Secret Bratva Daddy

Chapter 5Sydney

5

Sydney

T he knife glides effortlessly through the crisp vegetables, the rhythmic chopping a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. For a moment, I can almost pretend I'm back in my tiny apartment kitchen, preparing a simple meal after a long day of classes and work. But the gleaming stainless steel surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances surrounding me are a stark reminder of my new reality.

I'm not just Sydney Reeves, struggling grad school art student anymore. I'm... what, exactly? Avros Petrov's personal assistant? His prisoner? His...

I shake my head, banishing the dangerous thought before it can fully form. Focus on the task at hand, I tell myself. Dinner. Just dinner.

The kitchen door swings open silently, and I nearly jump out of my skin when I turn to find Avros leaning against the counter, watching me with those intense steel-blue eyes. The knife slips in my grip, and I barely avoid slicing my finger.

"Careful, krasotka ," Avros mutters, a hint of disapproval in his voice. "I'd hate to see you hurt yourself."

I swallow hard, willing my racing heart to slow. "You startled me," I manage, hating how breathy my voice sounds. "I didn't hear you come in."

Avros's lips curl into a smirk. "I move quietly. It's a useful skill in my line of work."

The casual reference to his "work" sends a chill down my spine. A stark reminder of who he really is, of the danger I'm in. And yet, I can't deny the thrill that courses through me at his proximity. There’s an electric prickle on the back of my neck when he moves, and every time his vivid eyes dart over my body, I feel like my body is going to explode into a ball of blue flames.

"I hope you like beef stroganoff," I say, desperate to break the charged silence. "It's one of the few Russian dishes I know how to make."

Avros raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. "You know how to make stroganoff?"

I shrug, feeling oddly self-conscious. "My grandmother was Russian. She taught me a few recipes before she passed."

Something flickers in Avros's eyes. Recognition? Maybe even approval? But it's gone before I can decipher it. "I look forward to tasting it," he says simply.

I smile, but he doesn’t return it, so I turn back around and address the food I’m preparing. As I return to my cooking, I'm acutely aware of Avros's presence behind me. He doesn't speak, content to watch me work in silence. The weight of his gaze is like a physical touch, raising goosebumps on my skin.

With every careful slice and cut, I feel like he’s closing in, although I don’t hear him move. My shoulders are up to my ears as I cook, but he doesn’t touch me at all. He’s not even that close when I risk a peek over my shoulder. He’s just standing there, watching me with the same curiosity one would give an animal in the zoo.

When the meal is finally ready, I'm almost relieved. Until I realize we'll be sitting down to eat together, like a couple.

The thought sends a jolt of electricity through me. I wonder how many women have had the opportunity to sit down to dinner with such a powerful man. How many would dare risk it? How many would be jealous of me?

This isn't a date, I remind myself sternly. This is work. I'm his employee, nothing more.

But as we settle at the small kitchen table, the intimacy of the moment is undeniable. The soft glow of candlelight casts flickering shadows across Avros's chiseled features. The rich aroma of the stroganoff mingles with his cologne, an intoxicating blend that makes my head spin.

"This is delicious," Avros says after his first bite, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Your grandmother taught you well."

I feel a flush of warmth through my entire body at his praise. "Thank you. I'm glad you like it."

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft clink of silverware against expensive China. But there's a tension in the air, a weight of unasked questions.

Finally, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I blurt out, "Tell me about your brother."

Avros stills, his fork halfway to his mouth. For a moment, I'm certain I've overstepped. But then his expression softens, almost imperceptibly.

"Miron," he says, his voice low and rich with emotion. "He's... complicated."

Avros pauses, twirling his fork in the stroganoff. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a vulnerability there that takes my breath away.

"Tell me," I urge gently, surprised by my own boldness.

He sighs, setting down his utensils. "Miron was always different. Sensitive. Our father called him weak, but I saw his kindness as strength. I still do."

As we continue to eat, Avros begins to speak, his usual guard lowering with each word. He tells me stories of a younger brother who idolized him, who followed him around like a shadow.

"I remember this one time," Avros says, a rare smile softening his features, "Miron must have been about six. He'd found an injured bird in the garden. Spent weeks nursing it back to health, talking to it like it could understand every word."

I find myself leaning in, captivated by this glimpse into Avros's past. "That's sweet," I say softly.

His expression darkens slightly. "Our father didn't think so. He said Miron needed to toughen up, that compassion had no place in our world."

"Your world?" I ask, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.

Avros's eyes snap to mine, that familiar intensity returning. "Our family's business, krasotka . Let's leave it at that for now."

I nod, not daring to push further. After a moment, Avros continues, his voice softer now.

