In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(36)

“Do you think the camera will add ten pounds?” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “I’ve been trying to watch my figure.”

Lauren smiled up at him, laughing at his humor. He smiled and winked in return, strobing lights flickering in the background.

Continuing forward, they entered the building, the heavy doors closing behind them. It was a flurry of commotion inside the Opera house as waiters dressed in black floated by, carrying several flutes of champagne on silver trays. They expertly maneuvered around the room, being attentive and making sure there wasn’t an empty glass.

Grabbing two, Mishca passed her one and as she took a tentative sip, she was pleasantly surprised at the taste. Ross had once told her that he had been served champagne at a police benefit, but complained that it had tasted like expensive beer. Whatever he’d had, Lauren thought, probably wasn’t as good as this, but it probably wasn’t as expensive either.

The room they were in was bustling with designer clad patrons, some Lauren had seen on reality TV shows and in movies, others she knew to be designers from Piper’s chatter earlier. No one wore anything that could be called mundane. It was almost a contest on who could wear the most outrageous, but fashionable gown. One woman swept through the room in a gown that was nearly transparent, only feathers shielding her important bits.

“Mishca!”

Lauren turned at the sound of a girl’s high-pitched voice. The owner was tiny, barely over five feet, with shimmery blonde hair and stunning green eyes.

Her shoes gave her the illusion of height, thanks to the five inch heels. They were nude in color, with spikes set all around them, and when she turned just slightly, the red soles of the heels could be seen.

She wore a soft pink gown that was high in the front, but carried along the floor in the back, the gauzy material flowing behind her. The top fit snugly with overlaying lace and sparkling crystals encrusted along the entirety of the material.

She paid no mind to the other guests as they glanced at her curiously, continuing forward until she could throw her arms around Mishca. Chuckling softly, he returned her enthusiastic embrace before setting her away with a grin.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she said glancing just to his right where Lauren stood waiting.

“Lauren, this is my sister Alex. Alex, Lauren.”

Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise as Alex stuck out her hand, grasping Lauren’s before she could move. She couldn’t be any older than sixteen, though there was something older about the way she carried herself. She didn’t have the same accent as Mishca, hers softer and lyrical.

Alex must look like her mother, Lauren thought, not seeing the resemblance between her and her brother. Whereas Mishca was all dark and brooding, Alex was all light.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Alex said, ignoring the look Mishca was sending her. “He talks about you all the time.”

Mishca grumbled something in Russian, but it only seemed to amuse her.

“I’m just being honest.”

“Your name is Alex?” Lauren asked.

She nodded, understanding what Lauren was asking. “It doesn’t sound Russian, right?” Her face grew serious as she cleared her throat. “But it’s a lot easier than telling people my name is Aleksandra Mikhailova Volkov.”

Even as she said it, her accent grew more pronounced, making Lauren laugh. “Definitely Russian.”

“Aleksandra, how lovely to see you this evening,” a man in his late forties greeted as he approached them with a very thin brunette on his arm.

“Mr. McCalvin,” Alex greeted pouring on the charm. “I’m sure you remember my brother, Mishca, and this is his date, Lauren Thompson.”

Mishca was polite as always, but when Mr. McCalvin turned an interested grin on Lauren, blatantly eyeing her, he narrowed his eyes on the balding man.

Lauren watched in bemusement as he turned beet red, stumbling over his words as he faced Alex again.

They spoke about the upcoming season—Roger McCalvin was a director for the ADT—a conversation that went right over Lauren’s head, but she did learn that Alex was a ballet dancer and was studying at a school in France—that explained the accent—and was hoping to get into Juilliard.

Lauren and Mishca excused themselves and he led her around the room, mingling with the other guests as they awaited Mishca’s stepmom’s appearance.

“Mishca, darling.”

As they neared a small cluster of people, Lauren didn’t have to ask which woman was Anya. With her effortless good looks and poise, she was in a class of her own.

Anya Volkov was beautiful in every sense of the word, but there was something cold about her that made her seem almost unapproachable.

She had pale, alabaster skin without a single blemish, white-blonde hair styled in an immaculate french twist at the nape of her neck. Her nails matched her lips, a stunning blood red.

But these things weren’t what made Anya seem untouchable, it was her eyes.

They were emerald, a green that sparkled like leaves blossoming in the spring. In her eyes, Lauren didn’t see kindness, she saw something darker, something a bit terrifying.

Alex was definitely the splitting image of her mother.

Anya hugged Mishca, air-kissing both of his cheeks as he did the same. Pulling away, her gaze dragged over Lauren, judging everything about her with a single glance. She might have flinched under Anya’s scrutiny, but Mishca reached for her hand, offering her support.