The Hacker by Renee Rose

2

Dima

“You did what?” Nikolai’s head nearly spins off his neck.

I’m set up in my corner of the luxury Chicago hotel suite where tonight’s poker game will be held. Nikolai’s the bookie. The games are his operation. I’m here to track the bets, vet the players digitally, and run security footage.

Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, is here as muscle. He sits in the opposite corner, near the door.

“I gave Natasha the address. She wanted to come,” I repeat.

“What. The actual. Fuck?” Nikolai gapes at me. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”

Oleg glances up, but doesn’t comment, which isn’t unusual. He’s mute, and while we’ve all been learning sign language to understand him, he still doesn’t have much to say, except to Story, his girlfriend.

I close my eyes and shove my fingers through my hair. “I know. I tried to refuse her, but she kept begging. I don’t know why she wants to come, but she does.”

“Her mother will kill us both—and Ravil,” he says, mentioning our pakhan, the boss of the Chicago bratva. “You know that woman is not afraid of any of us.”

“Svetlana is fierce,” I agree. “But she’s in Russia at the moment. That’s probably why Natasha timed her request now.”

“It’s not going to work,” Nikolai says. “She’ll ruin the vibe. I’m not letting her in.”

I grit my teeth. Nikolai and I are both generally easy-going, but I’ve been on edge the last month, and it has everything to do with the little strawberry blonde vixen putting those oiled hands all over my body.

I can’t sleep at night. I can’t think of anything but stalking her during the days.

“You’re letting her in.” I give him a hard stare to make sure he sees I mean it.

There’s not much I put my foot down about, but anything to do with Natasha makes me cranky. And Nikolai denying her entrance somewhere she wants to be? Not gonna happen.

A muscle twitches in Nikolai’s jaw. “You are such a mudak. How many months have you been stringing this girl along? You won’t even ask her out. That’s why she asked to come to this game. She’s trying to get past your resistance. Are you so fucking blind you can’t see it?”

My fingers clench in a fist over my keyboard. The thin band of Alyona’s ring bites into my skin on my little finger, the reminder of why I will never ask Natasha out. I want to throw something at my brother.

I refuse to even consider whether he’s right.

Natasha and I are not going to happen.

Ever.

I made a promise to Alyona, and I don’t break my promises.

“I’m not letting her in,” Nikolai repeats stubbornly.

I stand from my workstation. Oleg shifts forward in his chair like he’s ready to break up a fight if we throw down over a woman who’s not even my girlfriend. “She’s already in. I invited her. End of fucking story.”

Nikolai frowns at me, nostrils flaring. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “But when I give you the signal, you get her the fuck out of here. Understood?”

I hesitate. Of course, I know Nikolai’s right. Natasha is the opposite of the kind of player we want. She will turn our serious high-stakes poker game into something low-stakes and frivolous. We won’t make any money. Worse, the regulars will be pissed at the interruption of the usual vibe.

I nod. “Da.”

Oleg sits back in his chair again.

“You think this is weird, right?” Nikolai asks Oleg. We’re doing a better job including him in conversations these days, now that his girlfriend, Story, has forced him to interact more.

Oleg shrugs, but nods, shooting me an apologetic look.

“Yeah, I know,” I concede.

Nikolai switches on the background music. A tap sounds at the door, and Oleg opens it, letting Adrian, one of our soldiers in. He’s been serving as bartender since Pavel decided to move to L.A. to be with his girl.

Adrian gets to work, unpacking and arranging bottles of liquor on the table provided by the hotel. When Cari, the woman Nikolai hires to deal the cards shows up, I’m reminded of why Natasha shouldn’t be welcome here.

Cari is great. Smart, keeps her mouth shut and is a great dealer. But she’s in a slinky leopard-print dress with cut-outs on both sides.

Natasha will probably show up in her jeans and a fitted t-shirt. She has the quintessential American teen look, even though she’s not American or a teen.

I settle into my work station—the place I’m most comfortable. If I had it my way—I’d never have to interact with the outside world. I’d just stay in the Kremlin, operating from a keyboard and a screen to manipulate my environment.

Within a half an hour, the knocks start coming on the door.

