The Hacker by Renee Rose

3

Natasha

He dies, you die.

Dima just threatened my life. Dima, the bratva bad boy I thought was the nicest of the guys in the Kremlin. I should have listened to my mom. She tried to tell me this. These men are dangerous, and they won’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatens them.

I don’t know how I could’ve thought there was potential between us.

I steal a glance at his twin Nikolai.

He raises his brows. “He’s pissed,” he says with exaggerated awe, like he’s surprised, too. Like Dima never gets mad.

I rip open the package of gauze with trembling fingers while he holds the balled up shirt in place over his wound. Every part of me trembles—lips, chin, fingers, knees.

I’m not even sure what happened back there. Alex shot Nikolai! —that’s what happened. I quickly unravel a length of gauze and use my teeth to rip it, then move Nikolai’s hand and the combined bloody shirts—his and Dima’s—to stuff the gauze in the wound the way I learned in my training to be an EMT. Before I realized it was too much trauma for me to stomach and set my sights on becoming a naturopath instead. I repeat the action for the exit wound.

I hear the ringing of a phone coming through the speakers. Dima’s making a hands-free call through the car’s system.

“Da?”

“Nikolai’s shot,” Dima clips. “He needs a doctor and blood. Type O positive. I can donate if you can’t get any.”

“Take him to the clinic—I’ll get Blake to meet you there. What happened?” I recognize Ravil’s terse voice. He’s all-business.

In the rear-view mirror, I see a muscle in Dima’s jaw tick. “Natasha brought a fucking Fed to the game.”

A wave of ice cold washes over me, and my shaking increases five-fold. The parts of the puzzle my shocked brain hadn’t been able to fit together suddenly snap into place.

Alex is a federal agent.

He used me to get to Nikolai.

God, I am such an idiot! How could I be so stupid?

“What?” Ravil asks in disbelief. “Blayd’. So what happened?”

“He was a rookie. Spoke Russian, that’s probably why they put him on us. He panicked when he got made and took a pot-shot before we had a chance to disarm him. I told Oleg to leave him there for the Feds to deal with.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Knocked out.”

“Why was Natasha at game?” Ravil asks, dropping the article.

Dima punches the dashboard, and I gasp at the crunch of hard plastic and the violence behind the gesture. “My fault. She asked and… I don’t know. I couldn’t say no because it was Natasha.”

“Blyad’, Dima.” Ravil sounds disgusted.

Because it was Natasha.

I flip that phrase over and over in my head, trying not to run too far with it. Part of me secretly rejoices. I was right—I do mean something to him! He couldn’t refuse me the favor when I asked.

But then the twisting in the pit of my stomach tightens even more. Because that means the betrayal Dima feels over my actions must cut even deeper.

“Where is she now?”

“In the back seat with Nikolai.”

“I see. I’ll deal with her when I get there.”

Another wash of cold floods through me. I nearly pee my pants like a frightened puppy.

“No, I’ll deal with her,” Dima snaps back.

I’m not sure what either of them means by dealing with me, but it can’t be good.

It’s probably really, really bad.

I just betrayed their organization and may have gotten Nikolai killed.

Dima probably meant it when he said if Nikolai dies, I die. Oh God, if they kill me, my mother will never survive the grief.

“Who is pakhan here?” The bark in Ravil’s voice makes Dima stiffen.

“You are.”

“Indeed. Now keep a cool head for Nikolai’s sake. I will meet you there with help.”

Dima purses his lips but doesn’t answer. The call ends.

My next breath comes in on a silent sob—one of those terraced, hiccuping kinds.

“Shh,” Nikolai says softly. “Everything will be fine.” But his eyelids flutter closed.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I whisper urgently, not wanting Dima to hear.

I believe Dima now. My life depends on Nikolai not dying.

Nikolai’s lashes flicker back open. “I won’t die,” he promises me. “It takes more than one cowardly bullet to put me down.”

