Ruthless Bratva King (New York Russian Mafia Kings #1)

33. Elena

33

ELENA

T he sound of running water wakes me in the morning. I blink groggily at the ceiling, a lazy smile spreading across my face as I remember last night.

The intensity, the passion, the way Dmitri looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. My body aches but in a pleasant way.

The muffled spray of the shower draws my attention, and my grin widens. Dmitri is here. Still. He hasn’t run off in the night. That’s something.

On a whim, I decide to make breakfast. I can hear Veronica’s voice in my head already: Look at you, playing house with a killer.

The thought makes me laugh as I pull on a dressing gown.

The kitchen is small but functional, and I rummage through the cupboards with an enthusiasm I haven’t felt in years. Eggs, bacon, bread—I’ve got this. Or at least, I think I do.

Ten minutes later, the smell of burning meat fills the air.

I fan the smoke with a dish towel, coughing as the fire alarm blares above me. A pan of charred bacon sits in the sink, and the scrambled eggs look like rubber. Perfect. Just perfect.

Dmitri appears in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets glisten on his chest and arms, and his dark hair is slicked back, still damp.

He sniffs the air, arching a brow. “Is that breakfast or a fire?”

I cross my arms, feigning indignation. “It was going to be breakfast. You distracted me.”

He smirks, stepping into the kitchen. “By showering?”

“By existing.”

His gaze roams over me. “You’re right. I do tend to have that effect.”

I roll my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. “Fine, go ahead. Mock me. I was only trying to do something nice for you.”

He chuckles, reaching for the pan in the sink. He grimaces at the charred remains of bacon before setting it down. “There’s a bakery nearby. I’ll go grab something.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Are you saying I’m not good enough to feed you?”

His smirk softens into something almost tender. “You’re good enough to make me forget about food entirely. But no one should have to suffer through whatever this was supposed to be. You might be an architect, but you’re clearly no chef.”

I laugh despite myself, swatting his arm. He catches my hand, holding it against his chest as his dark eyes search mine. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“And you’re rude to a beginner cook.”

“And yet, here we are.”

I bite back a smile, trying to hold onto my mock indignation. But his expression shifts, the humor giving way to something deeper. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers warm against my skin.

I search his face, seeing the man beneath the deadly reputation.

My chest tightens. He is dangerous; I know that. He’s done terrible things.

He’s the opposite of my family. They were supposed to care for me, to love me, but all they did was resent my existence. When they left, they didn’t just abandon me—they left me to die.

Dmitri, for all his flaws, makes me feel safe.

He kisses my forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“Funny,” I say dryly, but my heart feels lighter as I watch him pull on his pants.

“Anyone comes to the door,” he adds once he’s dressed, “there’s a gun in the drawer behind you.”

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I grab my cellphone, scrolling through my few contacts until I land on Veronica’s name. I hesitate for a moment, then hit the call button.

It rings twice before her familiar, upbeat voice answers. “Morning, sunshine. How’s your top-secret hideout? Mine’s a fucking palace.”

I exhale a shaky laugh. “Oh, you know, a shack in the sticks.”

She snorts. “Sounds glamorous.”

In a rush, I say, “I slept with Dmitri last night.”

The line goes silent for a beat before she whoops so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “About damn time! Wait, was it good? Of course it was good. Look who I’m asking. That man could probably make the pope rethink his views on sex outside marriage.”

I laugh despite myself, a mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration bubbling up. “It was incredible. But that’s not the problem.”

“Problem? What kind of problem could there possibly be with that god of a man blowing your mind and your pussy at the same time?”

“I’m getting attached, Vee.”

Veronica’s tone softens. “Oh, sweetie. I get it. Guys like him? They’re not exactly known for fidelity. And let’s not forget the whole Russian slaughter in a hotel thing. Vladimir told me what happened.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I mutter.

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s not possible. Just don’t get too attached yet. Wait until he’s taken you up Pompeii a few more times. Then see how you feel.”

I lie back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I feel good. Is that weird?”

“Post sex high? Yeah, it’s totally normal.” Veronica’s voice is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of concern. “Either that or you feel disgust and self loathing. Or maybe that’s just me. Remember, you can always bail if it gets too much.”

There’s a brief pause, then she shifts the conversation. “And hey, I sent off those forms for you like you asked. You owe me a coffee when you get accepted on that course.”

I smile. “Deal.”