Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“A painter,” I say. “Or I enjoy it, anyway. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really enjoyed.”
Well, until I felt Dimitri hugging me, the strength and support in his body, before I heard the passion in his groan, his touch smoothing over me.
“A painter. Wow! That’s cool.”
“Ballet’s harder on the body, though. It’s like you’re painting with your performance, right?”
She beams, looking right at me, and I immediately know ballet has saved her just like painting saved me. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I can tell we’re going to be friends.”
The excited way she says this is disarming. Then she does something weird with her hands, like a little dance.
“What was that?” I say, grinning. I can’t help it.
“It’s nothing.”
“Just a little hand dance?” I ask in a lightly teasing tone.
When she bites her lip, looking down, I reach across the bar and lay my hand on hers. She beams again, squeezing my hand, and I know that’s what she was planning on doing initially. “It’s always so quiet around here, but not anymore. This place has become a little village with you and Mila here.”
Her innocent tone breaks and warms my heart at the same time. “Mila is… Dimitri’s future wife, right?” I let go of her hand to take another sip of coffee. I definitely need more caffeine to deal with the idea of him with anybody else.
“If her dad gets his way, sure,” Ania says, “but my big brothers aren’t as weak as he thinks.”
“He thinks they’re weak?” I ask. “I seriously don’t know anything about the Bratva. I only remember watching this movie where they’re all covered in tats. I think it was the Bratva, anyway.”
Ania nods. “Yeah, the tattoo thing is pretty old, but Dad always thought it was stupid. It’s basically telling the cops you’re part of the Bratva, making going legit difficult. Imagine if the CEO of Sokolov Securities was covered head to foot in tattoos.”
“I guess it would make PR stuff more difficult.”
“Yeah, a bit,” Ania says, laughing.
“What’s she like?” I ask. “Mila?”
“She’s nice, I think. Tough, but she’s scared. She’s really, really into computers. Whenever Mikhail tries to talk about that stuff with me, I just let it fly over my head. She understands it all.”
“Impressive,” I say, trying not to feel jealous or care. Dimitri lied to me. Because of him, people tried to kill me, but I can’t help it. The idea of Dimitri with anybody else is just plain wrong.
“Oh, that reminds me! Dimitri asked me to give you this.” She reaches into her pocket and takes out a folded-up piece of paper. “He made me promise not to read it. Annoyingly, I hate breaking promises to my brothers. That’s probably why he asked me to do it. So either I’m a sucker or a good person, right?”
She hands me the note, and I unfold it, reading Dimitri’s confident, clear script. Mila knows the score. She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do. I’d never choose her, Lia. Destroy this note after reading it.
Ania looks at me closely, then probably reads my expression. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m sorry…”
She sighs. “It’s fine. I just dance and spin and pretend not to see about a million things a day, anyway.”
As I begin to tear the note into small pieces, trying not to let that pesky hope flutter through me, Ania’s phone rings. “It’s Mikhail,” she says, then answers it. “Um, sure. I’ll ask.” She puts her hand over the phone, then says, “Yuri’s asking if you want your dinner here or in the main house. Yuri’s the butler, FYI.”
Being served by a butler seems crazy to me. It’s getting late now; the sun is almost completely set, but with all the chaos, I forgot how hungry I was. When Ania reminds me, my belly gurgles with a hint of anger.
“What’s easier for them?” I ask.
“The main house, I guess,” Ania says, “but not by much. They can easily bring something over here. Or cook something for you here. It’s not an issue.”
Maybe not, but it feels like one, somehow. I’ve been preparing my own food since I was a teenager, making it in the orphanage or the home, as they preferred to call it. Some workers there were kind and enjoyed cooking for the kids. Others didn’t give a damn.
“There’s plenty of food here,” I say. “I can rustle something up.”
“Are you sure? You’re welcome to eat with us.”
“I don’t want to…”
I was about to say be a burden, but then I realized how insane that would sound. How am I being a burden after everything that happened?
“Who else will be there?” I ask.
“Mikhail, Mila, Dimitri, me… Yep, that’s it, and you.” Ania puts her ear to the phone when somebody says something. “It’s Dimitri. He wants to speak with you.”