Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

The stupid burner phone is like an anchor in my pocket. It bangs against my leg with every step across the lobby. I’m surprised the elevator can lift it, me, and the Katerina-sized weight on my shoulders all the way to the penthouse.

My vision of asking Sam what to do with the phone seemed a lot easier before I realized I’d also have to explain what Katerina said when she gave it to me.

Hey, Sam. Your ex-wife gave me this phone in case you ever knock me around the way she claims you hit her. Hilarious, right? Also, random thought: when can I meet your mom?

I’m so distracted drafting the speech I absolutely can never give to Samuil that I don’t see Myles standing in the foyer with a flashy grin until he clears his throat.

I jolt, dropping the dogs’ leashes in my surprise. They waste no time charging over to him, tails wagging in a blur as they press their wet noses against his pants.

“Why are you lurking around like a creep?” I demand.

He sighs. “You’re really putting a damper on the alluring male presence I’m trying to cultivate here, Nova.”

I plant my fists on my hips. “If you want my suggestion: don’t stand just inside women’s doorways waiting for them to come home. Stalkers and murderers aren’t very ‘alluring.’” I half-turn away from him, as if he’ll see the outline of the phone in my pocket and instantly clock my guilt.

He arches a brow, and I immediately know we’re thinking the same thing.

Says the woman living with Samuil Litvinov.

I leap over that conversational hurdle and get to the meat of it. “What are you doing here?”

“I come bearing a gift.”

“Oh?”

That’s all I can manage while simultaneously biting back, Another one? I’d say this is my lucky day, but a run-in with Katerina is never a good sign. A gift from her is even worse.

Myles slumps. “Is this still coming across as ‘creeper’? Because you were supposed to be excited about that.”

“I don’t like surprises. Or gifts, honestly.”

Though it’s not like I’ve had a lot of experience with them. Dad wasn’t much for displays of affection. Grams was the only person who ever cared enough to get me anything I actually wanted.

“Wow.” Myles whistles and mutters, almost to himself, “You really aren’t like the other women Samuil dates.”

My mind trails back to Katerina and the tight pink dress she casually wore for a walk in the park. I don’t need to look down at my dog-hair-covered leggings to note the differences.

I also can’t look down—because one glimpse of the bulge in my pocket, and Myles will know I’m hiding something from him.

To be clear, it’s not like I’m hiding it. I just imagined talking to Sam about the phone first. It seems strange to go to Myles about my issues with Sam’s ex-wife.

So, yeah—I’m waiting to mention the burner phone purely out of respect to Sam… not because I can still hear Katerina’s sneering voice in the back of my head, telling me to get out while I still can.

I swallow. “Yep, I’m a rare one. Super special.”

Myles snorts, which earns him narrowed eyes from me. He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s actually great you don’t like gifts because, technically, the surprise isn’t for you. It’s for Serena.”

I only know one Serena, but I still rear back. “Serena, like… my grandmother?”

“The sexy silver queen,” he confirms. “The very same.”

“Again, I repeat: my grandmother?!”

Myles smirks. “I know she’s older, but she’s got a little somethin’-somethin’ going on. I can appreciate a woman’s charms at any age.”

Before I can tear into that can of worms, Myles pulls two tickets out of his back pocket and flashes them in front of me. “Blackhawks tickets. For tonight.”

“Oh my God!” I squeal, plucking them out of his hands to examine. “Grams loves the Blackhawks! She took me to my first game when I was ten.”

She bought me a soft pretzel as big as my head, and even though we were in nosebleed seats closer to God than to the ice, she managed to sweet-talk a guy after the game into giving us one of the pucks.

Myles might be right—Grams really does have a little somethin’-somethin’ going on.

“Sam organized the whole thing for the two of you,” he explains. “Go change and then we can spring that foxy temptress from her old folks’ prison for the night.”

For the first time since I spotted Katerina in the park, I’m not thinking about what devious plans she might have for me or what she said about Samuil.

Any guy who sends an old woman to a hockey game can’t be the kind of monster she described.

It’s ridiculous that I was even worried.

I’ll tell Sam about the phone later—after Grams and I cheer the Blackhawks to a victory.

Grams looks radiant on Myles’s arm, but she nervously adjusts her jersey as we walk to Samuil’s private box. “Everyone must be wondering what the two of us are doing together.”

“I know.” Myles chuckles. “They’re all gonna wonder what the hell I did to deserve a gorgeous woman like you by my side. The jealousy will eat them up.”

Grams blushes, pinching Myles’ side. He nudges her gently back, whispering something about how beautiful she looks in red.

If he were to ask Grams right now, she’d say Myles has already perfected his “alluring male presence.” Who would’ve thought I’d be the third wheel in this trio?

