Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (91)

A Few Hours Later





She opens the door almost immediately. Like she’s been waiting for me.

“Isaak.”

I give her a tight, tired nod. It’s the best I can manage after my depressing evening with the Murphy clan. Cami is wearing a gauzy white dress with cutaway sleeves and a deep V neckline. I have to take care not to stare.

“You look nice.”

She looks down at her dress and then back at me. “Thanks. You bought it for me.”

“My taste is as good as ever, it seems.”

On another day, this same conversation would have resulted in a fight. Cami would have accused me of trying to control her by paying for everything she owns.

And I would have bitten back with some low blow that would have had her slamming the door on my face.

Which, of course, would require me to push my way in through said door and remind her who is boss.

The sudden little fantasy has my cock stiff as an iron rod in two seconds flat. That, and the way she’s looking at me now with those fierce green eyes.

“Come on,” I say gruffly. “We’re going out.”

“Now?” she asks. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“Do you have other plans?”

She purses up her lips in irritation, but follows me out of her room. We head outside quietly, where my midnight blue Ferrari is parked and waiting for us.

I open the door for her and I notice how her eyes brighten just a little. As though the simple gesture is something she’d been waiting for all her life.

I get into the car and we start the drive. Camila keeps shooting me little glances every few seconds, and from the way she’s wringing her hands together, it’s obvious she’s nervous about something.

“What?” I ask finally.

“I just… I don’t know if I should ask or not,” she admits.

I sigh. “It was predictably horrible.”

She winces. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s the nature of this life. Death isn’t just inevitable; it also comes sooner than you’d think.”

“I could have come with you,” she says. “For support.”

I glance at her and she blushes immediately, turning her face to her window so that I can only catch a glimpse of her profile.

“But I’m sure you had support,” she adds quickly. She clears her throat. “So where exactly are we going?”

“The Scottish Rose Garden.”

That gets her looking at me again. “Sounds fancy.”

I smile. “It’s just a big public park,” I explain. “And on occasion, there are events hosted there. Tonight, there’s going to be a ceilidh.”

“A ceilidh?” she repeats in awe. “Get outta here. No way.”

It strikes me that I would have had to explain what that is to another woman. But with Cami, there’s no need. Her eyes go wide with recognition and she looks instantly excited. No doubt she’s read about the traditional Scottish gatherings in some obscure history book that no one’s ever heard about.

The only question that remains is, why does that make my heart feel like it’s going to lurch out of my chest?

“I’ve always wanted to go to one,” she says. “Folk stories are my absolute favorite.”

“Some women might be more interested in the music and dancing.”

“Not me,” she says, coloring immediately. “I… I’m not the best dancer.”

“Uh-oh. Have I stumbled across your one weakness?”

She smiles. “Trust me, I have a few. Dancing is certainly high on the list.”

“Consider me intrigued.”

She snorts. “Prepare to be sorely disappointed.”

I park the Ferrari on the outskirts of the garden’s boundaries, close enough that we can still see the party taking place in the middle of the grass.

Two separate fires crackle on either side of the lawn, which is strewn with benches and tables in a loose circle.

Inside the circle, dozens of men in kilts and women in traditional highland dresses are whirling around in intricate Scottish dances.

“Oh God,” Camila breathes as we walk towards the ring. “We’re not dressed right. We’ll stand out.”

“Look around, Cami. There are people here dressed just like us. And anyway, you were always going to stand out.”

It takes her a moment to process the compliment. When she does, she gives me a sideways glance as if to make sure I meant it the way it sounded.

The party isn’t limited to the makeshift dancefloor. Smaller groups that have broken off to play games and listen to an old woman tell stories.

Cami clutches my arm excitedly. “Let’s go over there.”

She drags me toward the storyteller. We find a place on the edge of the group and sit down on the grass.

The woman telling the story is in her seventies at least. She’s got long, flowing white hair that reaches down to her hips.

“Isn’t she glorious?” Camila whispers to me, leaning in a little.

I laugh, and that earns a few glances from the people sitting adjacent to us, most of whom are couples. To their eyes, we probably look like one too.

As we listen, Cami’s arm brushes up against mine. I’m acutely aware of every touch. Every sensation.