Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (79)

“I knew… urgh… you wouldn’t… wouldn’t keep your word.”

I roll my eyes. “Look around, Maxim. My men were stationed a mile away. And I came in unarmed. Like we agreed on.” I make sure to raise my voice so that his soldiers will hear our conversation. “We may not live by the laws of the land or the rules of society. But we have our own code to follow, Maxim. And you violated it. Twice.” I look towards his men. “Is this the don you follow? Because I find him severely lacking.”

I hear the screech of wheels. In the corner of my eye, I see my men arriving.

I watch as Lachlan jumps out of the jeep before it’s even come to a stop. Bogdan is right behind him. The two of them are the first into the warehouse.

“Remember this moment, cousin,” I tell him. “I could have taken your life. But I chose to spare you. It’s the last mercy you’ll ever get from me.”

The moment Lachlan, Bogdan, and the other Vorobev troops burst into the space, I hurl Maxim onto the floor in front of me. Where he belongs.

Then the first gunshot rings out and the best bit begins…

The fight.





31





Camila





I’ve been sitting on the terrace for hours when I hear a noise. It snaps me out of my thoughtless reverie. When I jump and turn around, though, I force myself to stifle my squeal.

“Hi,” I squeak.

Nikita regards me coolly from just inside the French doors. “Hello.”

“Sorry,” I mumble self-consciously. “I didn’t mean to—if this is your spot or something, I wasn’t intruding, I just—I can leave. I’ll go. Sorry.”

She glides over to me and bends over like a ballerina to retrieve the book that fell from my lap. It’s still open to the first page. God only knows how many hours of staring at it since I first ran here after what happened in the garden, and I still couldn’t tell you how the story begins.

Nikita fixes me with a contained smile. “It’s a big terrace,” she says. “I’m willing to share.”

I still feel antsy and uncomfortable, hands clamped on the armrests of the iron-wrought chair I’m in. “It’s really okay, I’ll leave you to—”

“Sit,” she says. Her tone is regal, confident, but not cruel or demeaning. “I told you already: I don’t bite.”

She sinks into the other chair. There’s a glass table between us, but I still feel like I’m somehow encroaching on her space.

“It’s a beautiful spot, isn’t it?” Nikita observes, looking out at the gardens that lie sprawled out before us.

“Very British.”

She smiles. “I can’t quite figure out if you mean that as a compliment or not.”

I snort with laughter. “Me neither.”

“Sometimes,” she says, “I think I love this place. Other times, I want to leave so bad it makes me scream inside.”

I shiver at her words. She has this cryptic kind of doublespeak to every word she utters. Like she’s having one conversation, but in reality, we’re talking about something completely different altogether.

She still hasn’t handed back the book I dropped. Instead, she closes it gently and examines the front cover. “Gogol?”

“I’ve never really read any of his work,” I admit, trying not to give myself away. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“He’s one of Isaak’s favorite authors.”

I don’t know why, but I feign ignorance. “Really?”

Okay, so maybe I do know why I’m feigning ignorance. And it’s more than a little embarrassing, so I figure it’s just easier to pretend. Especially to his mother.

“Oh yes. My son has a deep sense of loyalty to his Russian roots,” she says. “Although he is more American than he cares to admit.”

I smile. “Does he know you think that?”

“I’m no fool. I’m on thin ice with him as it is.”

I look at her with surprise. Her tone is teasing, but her eyes tell a different story. For the first time, I wonder what her life must have been like. Being a wife to a dominant and no doubt hyper-controlling man. Being a mother to boys who would grow up to take over for their father, to rule exactly as he ruled. Maybe that’s what she meant about loving something so much and wanting to scream at the same time.

“Thank you for not asking,” Nikita adds.

“It’s none of my business.”

“Still, another woman would have asked.”

I give her a small smile, still trying to get my bearings. It’s not that she intimidates me. Not quite—or at least, not totally. It’s more that I’m scared to talk too much, reveal too much about myself.

I get the feeling that Nikita is a lot more dangerous than she looks. She’s got secrets behind those clear brown eyes, and she hides them well.

“How do you find the library?” she asks.

“Amazing,” I breathe, deciding that sticking to neutral topics is the way to go. “It’s the most beautiful library I’ve ever been in. And I used to work in one.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Oh, I doubt you’d know it. It was a tiny little vintage place in Chelsea.