Page 26 of Fake Dating the Mafia Boss
They didn’t guess. They knew. The timing, the positions, the readiness, none of it is luck. None of it is Gleb being clever. Somebody told them. Somebody who knew the approach, the hour, the count of men, which is a very short list of people. It’s a list I do not want to start writing in my head, so I refuse to write it. I set it aside as a thing that will get someone killed the moment I’m certain, and I make myself sit in the discomfort of not being certain, which I hate more than almost anything in this world.
“That was clean information,” Roma says at last, eyes on the road. He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t need to.
“I know.”
“Pakhan, if someone inside fed them that.”
“I know, Roma.” It comes out sharper than I mean it. He lets it go.
Ten blocks later he says, “Pasha’s wife is called Lena.” That’s all. Roma’s way of telling me whose door I’m standing at tomorrow with my hat in my hands. I look at my city going by the glass and start choosing the words a man chooses when sorry is an insult. We drive the rest of the way home in a silence that’s grown a new and ugly shape.
Here’s the part I would not say to Roma, to Vadim, to anyone with a working pulse. Underneath the cold, underneath the dead soldier, the leak, the whole war tilting wrong beneath my feet, there’s a second channel running in me that will not shut off. It’s running on the woman.
It’s been four days since the count room. Four days since I had her spread across a table full of my money, told her she was still a job, then watched her not believe me with exactly theconviction I didn’t believe myself. One day since she marched her dancer family through my casino like visiting royalty, and my floor bosses are still not over it.
I have replayed it more times than a grown man running a war should admit to. The sounds she made. The filthy mouth on her. The way she dragged me down by the shirt like she’d die without me inside her, which is a thing I’d very much like to arrange again at the soonest opportunity.
You’re still a job.I keep repeating it to myself like it’ll come true through sheer reps. It hasn’t yet. I’m a disciplined man losing a slow, stupid war with my own attention, and the worst of it is that I keep catching myself wanting to tell her things. About the raid. About the cold thought in the car. Things a pakhan tells no one, that I want to lay in front of one specific dancer just to watch her face work the problem, because her face works problems faster than most of my men do.
This is how it starts. I know how it starts. I’ve spent my whole life making sure it never starts, because I’m a man who breaks what he reaches for, and I have a grave that proves it.
It does not help that she turns up at the penthouse the next afternoon to return a jacket of mine she ended up with, because the universe has a sense of humor about me. The jacket needed returning the way Vegas needs another casino. She could have sent it with the detail. She could have kept it.
Instead she’s here, which means she wanted to be here, which is intelligence I handle with all the seriousness it deserves, by saying nothing and watching her rob my refrigerator. My men send her up without so much as a phone call to warn me, which tells me everything about how fast the whole organization has decided the pakhan’s woman is not to be stopped at a door.
I’m on the phone with a man about a dead soldier’s widow, all ice, when she walks in like she owns the place. She drops the jacket over a chair, then starts going through my kitchen for something to eat without asking, in cutoffs and a tank top, with no apparent awareness that she’s standing in the office of the most dangerous man in the state eating my grapes.
“You have a kitchen the size of my apartment, and the only thing in it is condiments plus one sad lemon,” she informs me, head in my refrigerator, which puts her ass on full, frankly criminal display. I lose the thread of the call entirely. “Do you eat? Like, food? Or do you just photosynthesize menace?”
“There’s a restaurant downstairs.”
“There are nine restaurants downstairs. That’s room service for a hostage, not a kitchen.” She closes the refrigerator, opens the freezer, fearless, inventorying my life. “One lemon. One. Even serial killers keep eggs.”
I get off the phone. I don’t decide to. The phone just stops being more interesting than the woman bent over in my kitchen insulting me.
“You broke into my home for groceries,” I say.
“Your guys sent me up. Take it up with them.” She straightens, bites into an apple she found somewhere, looks at me over it. There’s a flush already climbing her throat. Her eyes drop to my mouth before she catches herself, and I’d put money on her remembering the count room exactly as well as I do. “Relax. I’m not staying. Some of us have jobs.”
“Eat the apple. Insult my kitchen. Leave.” I list it like an itinerary. “You’re very efficient. I respect it.”
“Wow. Romance.” She licks apple off her thumb, slow, watching me watch her do it. A menace in cutoffs. She has apparently decided the way to handle a man who could kill her is to torment him with fruit, and it’s working. The heat that goes through me is wildly out of proportion to a woman eating an apple. I put a counter between us before I do something undignified in the middle of the afternoon.
She leaves before I can. Smart of her. An hour later I order a crate of eggs sent up, a full crate, and decline to explain the order to the kitchen. If she’s going to keep invading, the least I can do is arm the place. I watch the door close behind her. I stand there in a kitchen that smells like her now, half out of my mind, fully aware that this is the most dangerous person who’s ever walked into this building, and not one of my men could lay a finger on her.
So instead of feeling things, I solve a problem.
Not the leak. I can’t solve the leak yet, not without a name. Forcing a name out of thin air gets the wrong man buried and the right one warned. The problem I can solve is smaller, odder, and won’t leave me be. A loud girl at a club mortified my woman a few weeks back by telling me, in a breathless torrent, that Cynthia Boon used to be a real dancer.
Nationally ranked. On her way to a contract, a company, a way out of nowhere, until a car wreck shattered her knee and ended all of it. The friend said it to tease her. Cynthia stood there wanting to sink through the floor. And I, apparently, kept it. Turned it over in the back of my skull for weeks like a stone I couldn’t set down.
I don’t buy her diamonds. She has diamonds. She bought herself diamonds with my card and enjoyed every second, whichpleased me more than it had any right to. Diamonds are easy. Diamonds are what a man in my position hands a woman to keep her at a comfortable distance, a transaction with a bow on it, and she’d see straight through another one in a heartbeat.
Instead I make three phone calls.
By the end of them there’s a man flying in from a clinic in Colorado. The surgeon other surgeons send their impossible knees to, the best in the country at exactly the kind of old, badly-healed ruin of a joint Cynthia has been limping on for seven years while pretending she isn’t. The first call costs me a favor I’d been saving for a war.
The second costs money, the kind with commas that make accountants religious. The third is to the surgeon’s scheduler, who tells me there’s an eighteen-month waitlist, then asks who’s calling, then says he’ll see what he can do in a voice that’s climbed half an octave. I book him a standing appointment. I clear whatever needs clearing.
