Paying The Bratva’s Debt

owes me four million dollars, or else Chicago is going to find itself with yet another suicidal mayoral candidate.
“Look, I already told you,” Thomas bleats. He’s backpedaling, like the sniveling political hack that he is. “I can get you money now, or if you want to wait until after the election, whatever contracts you want are—”
“I am not interested in gambling on your political aspirations, Thomas.”
“Gambling?” Thomas laughs. “This is a sure thing. Mayor Pesactore endorsed me last week. It’s in the bag. And trust me, once I’m in, those contracts are going to be so sweet, you’ll get cavities—”
“I already told you,” I snarl. I slide my feet off of desk, sitting tall in his chair. “I am not interested.” I glare at him coolly. “We had an arrangement, Thomas.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “And I’m trying—”
“I did you a favor.” I stand. Lev stays watching from the side, but the other two I’ve brought instinctually move behind Thomas, in case he tries to run.
“I know that! And I’m so appreciative! I just—”
“A debt is owed,” I snarl. “And today, I am here to collect on it.”
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Thomas’s voice is getting louder. He glances behind him, seeing my men there, and his cool starts to break. “I-if you just give me a month, Vi—Mr. Komarov.”
“I am not interested in giving you a goddamn thing, Thomas,” I hiss. “Except a further three seconds to tell me how I’m going to get my money, today.” I level my eyes at him. Slowly, I reach into my jacket and pull the nine-millimeter out from its shoulder holster. Thomas’s face turns white.
“One.”
“Mr. Komarov,” he gasps. “Please! This is not how things are done—”
“Do not lecture me, Thomas. We had an arrangement. That is how things are done.” I raise the gun at him. “Two.”
“Mr. Komarov!”
I cock the gun with a click, more for dramatic effect than anything. But then suddenly, I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a gasp from the other side of Thomas’s office door. This meeting is not so private after all.
I nod curtly at the two men behind Thomas. Wordlessly, they turn, scowling as they storm over to the door. One of them throws it open, and suddenly they’re yanking a figure inside and tossing her down across the floor. They slam the door shut and march over to her, when suddenly, my voice booms out.
“Ostanovka!” I roar. “Stop!” The room falls silent. And in that silence, the only thing I can see is her.
The girl is stunning. She’s sprawled across the floor in a shimmering silver and white cocktail dress, one heel has fallen off. Her hands are splayed across the hardwood floor, and her long red hair falls across her face. But then she looks up. My eyes find hers, and I suck in my breath with a hiss.
The roar of a beast rumbles inside of my chest. My muscles clench, as does my jaw. I stare at this angel from heaven, and I feel the world shift beneath my feet. Every pain ever inflicted on me fades. Every demon hounding my shadows falls silent. Every scar stops throbbing with pain.
“Who are you.” The words come unbidden. But it’s the most important question I’ve ever asked in my life. I need to know her—every single inch and piece of her. I need to know her, and I need to make her all mine.
“Mr. Komarov…”
Thomas’s voice cuts through the silence, infuriating me as it breaks my focus on the girl. But my eyes never leave her, and she blushes as she slowly slips her shoe back on. She gets to her feet, smoothing her dress. But still, my eyes can’t look away. My heart can’t stop racing. My hunger for her won’t be abated.
“Mr. Komarov,” Thomas needles again. He smiles through his fear of me, like a good little political pawn. He shuffles over and puts a hand on the girl’s back. He’s oblivious to the rage it induces in me as he turns to beam at me.
“This is Fiona, my daughter.”
I blink. The roaring in my ears comes rushing back. The world fades to black around me, until all I see is her; a red-haired angel drawing me in like a moth to flame. My hands clench, gripping into fists at my sides. I drink her in, shaking inside as I turn to the district attorney.
“Thomas,” I growl. My lips thin into a smile. “Our debt is settled.”

3 Fiona
My mind blanks. I stare up—and it is up; the man is more than a foot taller than me—and my core tightens. I know I’m looking up into the eyes of the most dangerous, most ruthless man in Chicago; possibly one of the most ruthless in the world. But my body refuses to cooperate with that knowledge.
The problem is that Viktor Komarov might be the devil himself. But he’s stunningly handsome. He’s the kind of man you’d call gorgeous—beautiful, even. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, a squared, chiseled jaw, and the sort of lips that make your brain short circuit. My eyes slowly slide over him, drinking in his massive height and size. He’s built like a football player, or star MMA fighter, and yet clothed in a suit tailored around his huge shoulders and arms.
But then, my body catches up with my brain. I stiffen, hearing his words in my head again.
“I’m sorry, what?”
The room is silent. My father says nothing. Viktor says nothing. My heart is racing as I look up at the big Russian mobster’s face, and then whirl to my father.
“Dad?”
“This is out of your father’s hands now,” Viktor growls, his deep voice like velvet and fire. “Isn’t that right, Thomas?”
I turn to stare at him, then back at my father again.
“Dad, what’s he—”
“Mr. Komarov,” my father croaks. “It… I mean she’s…” He swallows. “It would be political suicide.”
I stare at him with my mouth falling open. Political suicide? “What?”
“Your father and I have an unfinished business arrangement,” Viktor