Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

“What in the name of The Little Mermaid happened to you?”

Myles gawks at me, his eyes roaming up and down my ruined Brioni suit and then over my shoulder, following the trail of muddy footprints streaking across my mansion’s Italian marble floors.

My housekeeper is going to weep when she sees the mess. Good thing I pay her enough to afford therapy.

I toss my waterlogged phone at him. “I’m gonna need you to do a full reboot.”

Then I keep walking, forcing Myles to follow me. We stride through the atrium and into the west-facing living room, steadfastly ignoring the steely-eyed gazes of my ancestors glaring at us from their oil portraits on the walls. Those motherfuckers always give me the creeps.

In the living room, though, floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the sculpted gardens below. A bit less jarring of a sight than scowling old Russian aristocrats. On a normal day, I find the view peaceful. Even my black, shriveled soul doesn’t despise the sight of life blooming on the rose bushes.

But today is very fucking far from “normal.”

It was a strange day even before that dog hit me like a fucking Chevy with the brakes cut. I’d been on my way home from a meeting that left me unsettled in a way I rarely feel.

Angelo Boyko… there isn’t a damn thing I trust about the bastard, up to and including his very name. There are three types of men who try to take down the Bratva: idiots, federal agents, and the dead.

Boyko might be all three. His ‘chance’ meeting with me this morning reeked of the federal government sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. But, undercover fed or not, his offer was interesting: help him destroy the Andropovs, and certain… activities… of mine would stay buried.

Tempting offer for a man in my position. I’m no fool—I cover my tracks, leave no evidence, and when I bury a body, it stays there until it rots away to nothingness. But in my line of business, you can never say no to a good insurance policy.

The question is: what will this one cost me?

Myles tips my phone sideways and murky water dribbles from the charging port. “You decide to go for a fully-clothed swim in Lake Michigan or something?”

I snort. “It wasn’t ‘or something.’”

He pauses, face suddenly stricken. “Are you screwing with me right now?”

“It was against my will,” I explain, stripping off my jacket and tossing it into a corner like the six-thousand-dollar rag it now is. “I was pushed.”

“I fuckin’ told you, man!” he roars immediately. “I knew it! I said it. I said it a million goddamn times and you did not goddamn listen. You shouldn’t be messing around with these shady-ass federal spooks, brother. Even if they claim they’re taking down the Andropovs. Sometimes, the enemy of your enemy is just your enemy.”

I peel off my shirt, and a scent hits me—lake water mixed with something sweeter. Nova’s shampoo. My cock twitches, remembering how she tasted, how she felt wrapped around me less than an hour ago. My lips still tingle with her juices, my ears with the heat of her thighs wrapped around my head. The marks I left on her will be darkening to purple by now.

Good.

“Boyko is legit,” I say, forcing thoughts of Nova aside.

“You have no idea who he is!” Myles cries out. “KGB, FBI, Andropov plant—take your pick of people who want to destroy you. He could be any of them.”

“You think I was born yesterday? I know how to handle men like him.”

Myles drops into a leather armchair, running a frustrated hand through his crew cut. “Fine. Let’s say this guy’s the real deal. Let’s say he really is some clandestine government agent from a three-letter agency and he really is going after the Andropovs’ arms ring. What’s stopping him from coming for us next?”

I fix him with a look that’s made grown men piss themselves. “My businesses are clean. Let him dig.”

That’s bullshit and we both know it. Nothing about the Litvinov Group is clean, but I’ve spent years building a facade that would make the FBI weep with frustration. They can look all they want. They’ll never find what’s buried beneath the surface.

That is, unless someone leads him straight to it.

My jaw clenches. The suspect list there is long and growing. Katerina. My brother. My own fucking father, who’d sell me out the second he found a way to put Ilya in charge. Any one of them might point a finger in my direction, if the price was right.

Some things you learn the hard way: blood isn’t thicker than water. It just leaves a bigger stain.

Myles sinks deeper into his chair. “I still don’t like it. I don’t like feds, and no matter what you say, I know you don’t, either.”

“They can be useful. Sometimes.”

If things go the way I hope they do, Angelo Boyko will become very useful to me. Our lunch at a Ukrainian restaurant in Rogers Park was supposed to be the most exciting part of my day. But I could’ve never guessed what the rest of the afternoon would hold.

I drape my damp jacket over the back of a barstool, and Myles screws up his face. “We’ll circle back to the lecture. Returning to my first question: why the hell are you sopping wet? Who pushed you?”

“Remember the Great Dane and his little dog-walker from a couple weeks ago?”

Myles chuckles. “The one that wanted to jump your bones? How could I forget?”

It’s a point of hilarity in this confusing clusterfuck of a day that his description works equally well for both the woman and the dog. Probably a good thing that Myles doesn’t know about Nova’s voice memo.

I stare at him, waiting for him to make the connection.

Finally, the lightbulb goes off. “You’re kidding.” Then his grin withers into a frown. “Maybe I should get eyes on this chick. Make sure she’s not a spy.”

“You really are getting more and more paranoid with age, Hagerty.”

“You pay me to be paranoid.” Myles plants his hands on his knees. “It’s a little convenient that this woman just miraculously shows up in your life not once, but twice, in the last couple weeks, don’t you think? Smells like a setup.”

“She can’t make the dog sit, but she can order him to hump on command?” I shake my head. “Take your tinfoil hat off, man.”

