Nikolai shakes his head at him. “You’re not welcome here tonight, Zane, except to make payment on your note. You’re down fifty grand.” He tips his head toward Oleg, who does the slow rise from his chair. “You’re about two days shy of getting a visit from Oleg.”
Oleg clenches and unclenches his hand, showing off his meaty fist. The guy is huge, so his size and silence alone are usually deterrent enough for any would-be trouble-makers.
The guy frantically pats the pockets of his black suit jacket. “I brought payment. I did. I have ten grand here.” He produces an envelope of cash and thrusts it toward Nikolai who doesn’t move. He changes his angle to thrust it toward Oleg, who also doesn’t move.
He opens the envelope and starts counting the cash outloud to show Nikolai. When he’s done, Nikolai nods and writes it down in his ledger. “You’re still not playing tonight.”
“Aw, come on, guys.” Zane spreads his hands, drops his head to the side, and turns on the charm. He’s privileged and smart and generally good-looking. I’m sure he’s used to getting most anything he wants. But it’s obvious he’s hurtling quickly toward all that potential crashing and burning in a horrible way. “You know I’m good for it. I’ll probably make it all back tonight. You know how much I made last year.”
“You can’t borrow against last year’s earnings, my friend. You’ve lost focus.” Nikolai drops a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “Clean your shit up. Keep your nose out of the blow. You’re a fucking mess.”
Some of the charm frays. Desperation starts to show around the edges as he speaks too fast. “Nikolai, I’m your most loyal client. You know me. You know I can win back what I owe you and more.”
“Get out. I need at least another fifteen grand before you sit down at my table again. Now move, or Oleg will throw you off the fucking balcony.”
Zane pales and stumbles back toward the door. “All right, all right,” he whines. “I’m leaving.”
“That one is heading for trouble,” I remark when the door closes.
“I predict a spectacular mess,” Nikolai agrees.
Over the next twenty-five minutes, the players show up and Nikolai greets them, working the room, making them comfortable, so they’ll spend a lot of money.
I can’t decide if I’m glad or pissed when it seems like Natasha isn’t going to show. I told her to come on time, or she wouldn’t get dealt in.
But then the door opens, and I spill my fucking drink down my pantleg. Because Natasha looks gorgeous. Her red hair is in curls across her shoulders, and she’s wearing heels and a black halter dress that shows off every fucking curve of her luscious body.
But that’s not the part that makes me spill my drink.
It’s the asshole she comes in with.
“This is Alex,” she’s saying to Nikolai. “He’s my date.”
Her what now?
No. Fucking. Way.
Natasha did not bring a date to our high-stakes poker game.
I get up and walk over, snatching the driver’s license Nikolai asked Alex to produce from his fingers. I don’t say hi or how-do-you-do to Natasha.
No fucking way.
I’m beyond pissed.
It’s utterly irrational, I know. But so was me telling her she could come to this game.
Everything when it comes to Natasha is irrational.
My need to be near her at the same time I want her to move to Antarctica.
Letting her touch me when every second is torture.
Showing her what I want when I know I won’t ever take it.
I stalk to my computer and call up the info on this guy. Everything checks out. Alex is employed by a local gym as a trainer. Graduated from Illinois State. Wrestled in college. He’s got a Russian last name—Vasiliev. I don’t like that. Not for any particular reason. I mean, it makes sense Natasha might be drawn to another Russian, especially one like her—an Americanized one. But it feels like another red flag.
Not that there was a first one.
Other than him showing up. With our Natasha.
Why the fuck did he show up? Was he the reason Natasha asked to come to this game?
That thought sends alarm bells ringing, and I start digging into this guy’s past even further.
I’m so preoccupied, I miss keeping track of the bets in the first game. I look over and realize Natasha isn’t even playing. Just this asshole Alex. She’s his arm candy. His fucking lucky rabbit’s foot. Nikolai’s glares are enough to peel the fancy wallpaper from the walls behind me.
Ya znayu, I mutter aloud to him. I know.
I definitely fucked up.
The way that Alex’s eyes ping-pong between us makes me think he understood.
“A ty govorish' po russki?” I ask him if he speaks Russian.
“Da, moya mama iz rossii,” he answers. My mother is Russian.
Why does that make me just hate him all the more? I keep digging, looking for his mother. It takes a while. You know in television shows where the hacker just touches their computer and produces the answer to any and every question? Well, it’s not like that. Hacking is time consuming, and you have to know what you’re looking for and where to look for it. I’ve already hacked and given myself permanent access to most databases—the motor vehicle department, police department records, Internal Revenue Service. FBI is harder because I have to re-hack it every thirty days, but I can get in there, too.
I find his mother’s name, but no current address or tax filings. Nothing on a father, at all. Alex is a U.S. citizen, born here in Chicago twenty-four years ago.
What an asshole.
I try the FBI. I search for his name in there, and nothing comes up. I search for Ravil’s name. I’ve seen these files before. They don’t have much on him. The incident where they tried to turn Lucy, his wife, after he’d kidnapped her and held her hostage at the Kremlin.
And there it is.
An active tag assigned to an agent Alex Volkov. Huh. That name is suspiciously similar to Alex Vasiliev. I pull up his photo. Yep. Same asshole.
I text Nikolai. I want to text Oleg and Adrian, too, but all three of their phones beeping at once would be a huge tell. Instead, I manage to catch Oleg’s eye. I’m about to use my limited sign language to fingerspell F-B-I, but Nikolai says, “hold up,” and stops the game.
He stands and walks around to the opposite side of the table as Alex. “What’d you say your last name was?” he asks Alex.
I watch Natasha’s face closely.
If I find out she’s part of this shit, I will not recover. I don’t see fear, just mild confusion.
Dammit.
I need to get her out of this room if things go south. Besides, she owes me a fucking explanation.
I get up, too, and walk over to her side.
Alex is sweating, talking fast, answering Nikolai. I flash a warning glance at Oleg at the same time I hook my hand around Natasha’s upper arm and haul her to her feet. “We need to have a word.”
The sudden movement beside Alex coupled with being made must cause him to completely lose his head because the asshole fires a shot from below the table, hitting Nikolai in the gut.
Natasha screams. My twin doubles over in a sickening lurch.
“Nikolai!” I roar, rage and fear fusing into an adrenaline cocktail that turns me lethal. I kick the table over, thinking to provide protection for Nikolai on the floor if Alex fires again, but Oleg’s already there, knocking Alex out with the butt of a gun.