Page 31

My temples throbbed, exhaustion hitting like a tidal wave. The last few hours had been worse than any blood-soaked gang cleanup.

Fucking Ginnie.

That woman had had the balls to throw my name around, strutting through Chicago's ritziest clubs, blowing cash like she owned the place. Worse, she had had the nerve to call herself "Mrs. Sokolov." When her pissed-off creditors came knocking, she had pointed at my picture, cool as ice, saying, "Go to Gennady Sokolov for the money. I'm his woman."

It had taken me three goddamn hours to clean up her mess—threatening her creditors into silence, smoothing things over with insulted partners, and dealing with the chaos she had leftbehind. In the end, I had had to drag her ass out of that sleazy club myself.

"Who do you think you are?!" she had screeched as I shoved her into the car, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. "I'm Isabella's sister! I deserve this! You owe her, so you owe me double!"

I had nearly wrapped my hands around her throat right then.

If it hadn't been for Isabella's dying words—weak but firm, "Take care of Ginnie"—and the guilt that still clawed at my chest, I would've made her disappear long ago. That night, even with my patience stretched to breaking, I had held back.

"Listen, Ginnie," I had said, my voice cold enough to freeze hell. "This is your last warning. I've set up an account for you in Switzerland—enough cash to keep you living large for life. You've got one month to clean up your shit, take the money, and get the fuck out. If you ever pull this Sokolov Family stunt again, I'll forget you're Isabella's sister."

Her face had gone pale. She had known what that meant. In my world, that was the final line.

She had given me one last look as she left—resentment, defiance, and something else I couldn't read. I hadn't cared. I had given her too many chances, and she had burned them all.

Finally, some quiet.

I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my pounding temples. My mind drifted to her—my rose, Cassie. What had she been doing? Sleeping soundly, dreaming of that hot, desperate kiss in school earlier? Had she felt the same electric shiver I did, thinking of her trembling under my touch?

The thought sent a warm current through me, melting the rage from dealing with Ginnie. I grabbed my phone, wanting to send her something soft, something to let her know she was on my mind.

But when I opened our chat, my blood ran cold.

Cassie: Liar!

Sent at 11:43 p.m. Right when I had been neck-deep in Ginnie's bullshit, too busy to check my phone.

Liar? What the hell had happened?

I tried to reply, but the next second, my gut twisted. Message failed to send. She had blocked me.

My rose had blocked me.

Panic hit, sharp and unfamiliar, mixing with a dangerous surge of anger. My fingers flew across the screen, scrolling through our old messages for any clue. Nothing. Just her silence and that sudden betrayal, like a slap to my face.

I was on my feet, the chair skidding back, slamming into the bookcase with a dull thud. Logic screamed to stay calm, figure out what was going on, but the fury and unease in my chest drowned it out. She was mine. How dare she cut me off? How dare she slap a label like liar on me?

I snatched my car keys and stormed out.

The Bentley tore through Chicago's streets, streetlights blurring into streaks. I floored the gas, my mind replaying her—her red hair burning like fire under moonlight, her body trembling under my hands, her soft moans in my ear. Those memories were like vodka, setting my nerves ablaze. I needed her—needed her close, needed her eyes on me, only me.

The car screeched to a stop outside her rundown apartment building. The dim streetlight cast jagged shadows, the air thick with the damp stink of the city's sewers. I glanced up at her floor. A faint light glowed through her window. She was awake. Maybe crying. Maybe cursing me out.

Didn't matter. She was thinking of me, even if it was in anger.

Her place was on the third floor, and the narrow stairwell was dark, the old wooden steps creaking under my weight. I reached her door, my heart pounding like a war drum, anger and desire twisting together. My knocks were sharp, impatient.

"Cassie, open the door," I said, my voice low, commanding.

Silence. Just a sliver of light under the door. My patience frayed, and I pounded harder, the frame rattling. "Cassie Monroe, I know you're in there. Open it, or I'll break this fucking door down!"

Finally, soft footsteps, hesitant. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open, revealing her pale face. Her eyes were red, swollen, and tear tracks stained her cheeks. The sight of her like that snuffed out my anger, replaced by a sharp, unfamiliar ache. But it was quickly swallowed by a fiercer need to claim her.

"Gennady," she said, her voice hoarse, laced with panic and defiance. She tried to shut the door. "What are you doing here?"