Tears stream down my face as Dima weaves through the Chicago streets. I sit sideways on the seat, my back and arms cramping from the awkward position I maintain to keep compression on Nikolai’s wounds.

I try to catch Dima’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “I didn’t know Alex was a Fed—I swear. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll discuss it later.” He shuts me down.

I try not to think about all the bad things that could happen. To me. To Nikolai. To my mother. Will Ravil kick us out of the Kremlin? Will they shoot me and throw my body in Lake Michigan?

It takes about twenty minutes before Dima pulls into an alleyway and shuts the vehicle off.

He climbs out of the driver’s seat and throws the back door open. When he sees Nikolai hasn’t stirred, he lunges in and reaches for the pulse at his neck.

Nikolai’s lids crack. “I’m not dead, asshole.”

“Better not be,” Dima mutters back. He scrubs a hand over his face, taking in the blood-soaked shirt and Nikolai’s limp form.

“The bleeding has slowed,” I tell him.

Dima smacks his forehead against the vehicle’s door frame. “Get out.” He beckons to me to come out his side.

I raise my brows in surprise. I thought I was supposed to be applying pressure.

“Now.”

“Okay.” I climb out, and his hands are instantly on me. His touch is quick and rough as his palms coast down my back, over the globes of my ass.

I sputter in surprise.

He follows the hem of my dress all the way around the skirt, and I finally realize what he’s doing—checking for a wire. He thinks I’m working with the Feds, too. He puts his hands inside my dress and quickly checks my panties by brushing the backs of his knuckles over the front. He doesn’t linger long enough to humiliate me, but that doesn’t stop the hot flush from flooding my neck and chest, collecting in the hollow of my throat, creeping up my neck.

I try to shove him away, but he’s immovable, still completing his check, sliding his fingers over the bodice of my dress. I’m not wearing a bra, and my stupid nipples get hard when he brushes across them.

He chokes a little on his breath. I try to hold in a whimper. He turns me around to check the back of the halter, and then he steps back. “Hand me your purse.”

I grab my purse from the floor of the back seat and hurl it at him, blinking back the heat behind the bridge of my nose. He dumps it out on the floor of the Land Rover and sorts through it, obviously still searching for some kind of bug. He takes apart my phone and swiftly examines the insides. After he puts it back together, he does something with the settings, then pockets it rather than returning it to my purse. The rest of my things, he shoves back into my purse.

A car screeches in behind us, and a man I don’t recognize jumps out. He ignores us and unlocks the door to the building and a half minute later jogs out with a spine board. “Are you Dima?” He rakes his gaze over Nikolai inside the Land Rover. I step back to make room for the board.

“Yeah,” Dima says. “This is Nikolai. I’m a blood and organ match.”

“I can see that.” They are obviously identical twins. “All right, help me get him on the board.”

Dima climbs in to take my place near Nikolai’s shoulders, and the two men heft him onto the board, then carry him into the building. I run ahead to open the door, then follow.

Another car screeches into the alley and doors slam. Ravil and Maxim enter swiftly. Neither says a word to me as they pass, but Ravil’s harsh gaze makes me shrink. I melt backward toward the door, and Ravil must sense it because he stops and turns.

“Come into the operating room, please, Natasha.”

I note the please. He’s still polite, even though his tone brooks no disobedience. But then, Ravil always did play at being refined. He hides his brotherhood tattoos under expensive dress shirts and slacks. His shoes are always shining. If not for the crude ink across his knuckles, you’d think he was born to rule a boardroom, not the Russian mob.

I follow the men into a fluorescent-lit operating room.

The building smells like antiseptic and animals, and I can hear the bark and whine of dogs down a hallway.

They put Nikolai on a stainless steel table, and the veterinarian removes the gauze. “Who packed the wounds?” he asks tersely.

“Natasha,” Dima murmurs without looking at me. It’s like he’d prefer to pretend I’m not here. I get it. He must think the absolute worst of me right now. Hell, so do I.

