Page 84 of The Wrong Brother
Despite myself, a startled laugh slips out. The man’s expression softens slightly in response, though his gaze remains observant.
“My name is Frank.”
The name means nothing to me, but something about him feels oddly safe. Not harmless exactly, but he doesn’tfeellike he belongs in the same dangerous world Ruslan occupies. I can’t help it because I’m curious, but I wonder how they know one another?
“Rus knows you’re here?” I ask carefully.
“He will eventually. If he ever checks his phone.”
That is not reassuring.
Frank reaches slowly into his coat pocket, and every muscle in my body tightens until he produces a silver business card instead of a weapon. I take it cautiously through the gap in the door.
Frank Moretti.
The card itself feels heavy and expensive between my fingers.
“I helped Ruslan when he first arrived in California,” Frank says quietly. “Years ago. I’m a businessman.”
My brows knit, and he clarifies: “An investor and a luxury brand consultant. When he started Lord&Lion, I helped him get it off the ground and threw in quite a pretty penny. We became…friends.”
Something shifts unexpectedly in my chest. I know enough now to imagine what those years probably looked like for Ruslan. Angry, grieving, rebuilding himself from nothing after being chased out of Colorado.
Frank watches me for a moment before speaking again.
“You do not need to look so frightened, Emma.”
“I’m not frightened.”
One gray eyebrow lifts.
I exhale slowly. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“A reasonable reaction lately, if Ruslan is still hell-bent on his revenge plot.”
The hallway behind him remains empty when I glance past his shoulder. No looming security detail, no politicians with dead eyes. No sign of Andrei.
Just this elegant stranger standing patiently outside my hotel suite.
“Give me one second,” I murmur, closing the door softly, trying to be polite. Rus gave me a number I haven’t used yet. One connected to the three men who traveled here with us. Today, two are with Rus. One is down in the lobby. Watching.
Frank Moretti,I text the number.Ok?
Immediately, three little dots appear. One of the men, I still don’t know their names, I’m ashamed to say, texts back,Frank Moretti. Clear.
Slowly, I unhook the security chain and step back from the door.
“All right,” I murmur. “You can come in.”
Frank inclines his head politely before entering the suite. The moment he crosses the threshold, I realize something unsettling. He looks around the space with the quiet familiarity of someone who already knows exactly who Ruslan Smirnovreallyis.
* * *
In the kitchen, Frank makes mimosas like he’s done this exact thing a hundred times before.
Not inmyhotel suite specifically, hopefully, but with the same calm confidence that seems to be a part of his very core. He moves easily through the space while I hover nearby, trying to decide whether this situation is comforting or deeply concerning.
Possibly both.
