Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Clearing my throat, I pitch my voice deeper. “What the hell are you doing up here?”
There. That sounded like a maybe-eighteen-year-old. One with attitude. I think older boys like that.
A speculative gleam appears in his eyes, mixing with a hint of amusement. “What are you doing up here?”
I scoff. “Nice try. That’s my room back there.” I jab my thumb toward my bedroom and channel Papa at his bossiest. “Now answer my question. What are you doing in my father’s office?”
His voice goes ice cold. “Your father’s?” A hard mask drops over his face, all hints of boyishness disappearing from his features. The man looking at me now is as dark and dangerous as any of my father’s enforcers. “You’re Alina? Molotov’s thirteen-year-old daughter?”
“I’m almost fourteen!” Dammit, that came out sounding like I’m all of ten. So much for convincing him I’m close to his age, whatever that is. Calling upon generations of Molotov arrogance, I ask as haughtily as I can manage, “How old are you?”
In truth, I’m not sure I want to know anymore. Or to be anywhere near him. While the boy intrigued me, the man scares me. There’s derision in his dark, almost-black eyes as he stares at me now. Derision and something else… something frightening.
His voice turns lethally soft. “That’s none of your business, little girl. Run to your father and tell him his plan didn’t work. I’m not taking the bait, no matter how prettily packaged it may be.”
Bait? What is he—?
Then it dawns on me. He’s referring to me.
I’m the prettily packaged bait.
My face turns hot again, but this time with pure, undiluted anger. “Fuck you. I’m no bait.”
“Aren’t you?” He rakes his gaze over me, a cruel curve appearing on his lips. “Why else would they dangle you in front of me dressed like that?”
“Nobody’s dangling me!” I want to slap him. I want to claw his eyes out. Mama likes me to look pretty, true, but it’s a status thing for her and Papa. Like the caviar and the fancy cheese. My brothers have to dress up when we have company too; that’s just how we were raised. Fuming, I pointedly drag my gaze over him, from the top of his black hair to the shiny tips of his shoes. “Are they dangling you?”
Because he’s dressed in evening attire also. I’m so used to seeing men in tuxes and suits that I didn’t register his clothes at first. But they’re nice, as fancy as anything my father and brothers wear. His black tuxedo jacket hugs his broad shoulders before tapering into his lean waist, and his pants fit his long, athletic legs perfectly. His shirt is a crisp, gleaming white, highlighting the olive hue of his skin and the stark black of his bowtie. And above it—wait, is that a tattoo peeking out of the starched collar of his shirt?
He gives a short, sharp bark of laughter, but there’s no amusement in the sound, nothing but that cruel derision. “Clever child, aren’t you? A Molotov in the truest sense of the word.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not a child.” Then I process the second part of his remark, and a peculiar suspicion sprouts within me. I narrow my eyes. “Who are you again?”
He gives me a mocking bow. “Alexei Leonov, at your service.”
And with that bombshell, he turns on his heel and heads toward the stairs as if he has every right to be here.
I’m still in shock as Papa introduces me to the guests sitting around the long dining table while Mama casts me looks that promise retribution for my lateness. None of my brothers are here today. Nikolai is serving in the army, Konstantin flat-out refuses to come to these events, and Valery is attending summer school in Amsterdam. Good for them. I wish I were anywhere but here, with him.
Alexei Leonov.
He’s not here by himself either. His father, Boris, is also my parents’ guest tonight, which is about as insane as the Montagues hosting the Capulets. Okay, maybe that’s too dramatic—we’re not actively at war with the Leonovs, and I’m certainly no Juliet—but our families are far from friendly. The animosity goes all the way back to the time when Alexei’s grandfather framed mine for disloyalty to the Communist regime and got him sent away to a Siberian labor camp. My grandfather somehow made it out after two years and promptly turned the tables on his enemy, getting him sent away to the labor camp on a similarly trumped-up charge.
Yep, good old Soviet fun.
In any case, the Leonovs are bad news. That’s been drilled into me since I was old enough to walk. They may be almost as rich and powerful as we are, but they lack our sophistication and polish. They’re basically extremely wealthy thugs, their wealth acquired through even more unsavory means than ours. In the past, a fair amount of blood was spilled between our families’ underlings, and in recent years, Papa would often come home in a terrible mood because of something the Leonovs had done, like undercutting him on a business deal or sabotaging some factory.