“Well done. Are you a medic?” the doctor asks me.

“I’ve been through EMT training.”

“Can you put a needle in?”

I close my eyes and draw a steadying breath. I’m not trained in it, but I’ve seen my mother put in IV lines. “I can try.”

I walk to Nikolai’s side.

“No, in him.” He jerks his head toward Dima. “I need his blood. The bags are in the lower right-hand cabinet over there.” He shows me with his chin, as his fingers are busy putting an IV into Nikolai’s hand.

I scurry to the cabinet and open it, dropping to my knees to find the bags. They’re for animals, so smaller than human blood bags, but basically the same. I get the needle and tubing and put the set together.

Dima just stands there, his face as pale as his brother’s as he looks on.

I find rubber gloves, the antiseptic, and a tube to tie around his arm.

“Okay, um, have a seat,” I say to Dima.

He doesn’t look at me as he pulls a chair out from the wall and sits in it. I crouch beside him, my tight cocktail dress making it all the more awkward, and I swab the area, then tie the rubber tube above his elbow.

I palpate his veins. Damn. Am I really going to do this? But the need to contribute somehow, to try to right my wrongs makes me push past my fear of screwing this up. I channel my mother’s clean, efficient movements. Her calm in the face of anything. Deftly, I slip the large needle into his vein, open the port and let the blood flow in.

“That’s good,” the vet says when he looks over. “Put the bag down by his feet so gravity will make it fill.”

I lay the blood bag on the floor and sit beside it, at Dima’s feet, hugging my knees.

The room is quiet while the vet works on Nikolai. Vaguely, I hear him say he has to operate to repair a damaged portion of his colon.

When Dima’s blood bag is full, I close the port and remove the needle.

“Get a new needle and put it into Nikolai’s arm,” the vet instructs me, somehow able to monitor my actions at the same time he operates.

I obey, even though I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up. When I get the needle in, I hang the bag on the IV pole and release the port. “Um. Okay, I think I did it.”

The doctor gives it a cursory glance, then refocuses on his work. “Good job. You’re a big help, Natasha.”

I make the mistake of sneaking a look at Dima and find his icy blue glower firmly resting on me.

A shiver runs through my body. Dima obviously doesn’t agree.

And I can’t decide what scares me more—anticipating what Ravil, the ruthless mafiya boss will do to me or the knowledge that I forever lost Dima’s regard.

Dima

Nikolai’s wheezing makes my own gut burn with phantom pain. We’ve always been too close, he and I. Our lives are as intertwined as vines. The bratva has a rule—no family allowed. No wives, no children. Because we all become each other’s brothers. But since Nikolai and I were already brothers, it was allowed. Nikolai had insisted we stayed as a team, and Igor allowed it.

But that was old-world bratva. Here, in the States, Ravil runs a more relaxed cell. He and Maxim both have wives. Oleg has a girlfriend. Families are allowed. Children, even. Ravil has a five-month-old in our penthouse compound.

I haven't felt this out of control since the night Alyona told me the pancreatic cancer was untreatable. The level of adrenaline running through me has not sharpened my brain, it's only muddled it. There's a wild recklessness in me that could make me do something stupid.

I've already been too harsh with Natasha. I know she's scared, but I'm too pissed to fix it. Too terrified of losing Nikolai.

He can’t die.

Especially not this way, when it's all my fault. I was thinking with my dick when I gave Natasha the location of the game. I knew it didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t tell her no. Now I could pay the ultimate price.

I stand a few feet from the table and watch Dr. Taylor, the veterinarian Ravil keeps on the payroll for this sort of situation, operate. The fact that he has to operate doesn’t bode well for Nikolai. If he pulls through, he could have permanent side effects from this. Like a colostomy bag.