“I just can’t believe I’m going to watch the game from a private box.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Last time we came to a game, we were so far back we could hardly tell the players apart. Remember that, Nova?”

“Sam wanted the two of you to have the best seats in the house.” Myles swings open the door to the box, ushering us both inside. “And so you shall.”

Grams and I both grind to a halt at the threshold.

“I thought we were here for a game,” Grams whispers to me. Clearly, she’s come to the same assessment of the room I have—we’re not anywhere near rich enough to be here.

I look down at myself, suddenly wondering why I dressed as if the Blackhawks’ merch department threw up on me. I send a silent prayer of gratitude up that I didn’t let the man outside the arena talk me into painting the logo on my cheek.

“Myles,” I hiss, “why did you let us dress like this?”

He has the audacity to look confused in his standard security uniform of black trousers and fitted black sweater. “What? You both look great.”

“Yeah, but these people look like celebrities.”

“Because they are,” he mock-whispers back to me. Then he takes Grams by the hand. “Let me show you around the joint, Serena. I want people to see us together.”

Grams giggles and slaps Myles’s arm. “You flatterer, you.”

She’s so happy that I momentarily forget how nervous I am to walk into a room filled with Chicago’s upper crust.

But the moment the doors close behind me, it wallops me all over again.

The room smells like power, if that’s even a thing. It’s a heady blend of expensive cologne and fancy food. The men are tall, the women are in heels, and I feel like a lost hobbit as I sneak a few carrots from a charcuterie board and find a shadowy stretch of wall to cower against.

I assumed it would just be me and Grams tonight—maybe Sam and Myles, too. I imagined normal seats in the stadium, the two of us cheering along with the rest of Chicago’s rabble. Anonymous. Easy. Safe. Not like…

“Champagne, ma’am?”

I blink up at a waiter in a suit vest who’s holding a tray of champagne flutes in front of me. I thought sporting events were for beer, but I accept one of the flutes anyway, with a mumbled “Thank you.”

Then I hurry to find Myles and Grams before someone quizzes me on which forks to use first or my favorite kind of caviar.

Somehow, they’ve found their way to the front of the VIP section. Grams is pressed to the glass that overlooks the entire rink. It’s the best view in the house, and the smile on her face tells me she knows it.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Samuil Litvinov never does anything halfway.

Including introducing his new live-in girlfriend to Chicago’s elite, apparently. I would’ve assumed he’d want to be by my side for this, setting people’s expectations and ensuring I wasn’t getting sloppy drunk on free champagne and embarrassing him.

But he’s nowhere in sight.

Myles is doing a decent job of shielding us from the curious crowd. I don’t recognize anyone, but the way he greets them tells me that they’re all connected in some way to the Litvinov Group’s business interests.

Which means a lot of them probably know Katerina Alekseeva.

God, she’d really fit in with this crew.

I absentmindedly pat the burner phone still in my pocket. I’m not sure why I even brought it with me. Just in case, I guess.

In case of what, I don’t know.

“Myles…” I sidle a little closer to him as Grams ropes the man to her left into a conversation about the Blackhawks winning the Cup in 2015.

“What’s up?” he asks breezily, already polishing off a glass of champagne.

“When will Sam be here?”

Myles checks his watch and frowns. “Actually, he was supposed to be here already. Something must’ve come up.”

I look back towards the door and two women twist around, working hard to look like they weren’t just staring at me. But the way their heads dip together, nervous smiles on their faces, I know I was the subject of their conversation.

“Why do people think I’m here?” I ask.

“To watch the game?” Myles guesses with a shrug.

He’s a man, but even he isn’t that oblivious. My eyes narrow. “Don’t be cute.”

“I can’t help it.” He beams, flashing me that toothy grin. “It’s my superpower. Maybe you could mention that to Hope, by the way.”

“Answer the question. Who do these people think I am?”

I do file away his interest in Hope for perusal at a later date, though. I store it in the that’s-maybe-not-a-bad-idea folder.

“Considering you’re sitting in Samuil’s box, they’re probably thinking you’re his guest.”

I want to ask how many “guests” Samuil has brought up here. Am I the latest in a long line? Is everyone around me taking bets on whether I’ll ever be seen again?

My face flushes and I duck my head. “He’ll be here soon, though… right?”

“Oh, um…” Myles checks his phone and then glances towards the doors. “Sure.”

Nothing about that answer reassures me—but then the game starts.

Grams and I scream and cheer, getting louder with every passing minute. We’ve traded our pretzels and popcorn for champagne, champagne, and more champagne, but we still clink our glasses together after every goal. I even let Grams talk me into taking a picture with some soap opera star I don’t recognize, but whom she adores.

It’s a good night.

Good enough I can almost forget Sam still isn’t here.

Almost.