Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(9)

He flicks off his shoes one by one and strips off his jacket, then folds it in half carefully and lays it over the back of the armchair. I watch as he rolls his sleeves up to reveal brawny, rippling forearms.

They’re borderline pornographic, to be honest. And, like his eyes, he knows how to use them.

“My name is Misha Orlov,” he says at last when he directs his gaze back to me.

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Maybe it’s best we keep it that way.” He leads me into the living room.

“This place is a freaking castle,” I say, following after him because I’m half-afraid of getting lost in this five-star labyrinth.

“It suffices.”

“Beats the trailer,” I snort. He raises an eyebrow and I blush. “I, uh… I lived in a trailer until I was seventeen. This is better than that, is what I’m saying.”

“I see.” Misha goes to the bar, leaving me fidgeting awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like a drink?”

I refrained back at the restaurant, but my stomach is full and I’d love to ease the strain between my shoulders. “Okay. When in Rome, I guess.”

A minute later, he brings back two champagne flutes brimming with beautiful gold liquid.

“Are we celebrating something?” I ask as he hands me one.

“We’re celebrating your full stomach. And Francesco’s continued good health.”

I laugh against my better judgment and follow him out onto the balcony. There’s a table set up there with two ornate white garden chairs. He sinks into one of them and crosses an ankle over the opposite knee. I take the other, though I stay perched on the edge of it like this might all go topsy-turvy any second.

I take a sip of the champagne and have to stifle a gasp. It’s like drinking starlight.

Speaking of starlight, I look out over the balcony. The night sky is huge and dark violet, studded with glowing white pinpricks. The stars almost seem within reach from here.

“Your trailer park probably didn’t offer a view like this,” he remarks.

I wince. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I don’t like talking about that part of my life.”

“Which part of your life do you like talking about?”

“More than you seem to think. Up until Anthony skipped out on me, I had a lot to be proud of.”

“Like what?”

I finish the flute of champagne and place it on the table next to me. “Anthony and I started a business together. Just a small print shop, but it paid the bills. It allowed us to buy a house and go out for dinner a couple of times a week. I honestly thought we were living the dream.”

“Until he made it a nightmare?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Humorless laughter escapes through my lips. “I thought my lowest point in life was living in a trailer with parents who hated me. But I guess it’s all about perspective, you know. Even a trailer beats being homeless.”

I reach up and twist my pendant between my fingers. For reasons I can’t explain, I feel like the floodgates have opened. I want to talk, even if all he does is sit there silently and drink champagne and watch me with those molten eyes.

“I’m being a little dramatic. I’m only homeless for three more nights. Then I get to move into a shitty little studio apartment on Elston Avenue and start a shitty little job at some shitty little company.”

“Crash on a friend’s couch until then.”

If only. “You say that like it’s easy. I… lost touch with my friends over the years. Anthony was all I had by the end.”

“Then I offer you my condolences. Life without friends is a lonely endeavor.”

I eye the champagne bottle where it sits on the bar. Misha follows my gaze and, without asking, rises to go retrieve it. I’m about to protest that he doesn’t need to do that, but I get a little caught up in watching him move.

Some men move in a different way. He’s one of those. It’s graceful and brutal at the same time, if that makes any sense. His muscles rippling, the firm cheeks of his butt, the swoop of his thighs, the breadth of his shoulders. His scent—cologne and musk—follows him like a shadow.

I have to blink myself back to reality when he sits back down and sets the champagne between us. I’m half-inclined to chuck the glass over the railing and just chug straight out of the bottle.

But abusing alcohol was always Mama’s move, not mine.

“I had friends,” I say defensively, twisting the stem of my empty glass between my fingers. “But then Anthony wanted to start the business, so we were both working two or three side jobs to raise the initial cash. Once we had it, we had to work overtime to get it up and running. All my friendships just sorta… fell by the wayside.”

When he doesn’t respond, I glance up at him. The dog tag on a thin silver chain around his neck catches my attention, though the inscription is too small for me to read from here.

“I like your necklace,” I say, changing the subject to move the spotlight off of me. “What does it say?”

It feels like a simple question, but Misha’s expression grows strangely distant. “Why do you keep touching the pendant you’re wearing?”

I drop my hand from my throat like he stung me. The silence in that moment is taut with an unspoken agreement: You don’t ask about my necklace, and I won’t ask about yours.