Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)

The strange, turbulent car ride with Pasha leaves me with jitters for most of the morning. I’m finally rediscovering my ability to be productive at work when my phone buzzes.

It’s Dad. Weird.

“I need you to do something for me,” Stewart Hamish blurts the second I answer.

“And a hello to you, too.”

“Find out everything you can about this Pasha you’re seeing. Pasha Chekhov.”

My stomach flips, and it’s not my baby doing the somersaults. Mother. I’d foolishly hoped she would keep some information to herself, or maybe not even pay any mind to the second half of my pregnancy equation, but clearly, that’s not the case. Why wouldn’t she follow us and put two and two together? It’s painfully on brand for her to make my life exponentially harder.

But I haven’t spoken to her since our disastrous lunch at the club, so I very incorrectly assumed she didn’t care—or notice—that I got swept away by the same man who… What did he do, again?

“Daphne? Did you hear me?”

I blink back to reality. “And why would I do that?”

“Because he ruined us! He owes us everything!”

I pull my phone away from my ear. Good Lord, this man needs to calm down.

Mother had made some breathless claim that Pasha was the man who outed Melanie and brought our family to ruin. In the moment, I was so flustered, I barely registered the connection between Pasha, the man I sort of know, and Pasha, the guy who fucked us over.

Well, it would be accurate to say he fucked them over and then just, you know… fucked me.

I rest a hand on my baby bump and sigh into my phone. “I’m not your personal spy, Dad. I have a life of my own.”

“A life you’re dangerously close to throwing away if you insist on gallivanting around the globe with this monster! You owe us this much, Daphne. Find out everything you can to help our family.”

I’m glad he can’t see me roll my eyes heavenward, because he’d probably coldcock me for it. “Help our family do what? Invite him to a cocktail party?”

Dad’s voice sounds just this side of fuming. “Save your petulant games for your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyf⁠—”

“Oh! Great!” he spits sarcastically. “That makes it so much better. One daughter spreads herself like a whore on camera and the other daughter spreads her legs for the enemy. Have you no shame? Your mother and I raised you far better than this!”

I don’t know if the tears that spring to my eyes are from pain or anger. Maybe a little of both. I’m used to my parents being overbearing and unreasonable, but this is a particular flavor of cruel.

“He treats me well.” I hate, so much, how timid I sound. “He’s a good man.” Which isn’t a lie. A good man takes care of his family. A good man makes sure his loved ones are safe and happy. Everything Pasha has done so far really does show him to be a good man.

I think.

My father, though? I’m doing my best to ignore the answer that whispers in the back of my mind.

“Of course he treats you well.” Dad sighs like I’m a stupid little girl who doesn’t know any better. “He’s using you, sweetheart. He’s using you to get to me. And he knows, like I do, how easy it is to make you believe him. I know it’s not your fault you can’t see this. Just trust your daddy—I know what I’m talking about.”

There are a trillion things I could say to that, and none of them are PG. But I take the high road, which is also conveniently enough the fastest way out of this conversation.

“Okay.”

I’m pretty sure that any sign of submission will get Dad to back off. And, moments later, I’m proven right.

“Think it over, okay, muffin? I don’t want to see you get hurt. And with the way that man sells guns, well… we know how you are with those things. Be safe, and call me the second you have anything.”

I suck in a sharp breath. He just had to bring up the guns. It’s like Manipulator Bingo. It’s predictable, of course, but I just wish it wasn’t so effective at the same time.

“Okay,” I croak again.

The second I hang up and put my phone away, I feel a heavy presence fill the doorway to the office.

Todd is standing there, hands shoved in his pockets. He checks his watch on his wrist and blows out a heavy sigh. “You are half an hour late, and now, you’re taking personal calls?”

“My car⁠—”

“On top of several other instances of prioritizing whatever it is you feel takes precedence over this gallery and our clients.” He shoves his hand back into his pocket. It’s clear he’s trying to be calm about this, but he’s pissed. “I like you, Daph. Todd and I both like you. You’ve done solid work since you came here and our clients—well, most of them—have been very happy with you. So please understand our immense disappointment when we see that your priorities are not with the gallery anymore.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on, and whether it’s from the pregnancy or all this stress, it’s gonna be a doozy. “It’s not that at all, Todd. I’ve just had some emergencies come up at home that I need to take care of. Like my water pipes exploding,” I add. It was true for as long as I thought it was true, right?