Zane shows up first. He’s a douchy twenty-one-year-old college student. Smart kid, goes to Northwestern. He has a lot of talent. Last year he paid his entire year’s tuition with his gambling winnings. But now he’s lost his edge. One of our mudak players introduced him to the wonders of strip clubs and blow, and now the guy has lost focus.

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.

“Oh Jesus, oh fuck,” one of the players chants as he and the rest of the players scramble to their feet and back up.

Adrian points a gun, first at Alex, then looping around the room.

“Put it away,” I order. “Get everyone out of here before the cops show. Use the back stairs. Now.”

I run to Nikolai’s side and crouch down. He’s still conscious, but he’s bleeding a lot. I throw his arm around my shoulders and struggle to bring us both to our feet.

“Don’t kill him,” I warn Oleg, who’s searching Alex’s unconscious form. Not that I have to tell him that. He doesn’t kill frivolously or without orders. “Leave him here for the Feds to take care of.” Oleg nods and helps Adrian herd the players out of the room.

Natasha’s flattened herself against the wall by the door, her green eyes wide, her face drained of color. “Wh-what happened?” she has the nerve to ask me.

“Move it. You’re coming with me,” I tell her harshly, lifting my chin toward the door.

Her fingers scramble on the handle, and then she throws the door open wide, sending a skittish glance over her shoulder as she scoots out.

“Elevator.” I say the word like a curse. Like I could punish her with the tone of my voice alone.

I can’t believe what she’s done to me.

My brother’s been shot.

All because of her. Because I trusted her.

She presses the button over and over again until the elevator arrives, and the three of us step in.

Nikolai’s steps are clumsy, and he’s heavy on my shoulder, but he’s awake, a goofy grin on his face. “I can’t believe that fucker shot me,” he mutters as the elevator door shuts. “I seriously doubt that was the procedure he learned at Quantico.”

“Why… I don’t understand,” Natasha whimpers.

“Shut up,” I snap. “Now listen to me. You are going to get on the other side of Nikolai and wrap your arm around his waist. Put your purse in front of the blood. When those doors open, you’re going to walk out with a big fucking smile on your face, like we’re all going out to eat together. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Her face is pale, and she sounds breathless. “I’ve got it.”

The doors ding and open. “So, where are we going to dinner?” Nikolai asks conversationally, his accent stronger with the pain.

I hear sirens in the distance. No doubt someone called the cops when they heard the gunshot.

“What are you in the mood for?” I walk as swiftly as I can without drawing attention to us. The moment we’re outside, I detach myself from Nikolai and go running for the Land Rover. Natasha is smart enough to keep walking as best she can, holding up Nikolai’s weight.

As soon as I get to my Mercedes SUV, I jump in and start it up, backing out and straight down the aisle until Natasha and Nikolai get close in the rearview mirror.

I stop, hop out and throw open the door to the backseat. “Get in,” I order Natasha.

She climbs in, and I help Nikolai, which is hard because he’s starting to go limp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter as I finally manage to get him in. He doesn’t stay upright on the seat, though. He spills over toward Natasha.

I yank my shirt off and ball it up. “Hold this to his wound,” I bark. I roll Nikolai a little to check his back for blood.

“Okay, the bullet went through. That’s good,” I tell Nikolai. “Hold pressure on this side, too.”

Natasha takes my shirt from me. “Do you have a first aid kit in here? With gauze? I need to pack the wound.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that Natasha would be capable in a pinch. Her mother’s a homebirth midwife, and she’s been unofficially assisting since she was a kid. I’m too angry to admire it now, though.

I reach under the front seat and pull out the med kit, opening it up. I toss the roll of gauze on the seat beside Nikolai.

“Pack it.” I send her a narrowed gaze. “He dies, you die,” I tell her flatly.

The color drains from her face, and she stares at me with wide frightened eyes. I register her fear as pain in my own body. A sick twist of my gut for being such a cock-sucker to someone I care about. Threatening her life is unforgivable. Something we won’t recover from.

But there is no we. That’s what I have to remember.

There is no we now, nor can there ever be.

“Little harsh, no?” Nikolai mumbles right before I slam the door.