The fact that it’s a veterinarian, not a trauma specialist, operating on my brother without the full range of resources that would be available in a human hospital makes me want to kill someone. But this is the life we chose. I got Nikolai into the bratva because of a girl. Now I may have ended his life because of a girl.

Blyad’.

But Dr. Taylor’s good. I’ve seen him work before. He’s a serious guy. He may be a vet, but he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t seem to have any hang-ups or judgments about working for the Russian mafiya.

There are never any questions. He just does the job and takes payment. I know he’ll do his best.

“Is there—um, may I use a restroom?” Natasha asks. She’s peeled off her rubber gloves and is staring at her blood-stained hands.

I jerk my head toward the reception area because I’m still not ready to talk to her, but Ravil shoots me a look.

He’s afraid she’s going to bolt.

I seriously doubt it, but you never know. My judgment is obviously totally impaired when it comes to the beautiful redhead. I also never contemplated the idea of her bringing a Fed to our game.

I follow her out and lean against the doorway when she goes into the bathroom. She catches sight of me when closes the door, and her startled gaze turns frightened. As angry as I am, it doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve scared her beyond chastisement. Natasha wears the look of someone who believes terrible things are going to happen to her.

Well, no wonder. Did I actually threaten her life in the car? I didn’t mean it. I would never harm a woman, especially not Natasha. Natasha is my constant torture. The woman I can’t have but I can’t make myself stop wanting.

Damn her for twisting me up like this! Flaying me alive. Making me fail my brother and my organization.

Fuck.

The toilet flushes and the sink turns on. And runs and runs.

Nyet.Suddenly the images of every action movie where the hero or heroine turns on the shower or sink and then crawls out the bathroom window flood my head. Was there a window in that bathroom?

I lurch for the bathroom door handle and wrench it open. Expecting it to be locked, I throw half my weight against the door… and tumble through when it flies inward.

Natasha screams. The water from her hands, which she was washing in the sink, splashes across me. “Jesus. What are you doing?” she snaps, the first sign of push-back she’s given me, ever.

I step back, shaking my head. “I thought you’d left the water on and crawled out a window,” I mutter.

Natasha scoffs and makes a show of looking around the tiny bathroom. “The invisible window?”

She’s right. There’s no window. A fact I would’ve known if I’d given any thought whatsoever to the location of the bathroom with regard to the layout of the building. My brain obviously is still not online.

“How long does it take to wash your hands?” I turn it back on her.

Her shoulders sag, and she looks at her hands, flipping them over to examine them. “Yeah, well, I was having a bit of a Lady Macbeth moment with the blood.”

I don’t know my English literature well enough to understand the reference, but I make a mental note to look it up the next time I’m in front of my computer.

Like any time I’m not behind a screen, I feel untethered; yet with tonight’s events, it’s hard to imagine going back there. I can’t manipulate from behind the scenes tonight. Not when my brother’s bleeding on a vet’s table, and the woman I’ve vowed not to touch has forever shattered my sanctity. No code or hack can help Nikolai. There’s no manipulation of fate I can orchestrate to change outcomes in our favor.

I back out of the bathroom to let her pass, but when she comes out, she steps into the mini-kitchen area next to the bathroom. Examining the Keurig, she asks, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No,” I say shortly then sigh. “Ravil probably will, though.”

She snaps a fresh brew cup in, fills the machine with water, and places a mug underneath. When it fills, she makes a second cup, then walks past me into the reception area.

Damn her. I don’t want her fucking sweetness, and the girl is pretty much always sweet. It changes nothing.

I follow her in and watch as she quietly offers the coffee to Ravil and Maxim, who both accept it from her. She ignores me and walks back, making another cup for herself and bringing little creamers and sugar in for Ravil and Maxim.

I settle against a wall and fold my arms across my chest, refusing to look at her, even though her silent presence fills the room.

Like Ravil told me when I was driving here. I need to keep a cool head—for Nikolai’s sake. And that means keeping my fucking distance from Natasha, my own personal detonator.