Her Russian Fixer: The Volkov Brothers Series, #1

By Leslie North

The line between right and wrong blurs when a ruthless Russian becomes her dark protector.

 

Benedikt Volkov grew up in Chicago, but his family's ties to the Russian Mafia run deep. So when his godfather, Pyotr Mishin, steals millions from the Bratva, it's up to Ben to find him or his family will be forced to pay back the money. However, his careful plans are quickly complicated when an impulsive brunette forces him to become her unlikely hero. Ben hates surprises, and uncontrollable Lucy with her luscious red lips is a distraction that could get them all killed. But with an unexpected connection to his godfather, she may be the key to securing his family's future.

 

Lucy Paprocki may be reckless and disorganized, but she finds a new focus when her world is turned upside down. She's determined to find her real father, Pyotr Mishin—a man she didn't know existed until recently—and Ben Volkov may be her best chance. One look at his tattooed skin, muscled bulk, and penetrating stare, and Lucy knows Ben is Bratva. The mafia man may be hugely intimidating and wound tighter than a string, but Lucy will have to trust him if she wants to discover the truth about where she comes from. 

 

With danger lurking behind every door, passion quickly ignites between impulsive Lucy and methodical Ben. They may just be using one another to get what they want, but what if all they really need is each other?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie North
• Release date: Feb 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386208808

Book preview

1

Ben

The trouble started with a dog. A girl and a dog, to be more precise .

Hang on, Ben Volkov said to his brother Nik on the phone. Something’s happening.

What? Nik said, his voice urgent. Is it Mishin?

No. Ben lowered the phone and inched nearer to the brick wall, straining to see past the parked cars hiding him from view. Near the corner, a young woman appeared to be struggling with three gang thugs who were pushing her around, their yelling and taunts escalating to physical violence. By her feet cowered a huge shaggy mutt.

His gut knotted with disgust. He abhorred cruelty in all its forms, even more so because of his family heritage. The girl was obviously in distress, from her flushed face and harried expression, and the dog flinched and quivered each time the gang members stepped near.

He clenched his jaw and leaned back against the cool brick, his designer jeans and fine leather jacket out of place in this rougher neighborhood. Playing the white knight to a strange damsel in distress wasn’t his usual MO. Usually, Ben was the quiet one, the cool, calm, assessing one. But there was something about this girl, this situation, that refused to let him sit on the sidelines.

Knowing there’d be hell to pay from his brother later, Ben got back on the line. I need to go.

Nik rattled off a litany of Russian curses, blistering enough for Ben to hold the phone away from his ear for a second. When he got back on the line, he did his best to appease his brother.

Look, I said I’d find Mishin and the money and I will. I just need to take care of something first. Ben narrowed his gaze on the girl again. I’ll meet you later to adjust our plans.

You better have a good reason for this, bro, Nik said, though his threat held no heat. Are you at least in the right place?

Yes. I’m in front of the address you gave me. His heart tripped as the plaintive howls of the poor dog grew more intense. I need to go. I’ll meet you at the bar in two hours.

Ben ended the call without waiting for his brother’s reply. Adrenaline sizzled through his veins as he straightened his jacket then slid the phone into his pocket. It wasn’t his own personal safety he was concerned about. Hell, one didn’t grow up as a Volkov without learning early on how to fight.

No. It was this strange pull he had to rush to this strange woman’s aid. He was halfway to the corner before he even realized he’d moved. The girl turned and caught his gaze, her green eyes sparkling with anger. She was beautiful, he noticed absently as he neared the group.

Without warning, she rushed over to him, the frightened dog tangling around her ankles and nearly tripping her. She grabbed Ben’s hand and pulled him close, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek with her cherry-red lips. Her long black hair swirled around him, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla and his body tightened in response.

Darling, I’m so glad you’re here, she said, her voice determined and her smile overly bright. I warned these guys you were on your way. This is my boyfriend and he’s going to kick your asses!

Yeah? One of the thugs stepped forward, clearly unimpressed. Him and what army?

Ben inhaled sharply. He hated these overt displays of aggression, much preferring his drafting tables and construction tools to fighting. Still, when warranted, he could put the fear of God into just about anyone. He managed to free himself from the girl’s grip and slowly raised his hands to show the tattoos on his hands—a stylized sunrise over the water covering the back of his right hand and the small images of crosses and daggers on the lower portion of the fingers on his left hand. He flashed the gang members a don’t-fuck-with-me smile.

Shit! another said. He’s fucking Bratva!

The Volkovs were actually trying to distance themselves from the Russian mafia—at least Ben was—but these punks didn’t need to know that. Within seconds, the thugs were hightailing it out of there like their asses were on fire.

Wow! the girl said, drawing his attention back to her. The pink streak in her hair glowed brightly in the late morning sun. That was pretty damn impressive. I figured when I saw your tats you’d be helpful. Well, that and your eyes.

What about my eyes? Ben asked, moving the girl closer to the wall of the building and out of the line of traffic. Most people he knew avoided his gaze. He’d been told many times over the years that his gaze was a bit too assessing for comfort.

They’re very kind.

