Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

My phone taunts me from the cafeteria table, screen dark and silent like the traitor it is. I’ve checked it seventeen times in the past four minutes. Not that I’m counting.

“Expecting a call from someone, sweetheart?”

I immediately drop my phone into my lap. Guilt burns my cheeks as I meet my grandmother’s knowing gaze. “Sorry, just… coordinating with new clients.”

Grams gives me a fond smile, and I return it, feeling guilty as hell. I never lie to her. She’s one of the only people in my life who’s earned that level of honesty.

Until Samuil Litvinov started occupying every spare neuron in my brain.

“The merger is going well, then?” Grams asks, reaching for the butter.

I latch onto the change of subject like a lifeline. “Really well. Hope has been amazing about sharing her client roster with me. I brought in two new clients—a golden retriever named Maude and a greyhound named Malti.”

“My first dog was a golden retriever.” Her eyes light up with the memory. “Wonderful animals.”

This is why I love her. While everyone else’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about four-legged creatures, Grams leans in. Until a few years ago, her house was more sanctuary than home—a revolving door of rescues and strays that made my heart feel full.

It was my kind of chaos.

“I miss not having some cuddly little creatures around,” she sighs.

“Hey, don’t give up on that dream yet.” I reach across the table, covering her delicate hand with mine. “I’m going to buy a house one day and you’re going to come live with me. Then we can have all the pets we want and no one can stop us.”

Those familiar blue eyes—the only part of her that time hasn’t touched—study me with a mixture of love and resignation. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to live with an old woman.”

“Who’s old?” I make a show of looking around, hand shielding my eyes as I squint into the middle distance. “I don’t see an old woman at this table. It’s just the two of us—hot, young women ready to embark on the next phase of their lives.”

My phone chimes and my heart does a pathetic little flutter. I dig my nails into my palm to keep from checking it.

Grams chuckles. “You’re sweet, but I’m certifiably ancient now. I don’t want you planning your life around me. An old folks’ home is where I belong.”

I glance around the dining area of Legacy Retirement Village. Faux windows are painted on the beige walls, complete with painted birds sitting on the sills and fluffy white clouds floating by. It’s nice, but Grams deserves more than fake views and over-whipped mashed potatoes for dinner.

It’s a struggle to keep the smile on my face, but I manage.

Barely.

“You belong with me. You belong with family. This place is fine for the time being, but don’t get too comfortable. I’m gonna bust you outta here in the very near future.”

Grams shakes her head at me. “You’re nothing like your father.”

“Amen to that.” The closest I want to get is sharing half his DNA.

She giggles and points to the menu. “Get me the salmon if the waitress comes over. I’m gonna use the restroom.”

The moment Grams disappears into the restroom, I lunge for my phone. Samuil’s name on my screen sends a rush of endorphins straight to my lizard brain. It’s been six days of texting, and the high only gets stronger.

There’s flirty stuff sprinkled into the mix, but mostly, Samuil wants to know about me. Shocker of all shockers: it’s almost as if he’s genuinely interested in getting to know who I am as a person.

SAMUIL: Which horny little mutt are you walking today?

NOVA: None actually. It’s my day off.

SAMUIL: And you waited until now to tell me?

I glance towards the bathroom, but there’s no sign of Grams yet.

SAMUIL: If you don’t tell me when you’re off, I’m forced to extend a last-minute lunch invitation. I’ll do it, but it makes me look like a man without a plan. Lucky for you, Chez Andre always reserves a table for me. I can meet you there in an hour.

The phone nearly falls out of my hand. I fumble around to save it before it crashes to the floor. Reading the message again doesn’t make it feel any more real.

He’s asking me out.

Samuil. Litvinov. Asked. Me. Out!

In front of God and the pair of elderly hens in the far corner with eyesight so bad they thought I was their six-foot-tall male nurse when I first arrived, I do a wriggly little happy dance like the live fish that I am.

Reality crashes back when I spot Grams making her way toward our table. If she was anyone else, I’d leave skid marks getting to Chez Andre. I’d body-check the Pope to get to this lunch.

But I can’t leave Grams.

I flip the camera around and take a quick snapshot of the paper menu in front of me and send it to him with my reply.

