Page 20 of Claimed By the Pakhan

People act carelessly when they’re panicked, too focused on getting from A to B, never thinking twice about how they got there, and who could be tracing their activity.

I saw a transaction for one thousand dollars come through in my accounts earlier. My bank is connected to Fia’s for that reason. She’s still unaware I linked them.

I come to a stop outside of the hotel, slapping a hundred in the valet’s hand, letting him take care of my car.

I stride into the lobby, receiving a few pleasant looks from the group of women lounging in reception. I ignore all their efforts to get my attention, heading straight to reception.

“Hey, Emil.” The woman behind the desk flashes me a smile. Her name is Claudia. Fia is the reason we know each other on a first name basis. “She’s on floor thirty-eight, room fifteen.” She scribbles the number down on a card, sliding it across the desk.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking it under my suit jacket.

“How many times is this now?”

“Five, if I remember correctly.”

Claudia’s gaze deepens. “Her schizophrenia is getting worse, huh?”

I roll with the punches, since that was the first thing that came to mind when Claudia asked. “It’s a slippery slope. Just when things are looking up, life throws a curveball.”

“The story of every single person who has ever lived.”

“Hm,” I grumble.

People like me are exempt from the trials and tribulations of life. I lead a Bratva to cheat my way out of life. Unfortunately, being in love with Fia drags me right back down to planet earth with everyone else.

“Thanks,” I say, holding the card up, bidding the receptionist goodbye.

The concierge joins me in the elevator, clicking the button. I feel his eyes scolding my temple as we wait for the elevator to arrive.

I turn to him, frowning, noting his rigid brow.

“I know you.”

“A lot of people do.”

“I’ve seen you before.”

“That’s usually how it goes when you know someone.”

The concierge, unlike his oblivious co-workers, isn’t buying the bullshit.

“You’re here for that woman again.”

“She’s my wife,” I say, keeping my beady eye on him as the elevator dings.

“Wives who run away from their husbands normally have a reason.”

“Schizophrenia is the reason,” I grit, walking into the elevator.

The man follows, standing beside me. I watch him in my peripheral, curling my hand into a fist, the knuckles popping.

One more fucking word and I’ll break his jaw.

He turns and faces me as soon as the doors slide closed, the lift jerking upward.

I sigh, returning his gaze. This is the last fucking thing I need right now.

After staring at me for another beat, he removes something from his suit. “I’m calling security.”