Page 108 of The Wrong Brother

His eyes narrow further, and I can practically see that Italian mind whirring away. “Should I ask her to dinner?” he offers lightly, apparently deciding not to interrogate a BratvaPakhanat eight a.m. “Will that help her relax?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit, feeling helpless and frustrated. “I think she might just need time.”

Those were the exact words she said to me. I can still hear them echoing in my head, against my skull, like an omen.

Will she or won’t she?Why does it feel like so much is riding on her choice?

It takes me a moment before we reach the doors of the Four Seasons to realize that Frank has dropped behind. He’s paying a vendor for a paper, and half-folds it over, starting toward me with raised brows.

“Look.” With a wave, he puts it in my line of sight.

The headline reads:Is Denver Big Enough for the Brothers?

It’s followed by a split photo; on the right, me guiding Emma from the fashion shoot back to the hotel, a hand on her lower back. On the left, Andrei, smiling tightly at some kind of press conference.

They’ve finally figured out that there’s no love lost between us, at least.

“You didn’t see the headlines the day after the wedding,” Frank states, not a question. I shake my head, and he explains quietly as we enter the lobby, “There were a lot of interpretations of your speech. A lot of underground movement. It seems Andrei has been making an effort to quash any negative opposition, but your actions at the wedding have given several people the chance to speak out.”

“Good,” I answer curtly. “It’s about time. You and I both know that whatever he’s doing, it isn’t for the benefit of the people.”

“Have you figured out your play yet, Ruslan? You need to return to California soon, at least to stabilize the business before openings in the mid-west.”

“Not yet.”

The admission is murmured, sparking annoyance in my gut. Ishouldhave it figured out. I should be focused. I should have a team digging for as much dirt as possible, ready to expose my brother for the monster he is.

Instead, all I can think about is Emma.

The elevator ride back up to the suites is quiet, scented with coffee and pastries. Frank seems uneasy now, though I’m too distracted to reassure him.

We part ways in the hall. He turns once and looks over his shoulder.

“If you need anything,” he says, “you know where I am.”

* * *

I stand at the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows with a cup of coffee in my hand and wonder when exactly I became a man who stares at skylines imagining children’s bedrooms.

The answer is deeply embarrassing.

Since Emma.

After getting back from the coffee shop, I leaned in the bedroom doorway with my offering of pastries while she pulled on a sweatshirt. The sight of her face, pale and tired, sparked concern that I had to hold back. If I rush her out to urgent care, people will notice. If I try to push too hard, she might pull away.

She needs time to think.

The reminder is like an arrow in my lung, but I take a deep breath through it. It’s completely reasonable for a woman who was supposed to be a one-night-stand, turned into a hostage, turned into a contracted employee, to want to think over an unexpected pregnancy.

There’s a knock on the suite door and I turn, coffee sloshing over the edge of the cup as I curse.

“Blyat’.”

Emma pops out of the bedroom, her curls wild, eyes wary as they dart to the door. Hurrying over to it, she opens it and lets roomservice in. That’s when I notice the pastry bag discarded on the nightstand.

A young man rolls in a cart, murmurs and gestures, and leaves with a slight bow. Emma gathers up a plate of fruit and blushes high on her cheeks.

“Sorry. I love pastries, but I just…I don’t know, I just want…” She gestures with her chin down at the plate, the blush deepening.