"When our parents died," he says, his eyes distant with memory, "I became everything to Miron. Father, brother, protector. I swore I'd never let anything happen to him."

His hand, resting on the table, clenches into a fist. Without thinking, I reach out, covering it with my own. Avros stiffens at the contact, but doesn't pull away.

"That's a heavy burden to bear," I say softly.

Avros turns his hand, intertwining our fingers. The touch sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. "It is," he agrees, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "But Miron is worth it. He's the only family I have left."

I swallow hard, torn between the sympathy welling up in my chest and the voice in my head screaming that I'm getting too close, too involved.

"And now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "With the trial..."

Avros's grip on my hand tightens almost painfully. "Now, I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. Whatever it takes, Sydney. Please understand I’m not the type of man to say something like that lightly. I mean it with every ounce of spirit in my body.”

The intensity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. It's both thrilling and terrifying, this glimpse of the lengths Avros will go to for those he loves.

I see a different side of Avros in that moment, not the ruthless boss, but a man driven by deep, unwavering family loyalty. It's humanizing. Almost endearing.

But then reality crashes back in as Avros continues. "That's why I have to win this case. Miron made a mistake, yes, but he doesn't deserve to rot in prison for it."

My fork clatters against my plate. "A mistake?" I repeat, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. "Avros, it's all over the news that he killed someone. I saw it myself."

Avros's eyes harden, the warmth of moments ago replaced by icy determination. "It was self-defense. Josiah would have killed him if Miron hadn't struck first."

I shake my head, struggling to reconcile the man who spoke so lovingly of his brother with the one now justifying murder. "Even if that's true, tampering with the jury... it's wrong. It's?—"

"Necessary," Avros cuts me off, his tone brooking no argument. "You don't understand the world we live in, krasotka . The things we have to do to survive."

I want to argue, to make him see reason. But the steel in his gaze silences me. This is the Avros Petrov I first met. He’s dangerous and unyielding, a man who will stop at nothing to protect what's his.

And yet, as the night wears on, that hardness begins to soften again. We talk of lighter things, childhood memories, favorite books, and dreams for the future.

"So, little artist," Avros says, his voice teasing, "tell me about this gallery you dream of opening."

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks. "It's silly, really..."

"Nonsense," he interrupts, leaning forward. "I want to hear every detail."

As I describe my vision, Avros listens intently, asking thoughtful questions. I find myself laughing at his dry humor, leaning in to catch his whispered confessions.

"You know," he says at one point, "I always wanted to learn to paint. Perhaps you could teach me someday."

It feels dangerously like a date, and I have to keep reminding myself why I'm really here. That this isn't real, no matter how genuine Avros's smile seems or how my heart races when our eyes meet.

"Another glass?" Avros asks, reaching for the wine bottle.

"Please," I reply, my voice huskier than intended.

But when Avros's hand brushes mine as he pours, I can't ignore the spark that jumps between us. The air thickens, charged with possibility.

"Sydney," Avros murmurs, his voice husky. He leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. "I?—"

The shrill ring of a phone cuts through the moment like a knife. Avros jerks back, cursing under his breath in Russian. He pulls out a sleek black cell and answers with a curt, "Yes?"

As he speaks rapid-fire Russian, his expression growing darker by the second, I try to calm my racing heart. What just happened? What was he about to say?

More importantly, why am I disappointed that we were interrupted?

Avros ends the call abruptly, his jaw clenched tight. He takes a deep breath, visibly composing himself before turning back to me.

"My apologies," he says, his voice low and controlled. "Sometimes business intrudes at the most inopportune moments."

I nod, not trusting my voice. The tension in the air is palpable, and I keep feeling these prickles in my feet whenever his eyes dance over me. Even hearing him speaking in Russian made me feel some type of way, so it’s better to keep my mouth shut unless I know exactly what I’m about to say.

Avros reaches for the wine bottle, refilling both our glasses. "Now, where were we?" he asks, his intense gaze fixed on me.

As we sip our wine, falling back into easy conversation, I can't help but feel a flutter of excitement in my stomach. The way Avros looks at me, like I'm the only woman in the world. It's intoxicating just as much as it is dangerous.

What am I doing? How can I be developing feelings for a man like Avros Petrov? A man who thinks nothing of breaking the law, of defending a murderer, brother or not.

And yet, as the evening wears on and Avros's smile softens, his laugh becoming more genuine, I find myself drawn in deeper. His hand brushes mine as he reaches for the bread, and I feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

I'm in way over my head. But as Avros's eyes meet mine over the rim of his wineglass, dark with promise, I realize I might not care.

Whatever game we're playing, whatever danger lies ahead... part of me can't wait to see where it leads.