Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(53)

His mouth forms a silent O.

“Shut up,” I snarl.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear you thinking it.”

“Then I might as well say it.” He shrugs, stepping inside and closing the door. “It seems more likely that you slept in here to avoid sleeping with your wife. Or avoid ‘sleeping’ with her, if you catch my drift.”

I snort. “I’m not avoiding either one. This is my house. And I’ve made it very clear that this will not be a sexless marriage.”

“If you were having sex, you wouldn’t be sleeping in your office. I’m not old-fashioned, but you really should legitimize this marriage with—”

“It’s been legitimized,” I interrupt. “We took care of that the night of the wedding.”

Konstantin gives me a pitying look. “Nothing since then, though? That’s rough. It’ll be okay, old sport.

Every couple has these dry spells.”

“What the fuck would you know about it?”

“More than you, apparently,” he says, gesturing to my makeshift bed on the couch. “For instance, if you want to fuck your wife, you should probably sleep next to her.”

“That’s a line of intimacy that I will not cross,” I say abruptly.

Konstantin shakes his head in amazement. “So what you’re saying is, you want the sex, but not the relationship?”

“She agreed to it.”

“Haven’t you heard by now? It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. You may not have much experience in relationships, but I sure as hell do. Remember Yulia?”

I roll my eyes. “I remember the two of you sucking face at Christmas.”

“We were standing under mistletoe.”

“For three hours,” I drawl. “Pretty sure you scarred Ilya for life.”

“The kid learned a valuable lesson that night: always knock.” He waves his hands as if brushing the story to the side. “Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that Yulia had to be in a good mood to put out. She needed to be wined and dined before she could be sixty-nined. She needed to feel like I cared about her before we had sex. If you’re just coming at Paige with an erection like a fencing sword, I doubt she’s going to be turned on.”

“Yulia was a moron,” I snap. “Paige is different.”

Konstantin beams like I fell right into his trap. “Maybe you should tell her that. A compliment might actually get you laid.”

Before I can tell him to stick his advice where the sun doesn't shine, my phone rings. I answer, if only so Konstantin will shut up.

“This is Misha.”

“D-don Orlov,” a shaky voice says. “It’s Borya… Borya Vasiliev. We were… we were just attacked, sir…”

It takes me a moment to place the name. Anton Vasiliev was one of my father’s Vors. The man died shortly after my father, but the business he ran was passed down to his son. A business that still operates as a clandestine front for some of the more minor Bratva dealings my men broker in that district of the city.

“At the laundromat?” I ask.

“Yes, sir.” He’s out of breath, wheezing like he’s on his deathbed.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

I hang up and sprint for the door. Konstantin is right behind me. He’s transitioned seamlessly into action mode. “An attack?”

“Yes. Vasiliev Laundromat.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Why the hell would Ivanov hit a side hustle like the laundromat?”

I step outside and signal to Sanka. He’s detailing one of the cars, but looks up as we approach. “Get me the keys to something inconspicuous,” I order him. “Quickly.”

He nods and runs towards the key cupboard.

I turn back to my cousin. “Hitting something insignificant is the point. Ivanov is sending a message.

The laundromat is so unimportant no one beyond the Bratva should know about it. But Petyr does.

And if he knows that…”

Konstantin guesses where I’m going instantly. “Then it’s only a matter of time. You can’t hide Paige from the world forever.”

I know I can’t.

But my God, it’s really fucking tempting.





40

MISHA

I grab takeout from my favorite Middle Eastern place on my way home.

I’ve been downtown all day making arrangements for Vasiliev, re-fortifying the laundromat and the drug lab that hides behind its walls, and moving troops around to compensate for the onslaught I fear might be lurking on the horizon.

In the quiet seconds between errands, I wondered inwardly what Paige was doing. How she was feeling. I contemplated calling her before my common sense kicked in. She would start assuming things if I called. She might even start hoping.

And I can’t afford that.

I carry the bags of food up the stairs and head to my bedroom. Our bedroom now, strange as it is to call it that.

I walk in quietly in case she’s already asleep. But I find her sitting by the window, a big cushion propped up behind her back. Her feet are tucked beneath her and she has earbuds in as she stares out at the garden with one hand on her stomach and the other on her pendant. She’s humming along to the music, her head swaying to the beat.