev was swayed by a very beautiful Andropov rep. He said she had the body of a supermodel.”

And the soul of the devil, if I’m guessing her identity correctly.

“If he’s making business decisions with his cock,” I drawl, “I’d rather not have him invest his money in my company.”

We share a hearty laugh at Danovic’s expense, salute once more to our continued business relationship, and then I close my laptop screen and give myself a well-deserved pat on the back.

I’m about to give myself an even more well-deserved short day so I can go home and pin Nova underneath me when my burner phone rings.

The number is unknown, but I don’t need to guess to know who it is. “Boyko,” I growl when I answer. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

“‘Think’?” the man rasps, his words altered into something eerie and inhuman by a voice modulator. “Or ‘hope’?”

“Your choice. What do you want?”

“Meet me at River North High Rise in half an hour.”

I frown. He’s never a verbose man, but something about his impatience now is prickling my attention. “This is short notice. Why should I agree?”

“Because I’m asking nicely,” he replies without the slightest trace of humor. “We both know I could be harsher if I needed to be.”

“Don’t threaten me,” I spit. “You’re a ghost in the wind. I won’t take you seriously until you tell me what you want.”

“Show up then, and maybe I’ll fill you in.”

The line goes dead.

I roll my eyes in disgust. All this pageantry, the unnecessary hoops and fanfare—it reeks of the Feds. Undercover agents live for the drama like we’re on network fucking television.

I’m still tempted to ignore the call and go home. My cock is already half-hard just thinking about Nova, spread out across my bed, whimpering my name. It’s been a few days, and I’m still getting used to coming home to her, in the best way possible.

Boyko can wait, right?

But no. I’d be doing my empire a disservice if I left the spook to his own devices. More importantly, I’d be doing myself a disservice.

I’ve lived my life by one code: win, by any means possible. Win above all else. Win above everyone else.

So as much as my mouth is watering at the mere thought of feasting on Nova, I can’t let her distract me from what matters.

Setting aside my dirty hopes and dreams for Nova, I grab my car keys and flick the light off in my office as I march out.

Myles would kill me for going alone, but I relish the thought of seeing his face when he realizes he’s missed out on all the fun yet again.

Once I get to River North High Rise, I pull into the dark parking garage.

The second I step out of my car, my burner phone pings with an incoming message.

UNKNOWN: Leave the parking lot on foot and meet me at Belview’s Café on Third.

More pageantry.

More hoops.

Definitely FBI.

Ten minutes later, I come upon Angelo Boyko brooding at the far end of the café, as far from the windows as possible. He’s nursing an untouched mug of coffee between his sizable hands. He’s strangely anonymous: you look at his face and instantly forget everything you’ve seen.

“Boyko,” I greet, sliding into the booth opposite him.

He inclines his balding head and risks a shifty glance out the window. “Did you come alone?”

“I would’ve brought my dogs, but they have a taste for federal agents. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the government.”

Boyko just scowls at the accusation, bothering neither to confirm or deny. “All you need to know is that I’m on your side.”

I wave the waitress away before she can even approach our table. I won’t be here for long. “I don’t need you on my side, Boyko. I thought I made that clear on our last little coffee date.”

“Considering you’re surrounded by enemies, I’d reconsider, Samuil.” His nose twitches like a skittish rabbit. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“You’re right about one thing: I do have enemies. Which has taught me not to trust in anyone.” I eye him so there’s no mistaking my point. “Whatever help I need, I’ll get from my own people.”

Boyko arches a thin, black eyebrow. “Sometimes, it’s your own you need to watch out for.”

“Very cryptic. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sighs. “I’m trying to help you.”

“And I’m trying to tell you to fuck off. Is it not coming through? Let me try it in Russian—Otvali. Still unclear? Then how about French? Va te faire foutre. No? German, perhaps? Verpiss dich. My sign language is rusty, but I can give it a whirl if you’re still having trouble understanding.”

Boyko’s mouth does that twitching again, puckering up like an asshole. “Bogdan Andrich,” he intones. He slams his mug on the table, sending a wave of coffee sloshing over the side.

That stills me.

“Okay,” I admit. “You’ve got my attention.”

“He’s on your payroll back in Russia, am I right?”

I don’t have to confirm. He already knows the answer.

Boyko doesn’t smile—his lined face would probably crack if he attempted it. But there’s zero doubt in my mind that he’s feeling awfully smug right about now. “He’s a mole for the Andropovs.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have my sources.”

I frown. “If this intel checks out, you have my thanks. But that’s all you’re gonna get. You offered me a name of your own accord. That doesn’t mean you get shit from me.”

Boyko merely shrugs. “Think of it as a favor. An investment in our shared future.”

“There is no shared future for us, Boyko. I don’t have partners. I stand alone.”

“No man is an island, Litvinov. If you want the same fate for the Andropov Group that I do—reducing them to ashes—then we need to work together.”

I rise to my feet suddenly. “You’re entertaining, Boyko. FBI agent or not, you’re growing on me.”

Before he can respond, I tousle his thinning hair and stride for the door without a backward glance.

The moment I’m back in my Rolls Royce, I make a call to my main man in Russia.

“Prepare things,” I tell him in Russian. “Expect a visit from me.”

“How soon, boss?”

I don’t answer him. I have no intention of making my travel plans public knowledge.

When it comes to catching a mole, the best asset at my disposal is surprise.

And I’ve always enjoyed making rats squirm.