Chapter 2 By the time I get home, the adrenaline is still wearing off when my phone rings. Chris. My brother's name flashes on the screen. I answer-and immediately wish I hadn't. "What do you mean they're going to kill you? What did you do?" I practically scream the question into my phone, my heart beating like crazy. My brother is breathing hard. I can picture him slouched against a wall somewhere, phone clutched in his trembling hands, his face half covered by that ridiculous Motorhead hoodie he never takes off. "Tay," he says, voice scratchy, "listen⁠-" "I am listening," I interrupt, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. "You said someone's going to kill you. You can't just say something like that and not elaborate." He's silent for a beat. I can hear background noise-either traffic or the low hum of a TV. Finally, he sighs. "I screwed up. They'll kill me unless I pay back what I owe. But I don't have it, Tay." "What did you do, exactly?" I ask. My mind is suddenly filled with images of bullet-riddled bodies and severed fingers. He mumbles something I can't quite make out. "Chris," I say slowly, trying to keep my voice calm. "You can't call me, freaking out, saying someone is going to kill you. You've got to give me more than that." "I'm serious, Tay." His voice is low, strained. "They will. I messed up, and they're not the kind of people you mess up with." My stomach drops. "Who's they, Chris?" He hesitates. "The Bratva." For a second, I think I must have heard him wrong. "The Bratva?" I repeat, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter like it might be able to stop the world from tilting. "You owe money to the Bratva? The Russian fucking mob?" "Yeah. The Smirnovs." I force myself to breathe. The name Smirnov is enough to make any Vegas resident shudder. They're rumored to be deeply entangled in every shadowy corner of the city, from illegal gambling rings to arms trafficking. They also frequent the casino Hospitium, at the lavish hotel where I work. I've never gotten close enough to see them act out the criminal rumors that shadow their reputation, but with Chris now mixed up with them, that all could change. "Chris. What the hell?" "I wasn't doing anything that serious, alright?" he says quickly, defending himself. "Just small, low-level stuff. Moving product. Nothing major." "Product? What kind of product, Chris?" "Drugs," he says quietly. I press the heel of my hand into my forehead. "You've got to be kidding me." "It wasn't supposed to be permanent," he mutters. "I was just trying to make some fast money. I had a debt. They offered me a way to pay it off. It was supposed to be simple, you know?" "Chris. What the fuck happened?" He exhales heavily. "I was supposed to make a drop a couple nights ago. Some guy was supposed to meet me and buy the whole batch, but he never showed. So, I kind of partied instead." I stop cold. "What does that even mean?" "It means I took it back to my buddy Travis's place, and a few of us...Look, we just figured we'd blow off steam while we waited to hear from them. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, there was a big party happening. So yeah, we used it, all of it." I stare at the wall unblinkingly. "How much is all of it?" He groans. "I don't know the exact amount, but it was a lot. Maybe sixty, seventy grand street value?" My heart hammers against my ribs. "You used $70,000 worth of Bratva product?" "It wasn't all me." "Oh, sorry, let me correct myself. You and your dumb ass friends used it." "Come on." "Oh my God, Chris." I run my hand through my hair. "Why the hell didn't you call me the second it happened?" "I thought I could fix it!" he snaps. "I figured I'd get another batch, flip it fast, and be able to pay them back before they ever noticed." "Before they-Chris, they're the fucking Bratva! They're not going to overlook seventy grand!" "I know that now!" His voice breaks. "They already showed up at Travis's place. Beat the shit out of him, told him there's worse in store. Said I've got three days, or they'll make an example out of me next." My knees go weak, and I sink into the nearest chair. "Jesus Christ." "I don't know what to do, Tay." He sounds helpless, like he's twelve years old again, begging me to fix something he broke. "I thought maybe...I don't know. Maybe you could loan me the money or something." I let out a stunned laugh. "Loan you $70,000? Chris, I work in hotel management. I don't have that kind of money." "Okay, okay, I just...Shit, I didn't know who else to call." I close my eyes. "Have you tried talking to them? Reasoning?" He's silent for a beat too long. "Chris, tell me the truth." "They're not exactly into diplomacy," he says finally. "And it's not the first time I've screwed up." I curse under my breath. "Oh my God, you've done this before?" "Not like this. Last time was minor, and they let it slide. I didn't think-" His voice falters. "I