“It could’ve been orchestrated! Maybe she sprayed you with some sort of pheromone that gets the dogs going. Catnip by Calvin Klein, or whatever.”

I can’t stop myself from laughing, ignoring the dirty look Myles throws my way.

“Stranger shit has happened!” he insists.

“Nothing as strange as you.”

“You’ve got enemies everywhere, Sam.” He wags a scolding finger in my direction. “You can’t afford to trust a stranger.”

“Let’s talk about all of the people that have betrayed me already, shall we?” I start counting them off one by one. “My wife. My brother. My father as soon as he figures out how to disinherit me. With family like that, who needs to worry about strangers?”

He can’t argue with my extremely valid points, but it doesn’t stop his jaw from clenching. “I just don’t like the timing of this. What do you really know about this woman?”

“I know that she’s uncomplicated. Straightforward.”

Nova said something during one of our first text conversations that has stuck with me. Dogs who bark the loudest and bite the hardest are the ones who have been hurt the most.

Those are the words of someone who has been hurt before. I saw proof in the deep scar circling her wrist, in the silvery line across her hip that I traced while I was buried inside her, making her cry out my name like a prayer.

The sight of that awoke something dark and primitive in my chest. It made part of me—the part that makes good men cross the street when they see me coming—want to hunt down everyone who’s ever hurt her and paint Chicago’s streets red with their regrets.

“You’ve met the woman exactly twice,” Myles reminds me. “And judging from that look in your eye right now, you’ve banged her at least once.”

That was a secret I planned to keep, but Myles is my head of security for a reason. He has a way of seeing to the truth of things.

“What else were we going to do after getting out of our wet clothes?” I ask innocently.

Myles frowns. “Where were you?”

“Her place. Rogers Park.”

Myles nearly gives himself whiplash springing to his feet. “Rogers Park? As in, the same neighborhood where you met the fed?!”

“Purely coincidental.”

“You know damn well we can’t afford to believe in coincidences.” He purses up his lips. “Just let me run a background check on this woman. Just to be safe.”

It wouldn’t hurt. And yet, I find myself reluctant all the same. “Don’t bother. It’s a waste of resources.”

“Fuck me sideways,” he mutters in disbelief. “You actually like the girl.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I turn my back on him and stalk to the bar in the corner of the living room. If I’m going to have this conversation, I’d like to be at least halfway drunk. “We’ve texted a bit for the last few weeks. That’s it. She’s not a threat.”

“I bet you thought that about Katerina, too.”

I pour myself a bit more whiskey than I mean to. And my voice, when it emerges, is angrier than I meant for it to be. “I was eighteen when I met Katerina. She wasn’t always Satan in Louboutins.”

“I was around back then, in case you forgot. I was also the only one of the three of us not blinded by some early boobs and a gift for makeup. Trust me, brother: she always had horns and a pitchfork.”

I take a sip of whiskey. The burning liquid scorches on the way down, but it anchors me back into the moment.

Myles stands and leans against the bar, wearing his ‘intervention face.’ “Let me ask you this: are you planning on seeing this woman again?”

I’m tempted to say no, if only to bring this inquisition to a speedy conclusion. But lying would be the coward’s way out.

“Most likely.”

“You want a relationship with her?”

I grit my teeth. “You know I don’t do relationships. Not anymore.”

“That’s what I thought. But that was before you became penpals with a dog-walker from Roger’s Park. If you’re going to see her again, you need to⁠—”

“I don’t need to do anything,” I snarl, surprising both of us with the intensity of my reaction. “I’ll see Nova for as long as I care to. Just because she’s not like the vapid actresses and anorexic models I used to date doesn’t mean this is any different. I don’t intend⁠—”

Whatever I may or may not have intended is left unsaid as the glass tumbler in my hand shatters. Shards dripping blood and whiskey rain down on the marble. Truth be told, I barely feel the sting. It’s a dim signal, lost amidst the surging bellow of possessive rage burning through my veins.

The blood leaking from the cuts is worth more than the liquor it mingles with. I’ve bled for empire, for family, for revenge. But bleeding for her? That’s new. That’s dangerous.

My body loathes the idea of Nova being just another woman I fuck and forget. She’s already crawled under my skin.

And that’s exactly why I need to stay the hell away from her.

I reduce my voice to a growl. “Careful, old friend. There are lines even you shouldn’t cross.”

Myles merely folds his arms across his chest and sighs. Most men are put off by my anger when I let it out of its cage. Myles Hagerty is my best friend because he couldn’t possibly care less.

Usually, that’s a good thing.

Today, it’s highly annoying.

“Those other women may have been ‘vapid and uninteresting,’” he says quietly, “but they understood the game. They signed NDAs without batting their fake lashes before you took them anywhere. Is she ready for that?”

“That’s exactly my point—I don’t plan on taking Nova anywhere. She’s not arm candy. She’s not some trophy girlfriend. She’s a distraction, nothing more.”

But even as I say those words, I remember how she arched beneath me, how she mewled, how she moaned, how she melted. She came for me practically on command.

Fucking hell, I want to hear those sounds come out of her lips again.

Myles harrumphs, and I blink out of my thoughts to find him watching me with flattened lips, as if he can sense what I’m only now realizing.

When it comes to Nova Pierce, I haven’t yet had my fill.