Irina

“Please stay put sestrichka. You know it’s for your own good.” My brother, Roman, gentled his voice deliberately, just to indicate concern. I roll my eyes.

“My apartment is a fortress. This place doesn’t even have a comfortable pair of sweats!”

“You want I should ask Alexei to go pack your things?”

“No! I don’t want your enforcer’s grubby hands on my shit. I wanna go home, Roman.”

“No can do. Not until we deal with these shooters.”

I snarl with frustration but Roman just laughs. “Maybe you can use the time to  cultivate patience.”

“So that what can happen?” I ask grumpily.

His low growly laugh is the only thing that comes down the line. “I’ll send Katarina with some clothes. Fenty onesie and all.” He said before hanging up on me.

I mutter grumpily to myself. My brother  means well but he can be a pain in my ass. He’s also my hero, don’t get me wrong. A six foot, dark haired, athletic, bisexual man who wears eye shadow and earrings isn’t exactly the poster boy for Pakhan of the Bratva.

But he grew up smaller than the other boys so he learned to scrap real early. When he got that growth spurt, he almost didn’t need it. No one can fight as dirty as Roman Dobrev. No one can see around corners and have eyes at the back of his head like my brother does.

But this row with the Irish is stupid. The solution is obvious and if my brother won’t do it, I guess I’ll have to. But if I do what is needed, I’d rather do it in my own clothes. So I get some ice cream from the fridge, settle down and watch some N*****x.

***

Roman wasn’t kidding about the Fenty onesie. I stared at it speculatively, wondering what Sean McNally would think of me walking into his office in it. Would he take me seriously?

Then I realized it didn’t matter if I went in a onesie, a ball gown or naked. He’d have to take me seriously. It wasn’t my clothes he needed, after all. It was me. Irina Dobrev, sister to the Pakhan of Boston.

I sent Pasha over to see a man. His name is John Ziang. He’s a broker. If there’s a deal to be made, you can be sure he’s somewhere in the middle of it. If there’s a man who can set up a meet with the Rabbits without my brother knowing, it’s him.

Pasha came back to tell me that the Rabbits would see me at my earliest convenience.

Fuckers

With a shrug, I put on the black onesie, and cinched it at my waist with a wide yellow belt. Blowing out my long platinum blonde hair into large curls, I let it flow down my back. I decide that my ice blue eyes, shadowed in black kohl is all the make-up I need – aside from some gloss bomb lip luminizer aptly named Cold Heart’d.

Such a mood.

Pasha was waiting with the car at the back entrance. The safe house was meant to keep enemies out. Not keep someone in. Nobody would bat an eye if they saw me strolling in the garden in my Fenty onesie – even if I’m wearing heels. .

I slip into the back seat of the bullet proof SUV, tinted windows hiding me from the world, but not the world from me. I left my phone at home because my brother can trace it, but I left on the gold bracelet containing a tracking device on my wrist.

Why would I do such a thing you ask?

Well, it’s simple. I’m not stupid. It’s one thing for Roman to know where I am at all times, it’s quite another for him to be unable to find me at all. I can’t trust the Rabbits.

I can trust my brother.

We draw up outside an apartment complex. A skyscraper. The Rabbits own many buildings in Boston. We drive into the underground parking and Pasha stops by the elevator to let me get off. I climb down from the car and hit the button that will summon the lift. Pasha parks quickly and joins me.

I don’t protest. Pasha is supposed to guard me with his life. He wouldn’t listen even if I asked him to let me go up by myself. He might be ready to help me but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to leave me in the lion’s den on my own.

I take a deep breath, as the lift opens and I step out into Sean McNally’s lair.