Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (44)

“That’s the idea, generally speaking.”

The helicopter’s choppers start whirring around, and the amount of wind it creates is enough to push me back. Right into Isaak’s arms.

“Geez. Sorry…”

He grabs hold of me protectively. “Not a problem.”

I’m forced to pin the hem of my dress down to stop from flashing all of London, so it’s not like I can slap his hands off me.

And it’s not like I’m very motivated to, either.

He guides me towards the helicopter, keeping my head down. The whole time, I can feel his arm wrapped around my waist.

“Get in!” He has to shout to be heard over the choppers.

I get in with his assistance and he jumps in right after me.

There’s only one man sitting in the cockpit. He turns to Isaak as we clamber on and gives him a friendly thumbs up. Isaak nods, a spark of communication passes between them, and a second later, the pilot hops down out of the helicopter.

“Wait, hold on!” I protest. “Where’s he going? What’s happening?”

Isaak chuckles as he takes the pilot’s abandoned position and pats the copilot seat next to him. “Sit down and put your seatbelt on.”

“Isaak, the pilot jumped ship!”

“No, he didn’t,” he replies. “He’s right here.”

I stare at him with my mouth hanging open for a second. “You’re going to fly this thing? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, kiska? I never joke.”

“So in addition to being a Bratva don, you also have a pilot’s license. Oh God, you do have a pilot’s license, don’t you? You didn’t, like, bribe someone to give you a fake one or—”

“Camila.”

That’s all it takes. One word. With his voice, with his eyes, with his smile, my name alone is enough to cut through the thickening haze of panic and bring me back down to earth. Back down to him.

I swallow through a suddenly dry throat. “You better not get us killed,” I croak.

“Don’t worry, kiska,” he says as my heart does a little flip-flop just like it does every time he calls me that. “I’ve got you.”

Fucking traitorous body I’ve got here.

He hands me a pair of sound-canceling headphones and then slips one on himself. It cuts the sound of the roaring rotors in half and lets me hear him through the microphone.

He manipulates the controls with an expert hand, and before I know it, we start levitating drunkenly off the ground.

Nerves bunch in my stomach. “Oh God…”

“I told you not to worry,” he says confidently. “I know what I’m doing.”

And again, stupid as it may be, I believe him.

“Isaak?” I say as London slowly shrinks beneath us into a breathtaking map of stars.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this?”

He smiles and looks at me. “You said you wanted freedom. So that’s what I’m giving you. Freedom.”





17





Isaak





The door bursts open and Bogdan rushes in, wide-eyed.

“Heads-up. She’s here.”

I have just enough time to close the file I have on Maxim’s latest movements and history with Camila before the “she” in question comes storming through my office door.

Dressed in an ivory sweater dress and colorful beaded shawl, my mother looks every bit the commanding presence she used to be when she was an active Bratva wife.

But she gave up that life almost completely six years ago. She’s always claimed that’s what she wanted. Sometimes, though, I’m pretty damn certain she misses it.

“Mama,” I say, rising to my feet.

She glances towards the large bar in the corner of the room. “You haven’t been day-drinking, have you?”

“Not today.”

She gives me her famous glare. “Very funny.”

I smile. “It’s good to see you, too.”

With a little sigh, she comes forward and gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You look well.”

“Of course he does,” Bogdan jokes pointedly.

I shoot him a warning glance, but of course, our mother’s not the kind of woman who’s likely to miss cues like that.

“Oh?” she says. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, big brother, what’s going on?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask him.

His annoying grin just gets wider. “And miss our little family reunion? Never.”

“Bogdan,” Mama snaps, “stop goading your brother. And Isaak… I may be old, but I’m not blind, deaf, dumb, or stupid.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What have you heard?”

“That you have a wife,” she says immediately. “A wife that you apparently stole.”

I snort. “I stole nothing. I simply took back what was mine.”

“Does she agree with that assessment?”

Trust my mother to ask the most inconvenient questions. And she knows it, too.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “She’s here to serve a purpose.”