Her words took him somewhat aback. He didn’t quite know what to say to that. Oh, well…

She bent to stroke the dog’s head and whispered quietly to him, until he calmed. Up close, the mutt appeared to be a mix of English sheepdog and perhaps Malamute. Its black and white fur flopped into his eyes and its long pink tongue hung from its mouth as it panted. It’s okay, Pavlov. Those bad men are gone. They won’t hurt you anymore, she said as she scratched the dog’s back.

Ben frowned. Your dog’s name is Pavlov?

Yep. She smiled up at him again. And I’m Lucy, by the way. Lucy Paprocki. Thanks again for your help.

He shook her hand and his gaze narrowed. So, she wasn’t like most other residents in the neighborhood. Paprocki? That’s not Ukrainian.

Nope. She straightened and wound the dog’s leash around her hand. Polish, actually. And why does it matter?

He shrugged, disturbed far more than he cared to reveal by his insatiable need to know more about this strange girl with her 1940s pin-up looks and that lush, red mouth that just begged to be kissed. No reason. Just seems odd for a Polish woman to be living in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village.

Not so odd. Lucy started walking away and he followed. I like the international flavor here and the rent is fairly cheap, if you split it with a couple of roomies. She stopped to let Pavlov sniff a fire hydrant. You have an accent. Russian?

Brows raised, Ben rocked back on his heels. He’d moved to the US with his family at the age of six and considered himself an American through and through. Most people didn’t pick up on his slight accent, a remnant of years of speaking Russian at home. He waggled his tattooed fingers at her again. Goes without saying.

Ah, right. Lucy looked him up and down, and he felt that glance all the way to his groin. Then she started walking again, as if meeting men from the criminal underworld was an everyday occurrence for her. Hey, I know this is probably a really stupid question, but considering your connections, I wondered if you might know someone.

Because all Russians must know each other, huh?

She snorted. No, I mean. I don’t know. See? I told you it was dumb.

He found her fluster far more endearing than was wise, but Ben couldn’t seem to help himself. What’s this someone’s name?

Peter Mishin.

Ben damned near tripped over his own feet and only his quick reflexes saved him. He stopped dead in his tracks. Peter Mishin—or Pyotr in their native Russian—was Ben’s entire reason for being here.

It seemed to take Lucy a moment to realize that Ben wasn’t beside her anymore. She stopped several feet ahead and turned around, squinting at him. Do you know him?

Thinking quickly, Ben glanced over and saw a sidewalk café on the opposite side of the street. Let me buy you a coffee. You must want to sit down and rest after your ordeal back there.

The dog whimpered and Lucy caved. Okay. But only a quick drink. Then I need to get back home.

They crossed the street and took a seat at a little table near the end of the row. Ben ordered espresso, Lucy ordered herbal tea and a bowl of water for Pavlov. He looked around and realized his choice of venue was perfect. From here, he could find out what he needed from Lucy and still keep an eye on Mishin’s building.

So, you never did answer my question, Lucy said, once the barista had brought their drinks. Do you know this Peter Mishin?

Yeah, Ben knew him all right. The guy had absconded with two million dollars of his family’s money. Money the Volkovs were on the hook to pay back to the mafia, thanks to a lien, unless he and Nik could locate Peter Mishin and force him to return the cash. Then there was also the small matter of Mishin being a former close family friend and Ben’s godfather. Still, that sort of thing didn’t make for good conversation, at least not with a virtual stranger.

I may have heard of the man, Ben said cryptically, sipping his strong, black brew and turning on his charm.

Lucy stirred honey into her tea and smiled. Oh, that’s great. I’ve been looking for him ever since I moved here from Skokie.

Is that where you’re from originally? he asked, doing his best to ignore the warm weight of the dog, who’d flopped down atop Ben’s expensive Italian leather loafers and now snored away.

Yeah. Well, my mom and her husband, actually.

You mean your father?

No. I mean yes. I mean he raised me and was everything a father should be, but he wasn’t my biological dad. Lucy ruffled the fur on Pavlov’s sleeping head. That’s why I’m looking for Peter Mishin. He’s my biological father. Everyone said it’s a mistake to try and hunt him down, but I want to see him face to face, just once and ask him why. Why he left, why he never once tried to contact me or Mom. Why he didn’t bother to use a condom when he obviously didn’t want a kid.

Ben damned near choked on his coffee. He swallowed hard and forced himself to take a deep breath before continuing. He wasn’t a big believer in fate. He was much more of a control guy—the more he knew going in, the more he could affect the outcome. That’s how he stayed two steps ahead of everyone else. But this girl—with her crazy, pink-streaked hair and bewitching green eyes—had sent him for a tailspin without even trying.

His Russian name is actually Pyotr, but I’m pretty sure he goes by Peter around here. Pavlov rolled over onto his back and spread his legs, offering his belly up for a rub. Lucy laughed and the sound tinkled through the air around Ben like chimes. If circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have minded getting to know Lucy Paprocki better—a whole lot better. As it was, though, he had intel to gather and a brother to meet in two hours who would expect answers. So, he remained silent and