Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (100)

“Another glass of whiskey,” he says without looking at her. I’m satisfied for the span of a breath that he isn’t giving her the time of day.

Then that changes.

He looks over and suddenly, the brood vanishes. “Have you done something different with your hair?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. I don’t even care if he notices. There’s no way that Isaak gives a shit about her hair.

“Oh, ya know, just ran a comb through it,” she says in a giggly voice that makes me want to mimic her mockingly.

“Ran a comb through it,” my ass. She probably woke up extra early to put curlers in. No doubt there’s a bunch of hairspray in there as well.

“This is more or less how I wake up,” she adds.

That one nearly makes me gag. Which is probably why I can’t stop myself.

“Did you wake up with makeup on your face, too?” I inquire sweetly.

Marissa looks at me with wide, shocked eyes. Her mouth hangs open for a second. I feel a tiny little kernel of guilt for putting her on the spot.

He shoots me a glare, but I pretend not to notice. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I don’t tear down other women. That’s not who I am.

But it’s what Isaak is turning me into.

“I’ll… I’ll go get you that whiskey, sir,” she stammers. She whisks into the stewardess’s area and shuts the door behind her.

“Is there a reason you’re being a bitch to the stewardess?” Isaak asks calmly, glancing at me from across the aisle. “Or is all that hostility meant to be directed at me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You’re doing it for me.”

I hate that he has this power. He always makes me feel like I’m close to hysteria, about to fly off the handle at any moment.

I know why he does it. It puts him in a position of control, whereas I’m left scrambling after my feelings, which almost always get away from me.

Who am I kidding? They always get away from me. For six years, Isaak Vorobev has had his hands on the reins of my heart.

“All that fawning doesn’t bother you?” I snap. “She’s practically tripping over herself to serve your every passing need.”

“No,” he answers coolly. “Does it bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” I say, trying and failing to mimic his uncaring tone. “She can fawn all she likes and you can enjoy it all you want. It makes no difference to me. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s clearly just angling to fuck the handsome billionaire. I didn’t think you cared for being manipulated or used.”

He snorts. “No, but I do believe in charity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I know what I do to people. To women, specifically. I don’t give a flying fuck about anything in this world but my Bratva. But fifteen minutes of my attention can change a woman’s life. You should know that better than anybody.”

I don’t know why I bother. There’s no winning with him. Because he knows exactly how to cut me. His words slice through me like the edge of a knife and my fingers start trembling.

“You’re right about one thing,” I say softly. “I should have known better.”

I bite down on my tongue and my entire body tenses. When that fails to keep the tears at bay, I twist my body to the side so that my back is to him and I close my eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel him staring at me. I pretend to sleep, but we both know I’m not.

“Pardon me, ma’am?”

I wipe away my tears quickly and turn to find Marissa standing over me with a silver tray bearing two bottles of water. I’m not sure if she’s overcompensating or if she’s just trying to needle me.

Either way, it does nothing to lessen my dark mood.

“You can just set it down wherever,” I grumble. Then I add a begrudging, “thanks.”

“Of course,” she answers with excessive politeness.

She’s definitely playing this smart, I’ll give her that. She’s amping up the manners so that she comes off as the gracious, put-upon server and I come across as the demanding, rude bitch.

Which at this moment, I suppose I am.

Disappointment floods through me. This is not me. None of it is. But despite the abundance of self-awareness that I’ve always been so high and mighty about, I still can’t seem to shake myself out of it long enough to stop the nasty words from escaping my lips.

Because every time I resolve to do just that, I glance to the side and catch sight of Isaak. And all I want to do is scream.

“Can I get you anything else?” Marissa asks, lingering.

“No, I’m fine.”

“A book, perhaps?”

I frown, wondering if that’s a crack I’m not getting. “Are there books on board?” I ask.

“A few in the back,” she says, with a nod. “I’d be happy to show you our selection.”

“No, I’m fine.”

She nods and heads towards the cockpit.

“You never turn the opportunity to rifle through books,” Isaak points out when she’s gone.

“Not interested in reading right now.”