Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(44)



I head for the dining room, but I stop short when I notice that there’s only one person sitting at the table tonight. Just my luck.

She’s dressed in dark trousers and a cashmere halter in powder blue. Her blonde hair has been piled in a messy bun at the top of her head. As usual, she looks stunning.

“Where’s Leo?”

She smiles without looking at me. “Working. You’ll have to make do with me tonight.”

“Are you supposed to be my babysitter?”

She shrugs. “I’m just hungry.”

I hesitate, but I’m not backing down in front of her. I walk carefully around the table and sink into the open seat.

“Wine?” she asks, raising the bottle.

“No.”

“Really? It’s excellent.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Right,” she says, with a nod. “I get that.”

“What exactly do you get?”

“Well, you saw your husband act like a drunk fool all the time,” she says. “That must have turned you off of the stuff.”

I glare at her. “First of all, he’s my ex-husband. And secondly, I’ll thank you not to make assumptions about me or my life. Just because you know a few random facts about me doesn’t mean you know me.”

“Oh dear. Touched a nerve, have I?”

She knows damn well she has, but she’s getting off on goading me. Another thing that she and Leo have in common. They really are made for each other.

“We may be having dinner together, but that doesn’t mean we have to talk.”

“I don’t do well with silence,” she says.

“Why is that?”

She looks up at me. “It’s easier to hear the voices in my head when it’s quiet.”

I raise my eyebrows. For the first time, she isn’t smiling. Isn’t smirking or putting on a show. I think she’s serious.

But I don’t care.

“Well, I have nothing to say to you.”

“Are you sure?” Brit asks. “Because the look on your face tells me you have a few things you’d like to get off your chest.”

“I’m fine. This isn’t a therapy session.”

She laughs. “Pity. I would’ve made a great therapist.”

“I think you’ve got that backwards. You’re the ideal patient.”

“We’ve all got our issues.”

I shake my head. “No. No. We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Having a conversation like we’re… like we’re friends or something.”

“Trust me, darling: I’m under no illusions about what we are.”

“Great. Then silence it is.”

I grab a piece of bread and bite into it savagely, tearing it the way I wish I could tear into her. But it melts on my tongue, and I can’t help but give a little sigh of relief. I didn't realize how hungry I was.

I help myself to some pasta from the bowl in the center of the table. Brit already has some on her plate, but she’s barely touched anything.

If things were different, I might have asked her why she isn’t eating. As it stands, I don’t care if she starves to death right in front of me.

A door opens and closes in the kitchen, and I instinctively turn towards it, expecting Leo.

But it’s just a server refreshing our waters.

“I told you he’s not going to be coming for dinner,” Brit tells me with a spark in her eye. “He’s got important things that require his… undivided attention.”

“I don’t give a shit what he does.” I stab my pasta with unnecessary force.

She gives a snort, and I drop the fork before I get the urge to stab her in the eye next.

“I don’t care what Leo does," I repeat.

Brit leans in, her blue eyes brighter in the light from the chandelier above us. “Honey, you may be able to get away with those half-assed lies in the outside world. But not here. Not with me.”

“I think you’re projecting, honey,” I say, trying to muster up the same level of condescension she seems to be able to manufacture so effortlessly.

“I never project. I’ve always been good at feeling my own feelings. And I’m an expert at reading other people’s.”

“If you know how I feel, then you know exactly how I feel about you.”

“I do,” she answers immediately. “And even though I understand, your feelings towards me are misplaced.”

“Misplaced?”

She nods. “This is the Bratva, Willow. If you want Leo, you need to take him. Regardless of who’s in your way.”

There are so many things I want to counter in that one sentence that I don’t know where to begin. “I don’t—that’s… Jesus!”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to get my thoughts in order and my outrage in check.

“I don’t want Leo,” I snap at last. “And if you’re implying that I’m jealous of you because of that then… then… well, then fuck you.”

She raises her eyebrows. “So you’re saying you don’t care about Leo? You have no feelings for him whatsoever?”

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