“Be that as it may, we’re running behind and we have new clients vying for our attention. You’ll be working through the lunch hour to make up for this, yes?”

“Er, yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

I forgot to pack my lunch, anyway.

Only an hour passes before it is, in fact, lunch time and I’m still here, fielding emails and rebalancing the events calendar and doing my damndest to stay under the Tweedles’ radar. Hazel may think they’re dumb as rocks, but they’re not so dumb they can’t find a good reason to fire me.

Like humiliating one of their best clients. And burning his painting. In front of everyone.

And then fucking the art buyer in a storage closet. On the premises.

Come to think of it, it’s a miracle I’m still employed.

“No regrets,” I whisper to my daughter, who flutters inside her warm cocoon inside me. My stomach rumbles, but I have to press on. “I’ll grab a snack later.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes once. I glance at the screen and see it’s a text from Pasha.

PASHA: Lunch?

Is he asking me out? Or asking if I have plans? Or just looking for a definition of the word? The man is not an eloquent texter, that’s for sure.

DAPHNE: Can’t. Working through.

I tuck my phone inside the desk drawer so he won’t distract me. But when I return to the calendar on my screen, the text alert pops up in front of the browser.

PASHA: You need to eat.

I sigh. I know he’s concerned, but I’m not a child. I can take care of myself just fine.

DAPHNE: I will eat, I just have to wait until later. Forgot to pack a lunch anyway.

PASHA: I’ll order something for you. What do you want?

DAPHNE: I want to get back to work. Boss isn’t happy. Sorry.

Pasha doesn’t respond after that. I click out of the message window on my desktop and try my best to focus on the calendar, shoving aside the gnawing hunger.

Before the pregnancy, I could power through eight hours on a smoothie or ice cream cone and daydreams of dinner. Now? My little spaghetti squash doesn’t know the difference between a good meal and a good paycheck. She wants food, and she wants it now.

She’ll just have to wait.

Half an hour later, I’ve managed to catch up on the morning’s work. A voice at the door catches my attention.

“Hello!”

I look up from the screen, then do a double-take. “Sofiya?”

“And Mak!” He pokes his head through the door and nudges her through. “We’re here to kidnap you.”

Sofiya rolls her eyes and shoves him aside. It’s amazing how much Pasha’s siblings resemble him. But they each have their own kind of je ne sais quoi, too. With Mak, it’s the playfulness, the puppy dog aura, something that grumpy ass Pasha is sorely lacking. For Sofiya, there’s a way her eyes sparkle constantly that I wish Pasha would allow in his own for more than two seconds at a time.

“Have you eaten yet?” She sidles up to my desk and rests her hip against it. “We were thinking about taking you out for a bit. Get to know each other more.”

My heart squeezes the same time my stomach—and my baby—flip. “I’m so sorry, guys. I can’t. I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

Sofiya frowns and glances at my computer. “You sure? We’ll bring you right back.”

“I know. It’s just…” I sigh and rest my brow against my hand. “It’s the Twee—I mean, it’s my bosses. My car broke down this morning, and Pasha took me in, but I was late, and then my father called and they caught me talking to him, and all this after ‘The Incident’…”

I know I’m drastically oversharing with people I hardly know. But the stress, the hunger, makes all of it come out in a groan. “Sorry,” I add.

Mak seems unbothered. He’s texting away on his phone, while Sofi’s frown shifts into concern and she touches my hand. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Fantastic. Just trying to keep my job.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Mak flashes me another smile as he slides his phone back into his pocket. “So, where do we want to go?”

I’m about to explain, again, why I can’t just up and leave when I’m interrupted by a loud commotion in the hallway. Both Todd and Keith burst out of the conference room and run down the hall, not even bothering to spare me a glance through the windows. Another few seconds of loud footsteps pounding through the main foyer, and then the main doors open and slam shut.

Sofi arches a brow and tries to hide a smirk. Mak only smiles at me.

“Whatcha hungry for? Our treat!”