NOVA: Can’t today. I’m having lunch with my grandmother. I think I’m gonna go with the mashed potato delight. I hear it’s easier on the ol’ dentures.

Mentioning Grams in a text is a big step. It opens the door to the “What’s your family like?” conversation. At which point, I’ll have to say, “Absolute shitheads. Everyone except Grams.” Not exactly an easy, breezy first date topic.

SAMUIL: I’ll catch you some other time then.

My stomach dips. I’m really not sure what I was expecting but his answer feels a little… lackluster?

Like he didn’t really care if I accepted or not.

Like maybe I was just one of many names in his little black book and he can now move on to the next.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Grams asks, slipping back into the chair opposite mine.

I swallow the uncomfortable lump in my throat. “Of course.”

“You look blue. Is someone making my girl blue?” She raises a trembling fist in the air like she’s ready to go into the ring for me. “Point ‘em out to me, darlin’, and lemme at ‘em.”

If I knew who Samuil was going to be sitting across from at Chez Andre tonight instead of me, I’d aim Grams right at them. Probably some tall, willowy blonde who never smells like wet dog. Grams would take them out in three hits.

But I just shake my head. “You’re the best. Did you know that?”

“Don’t I know it? I’ve heard it all in my day.” She waves me off with a little blush. “Now, about lunch—I was going to go with the mashed potato delight, but I’m feeling daring. I might order tater tots instead.”

“I told you you’re still young and vibrant, Grams. Tater tots are a young person’s game.”

“You are weak. Weak and pathetic and… weak!” I berate myself.

My reflection in the laptop screen silently agrees as I set aside the book I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour.

I promised myself a week ago that, where Samuil was concerned, I’d stay away from the internet. All things Samuil should be learned organically—via text and calls and post-coital pillow chats.

But sometime during the seven hours since his last text, I lost my damn mind.

I take a sip of my cheap wine and, with one eye squinted closed, type Samuil’s name into Google. The spinny wheel on my ancient computer spins and spins and then⁠—

“Three million hits?!” Wine splashes onto my dollar store pajama bottoms as I jerk back in shock.

Like the sleuth I am, I head straight for the “Images” tab. The sound that comes out of my mouth is somewhere between a whimper and a wolf whistle.

It’s a sea of Samuil—Samuil in perfectly-tailored suits, Samuil donating to charity, Samuil catching some foreign sun on the beach with a tank top covering some, but not all of the goods.

A few seconds of scrolling is all it takes to determine that the man couldn’t take a bad picture if he tried.

Sure, the photographs don’t do his silver eyes any justice—no camera could capture the way those silver irises burn into your soul. But there’s no arguing with the fact that Samuil Litvinov is walking, talking, probably-owns-a-private-island perfection.

And he’s been texting me all week.

I’m prepared to finish off this bottle of wine in celebration, but the longer I scroll, the more the drinking takes a sad, depressing turn.

By the third article pondering his relationship status and offering timelines of his many conquests, I can’t help but play a game of Compare and Despair.

The women on his arm are statuesque goddesses with designer shoes and hollowed cheekbones. Actresses, models, ballerinas—each more gorgeous than the last.

And then there’s me. Five-foot-three on a good day, with curves that wouldn’t know ‘willowy’ if it bit them on the ass.

Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, the universe decides to break out its excavation equipment. The last photo in the article is a grainy paparazzi image with a bolded caption beneath it: Samuil Litvinov, pictured with his then-wife.

“‘Wife’?”

He’s shielding her from the paparazzi, one hand clasped in hers while the other blocks the cameras. Her face is downturned, but the flow of her thick blonde hair and silk chiffon dress make it clear she’s just as beautiful as all the other women Samuil has ever had at his side.

One more Google search, and I could know her name, her age, her body mass index.

But my fingers hesitate over the keyboard.

Somewhere under the haze of bottom-shelf wine and self-loathing, I still have some self-preservation. What is looking her up going to do aside from kick my already deflated self-esteem?

I don’t need that. I don’t need him.

An hour later, when my phone lights up with his name, I stare at the message for what feels like an eternity.

Then I delete it without answering.