didn't think they'd actually come after me." "Well, you were wrong," I snap. "And now you're trying to drag me into your mess." He goes quiet again, then he sighs. For a second, I hope he might be having his "come to Jesus" moment, when he admits what a screwup he's been and shows some contrition. "So, are you going to help me or not?" "I just-" my words break off as I try to force down the anger that surges like molten lava in my chest. "You keep doing this, Chris. Jail stints, rehab, any high-stakes fiasco you get into. You always drag me into it. This one, though, this one might actually get you, or both of us, killed." My voice trembles despite my best efforts to remain calm. "I don't know where else to turn," he mumbles. "You're the only family I have left." A pang of guilt hits my gut. He's the only family I have, too, which is why I can't just hang up and ignore this and pretend I never received his call. Even though he's reckless and borderline toxic, he's still my kid brother. "Chris, you owe them more than I make in a year." I stare at the overhead light fixture, the one that flickers whenever my neighbor upstairs uses the microwave. I think for a moment about how my day off was supposed to be devoted to rest, maybe even a bubble bath. "What about installments?" I ask. "Maybe they'll let you pay a little bit each month?" He snorts. "Come on, Tay. This is the Bratva; they're going to want it all back in one lump sum. Besides, when you've got a reputation like mine, people don't exactly trust you to make monthly installments. Plus, with what I'd be able to afford, it would take an entire lifetime-or two-to pay it back." "Look," I say, my voice sounding tired, "I'll think about it and see if I can come up with some sort of solution. But you've placed me in an impossible situation." He gives me a bitter snort. "Sure. Thanks a lot." "Chris-"' "Listen. I need your help. If I don't get it, I'm fucked. Do whatever you want with that info, but I'm dead if I don't pay them back." He hangs up. I stand there for a moment, my phone still pressed against my ear, listening to dead air. My mind is swirling. On the TV, the hosts of some midday talk show chime in with forced laughter, as if mocking my predicament. Anger blooms in my chest; not just at Chris for being unbelievably stupid, but at myself for caring so damn much. I lower the phone. This is so classic. He fucks up, then dumps the problem in my lap and disappears, trusting I'll do what I always do-fix it. But this isn't a parking ticket or the drunk tank in the county jail. This is the Bratva. I turn off the TV and stare at my reflection in the dark screen-I look pale, wide-eyed, and stricken with fear. Panic threatens to take over, but I shove it down and start mentally rifling through my options. I could sell my car, but I'd be lucky to get enough to cover rent. I could take a second job, but that would be useless, because the Russians want their money now. I could go to a loan shark, but that would be trading one violent threat for another. I have no good choices, only desperation. Suddenly, I think of Anatoly Ovechkin, my boss. Not simply the guy above me, he's the boss, the big cheese. Mr. Ovechkin is the quiet force behind the Hospitium. The few times I've seen him on the casino floor, the air itself seemed to still. He's tall, ruthless, impossible to ignore-and quite possibly connected to the very people threatening my brother. We've talked a few times. Nothing major, and only in a group setting. There's something about him, though, something irresistible, something magnetic, despite how scary he is. Or hell, maybe even because of it. I sit on the edge of the couch, gripping my phone until my knuckles ache. Could I actually ask him for help? He probably doesn't even know my name. Whispers follow him like shadows-Russian connections, Bratva alliances, billionaire clout. He has the power to make it all go away with a single phone call. I scan my apartment like it might offer answers. Photos of Chris and me from a simpler time, before everything fell apart, before we lost Mom and Dad. Back when protecting Chris meant helping him with homework or keeping bullies away. The ache behind my eyes sharpens. I've worked so hard to build something for myself. College, overtime, scraping and saving every dollar, earning my way up to assistant manager at one of the best resorts in Vegas. But Chris? He's been slipping for years. Drugs, debt, now this. And still, I feel the need to protect him. I pace the living room, checking my phone. Nothing from Chris. No address, no update. For all I know, he's hiding in some alley, waiting for a bullet. The helplessness gnaws at me. Anatoly's name keeps popping into my head. I need to walk into the man's office and ask him to fix a $70,000 mistake made by a guy who's never thanked me for a damn thing. It sounds insane. But who the hell else could cut me a check