Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

“Grams drank me under the stands,” I moan, shuffling into Hope’s Helpers with my third coffee of the morning.

I felt so miserable waking up that I didn’t even mind Samuil left the penthouse without saying goodbye. He didn’t need to see—or smell—what I was working with this morning.

I was still tipsy enough when he finally got home last night not to be embarrassed, but all was revealed in the cold light of morning. We may live together now, but my morning-after breath would’ve singed his eyebrows off. It’s a small miracle I still have mine.

“I need you to crack into that sketchy bag of loose pills in your purse, Hope. I probably don’t want anything illegal, but—” I consider it for a second and shrug. “Actually, fuck it. I’ll try anything. Just make it stop.”

I slouch into her office and then slam to a stop.

Because Hope looks even worse than I do.

Her face is red, her eyes puffy. And she takes one peek at me before she slumps back to her desk, shoulders shaking.

I rush around her desk. “Hope, what the hell?”

I screwed up. It’s the only thing I can think. Somehow, this is my fault. I know it. It always is.

She blows her nose into a tissue and tosses it into the trash. “Please pretend you didn’t see me like this. I don’t want to lose my rep. I’m supposed to be the tough one.”

“Not a chance.” Guilt churns in the pit of my stomach. Stress hives are already itching across my chest. “What’s going on?”

“The disaster I hoped to avoid.” She twists her laptop towards me. Sitting on the keyboard is the check that she sent to Katerina. And on the screen, the Hope’s Helpers review page is open. The five-star rating she’d boasted before has taken a nosedive down into the low twos.

“That bitch.” I only have to skim through a few reviews to know who is responsible. “These all rolled in within five minutes. She’s paying people to pile on!”

“She’s playing mind games and she’s absolutely crushing me.” Hope buries her face in her hands. “We have to start damage control, but I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve been fielding worried calls all morning. People think I’m kidnapping and selling purebred dogs for a profit. Someone accused me of running a dog fighting ring. Like, what the hell? That’s insane!”

It is, but Katerina’s reviews make it seem plausible.

They read as sincere. Katerina isn’t advertising that she’s a vindictive, psychotic hag. She sounds like a loyal customer who has been wronged.

“[…] As much as I hoped to support a female-led business—one I’ve given a good deal of my money to over the years—I can’t, in good conscience, let someone else experience the betrayal of trust I’ve experienced at the hands of Hope Levy.”

God, I hate her… but she’s good.

I’m supposed to be comforting Hope, but aside from a half-hearted pat on the back and some lies, I’ve got nothing but the cold, hard truth. “Hope, this is all my fault.”

She just shakes her head. “It’s not. We knew this was coming.”

Yes, we did. Which is precisely why it should’ve been the first thing I brought up with Sam when he got home late last night.

He slid into bed—naked and hard—his lips finding mine in the dark, and everything I’d been waiting to tell him all day became suddenly hazy. Then I felt his erection, needy against my thigh.

“Sam…” I’d murmured, trying to get his attention before things went too far.

But he interpreted that differently, because he plunged himself inside me until every other thought in my head disintegrated.

Since I can’t tell Hope her business is under threat because I was too busy having multiple orgasms, I stand tall next to her desk. “I’m gonna fix this.”

Hope raises an incredulous brow. “How?”

“Well…” I swallow, no clear answer forming despite my long pause. “I don’t know. But Sam will. I’ll talk to him.”

Talking to Sam turns out to be a lot harder than it should be. You’d think living together would give you a little access, but you’d have thought wrong.

Which is why—one hour, three missed calls, and seven unanswered texts later—I find myself standing in the intimidating shadow of the Litvinov Group skyscraper. I can see myself approaching the building in the ultra-glossy windows. A fourth cup of coffee and some of Hope’s lipstick did a little to help my situation, but I’m still dragging along last night’s bad champagne choices like a ball-and-chain as I go through the revolving doors and into the lobby.

A black marble receptionist’s desk looms off to the side, but the bored woman sitting behind it doesn’t even glance up as I enter. With the literal army of security—both human and digital—around her, it’s no wonder.

The lobby is little more than a passthrough space, anyway. All roads lead to the bank of brass elevators along the back wall. The people striding in that direction are purposeful, proud. Shiny shoes click against the tile floors with confidence and ease. I do my best to channel that same vibe in my grass-stained tennis shoes.

Each of the three elevators run from the lobby all the way to the building’s fiftieth floor. It won’t take me three guesses where Samuil’s office is.

I punch in floor number fifty and wait.

Just before the elevator reaches the top, I take another deep, calming breath. The second the doors open, I’m grateful for the oxygen. The air actually feels a little thinner this high up.

Though that might also have something to do with the curious wall of office workers looking back at me.

Men and women in professional attire are scattered around the hallways and the lobby, probably talking about stocks and bonds and fiduciary duties or whatever the hell else these people discuss.

Another topic of conversation might be my attire. Today, the uniform is black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that reads, “Sorry, I Can’t. I Have Plans With My Dog.”

Pretending I don’t notice their judgmental stares, I make for the receptionist’s desk in the corner. Like the woman downstairs, this one doesn’t look up until I’m practically leaning over the top of her workspace.

“Hello?” I clear my throat and try not to do the vocal up-tilt thing that all the girlboss blogs say conveys insecurity. “I’m here to see Mr. Litvinov? I mean, I’m here to see Mr. Litvinov.”

Her eyes flick from her computer screen to me and then down to my sweatshirt.

“It’s important,” I add before she can call for security to remove the homeless woman from the building.

“I’m sure it is,” she replies coolly. “But no one gets access to Mr. Litvinov without an appointment.”

I grit my teeth. I mean, the man was inside me last night, for God’s sake. Surely there’s a hierarchy in place for that kind of thing.

“Listen—” I scan for her name plate. “—Marnie. I don’t have an appointment because I don’t need one. I’m Mr. Litvinov’s girlfriend.”

Nothing other than pure desperation could have induced me to use that title while I look like this. As far as first impressions go, this one is going to stick. Hard.

But it seems to be the magic word, because Marnie’s overplucked eyebrows dart into her hairline as she reaches for the phone.

“You are Mr. Litvinov’s girlfriend?”

I decide to ignore the obvious shock and mild horror in her voice. “That’s me.” I give her a tight smile. “He’s not expecting me, but he’ll want to see me.”

Her eyes never leave mine as she punches in a number and then dials an extension. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Litvinov, but I have a woman standing in front of my desk claiming to be your girlfriend.”

Her expression gives nothing away as Samuil responds. Finally, she places the phone back on the hook and stands up, her lips pursed. “Follow me.”

That’s more like it.

I barely resist the urge to gloat in the woman’s face, but only because Marnie looks nervous all of a sudden.

Even when she stops outside of a door at the end of the hall, there’s something hesitant in the way she knocks. Like she’s afraid of what’s on the other side.

Katerina’s words echo in the back of my head. “… possessive, controlling and cruel. It’s just a matter of time before you see that side of him…”

A deep, muffled voice rumbles something from the other side of the wood, and Marnie takes a step back. “You can go in. He’s waiting for you.”

Before I can thank her, she pivots on her heel and clicks her way back to her desk.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, reaching for his office door. This is Sam—your Sam.

That last part is debatable, but I need the confidence boost to push through the doors.

They open easily, revealing a tall figure silhouetted against the glass windows behind a massive desk. But the moment the doors seal closed behind me and the man turns towards me, a sneer stretched across his unfortunately familiar face, I realize…

Wrong Mr. Litvinov.