for seventy grand just like that? I could throw myself at his feet, tell him I'll work for a reduced salary, put in seventy-hour weeks. I hesitate. Should I go to Charles first? He's my manager and mentor, probably the closest thing I have to a father. But Anatoly has Bratva connections. If he agrees to help me out, he could call them off-tell them not only to leave Chris alone, but also to make my brother persona non grata to them, no lending, no nothing. He could make sure Chris doesn't get mixed up in this kind of situation ever again. I sigh. I'm doing this. I have to. But first, I need a shower. I slip out of my clothes, realizing that I'm sweating from the conversation with Chris. In the hush of the shower, I imagine-just for a second-walking into his office, sinking into one of those cold, modernist chairs, and staring him down. "I need help," I whisper, imagining the words trembling from my lips in his presence. In my mind's eye, he doesn't even blink. His blue eyes flick to mine, his expression cold as ice, as if he knew I'd come to him all along. "What kind of help?" he asks. His deep voice is smooth, confident. "My brother made a mistake, a big one. He's in deep with the Smirnovs. Seventy grand deep." I pause, voice shaky in this imaginary plea. "He's going to die unless I can cover it." Silence. Then, he stands and approaches-slow, commanding-his gaze raking over me like he's assessing more than just the ask. Damn, he's tall. He stops in front of me and cups my jaw in one of his huge hands. His voice lowers into something dark and intimate as he says, "And what are you willing to give me in return?" My breath catches. "Anything," I whisper. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "I want you." His words sink into my skin like heat. Not money. Not a favor. Me. "You'll be mine," he says in a deep growl, "in every way." My pussy clenches at the thought, the hot water from the shower trailing over a lustful ache and need. I imagine his mouth at my throat, his hands sliding down, his voice in my ear as he claims what I just offered so freely. I can practically feel his big rough hands pressing firmly into my waist, my hips, my breasts. He spins me to face his desk. One palm spreads across my belly, while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back just enough for his mouth to skim the edge of my jaw. "Taylor," he growls, his voice tinged with Russian dragging over my name like honey. "You came into my office and⁠-' Then he's on his knees, lifting one of my legs and hitching it up on the desk. He doesn't hesitate. His mouth presses to the inside of my thigh and lingers there, open and hot, teeth scraping just enough to make my hips jolt. In the fantasy, I'm not wearing any panties. He flicks his eyes to my pussy and licks his lips. "Ever since I met you," he says, "I've wondered what you taste like. Delicious, I imagine." I groan, tilting my head back when his tongue dips between my folds like he's tasting dessert after a decadent feast. He licks slowly at first, savoring, cataloging every reaction, then faster, deeper, flicking and curling with precision. He moans against me like I'm the one giving him pleasure. His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider, keeping me still. He teases my clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucks, just once, and my legs nearly give out. Then he does it again. And again. Faster. Rhythmic. Focused like a man who doesn't stop until he gets exactly what he wants. And what he wants is me coming undone. On his tongue. Screaming his name. This isn't the first time I've imagined this. Hell, it's not even the tenth. I've lost count of how many late nights I've lain in bed, picturing Anatoly dragging me onto his desk, tearing off my clothes, eating me, screwing me, making me come. But this time? This time, I can practically feel him. I can almost hear the wet sounds of his tongue sliding through me, the deep groan of satisfaction he lets out when I start panting his name. My fingers dip between my thighs to find myself soaked. I stroke tight circles around my clit, pressure building fast. The image of his lips wrapped around me, his beard grazing sensitive skin, his voice commanding me to let go⁠- "Come for me, Taylor. Show me how sweet you taste." I gasp, bite my lip, and rock against my hand. And then it hits-hard, hot, and all-consuming. I cry out, one palm smacking the shower wall to keep me upright as wave after wave crashes through me. My thighs shake, my breath stutters as my nerves light up like sparklers. And through it all, the only name on my lips is his. Anatoly. I sag against the tile, water washing over me, pulse still jackhammering in my throat. This was supposed to be a stress-relief shower. A mental reset. But now I'm wrecked, panting his name, fully aware that my crush on my boss has officially crossed into delusional levels of sexual thirst.