Page 47 of Shattered Empire (Shattered World)

Looking down, I took in the soft, silken tank top I was wearing. It was white and fringed with a lace sweetheart neckline that prevented me from showing any cleavage unless I was leaning over. I’d tucked it into my black jeans and paired it all with black ankle booties and a red wine cardigan.

I thought it looked cute.

“My top is fine,Dad.” I rolled my eyes. “Why are you suddenly so fussy, anyway? You’re the one who set this up.”

The corner of Vas’s lip twitched. “I’m beginning to regret that.”

“Whatever.” I dabbed a small amount of perfume on my neck and the inside of my wrists. “Too late to cancel now.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Sighing, I slammed the perfume bottle down on the bathroom counter. “What is your problem, Vasily?” I demanded angrily. “You’re the one who told me this was important. Now you’re acting like a scorned lover.”

Vas scoffed.

“I am sick and tired of your bipolar, shit attitude,” I told him. “It’s giving me whiplash.”

“Ava…”

I held up a hand. “Stop,” I snarled. “The only time you say my name recently is when you’re about to make up some fucking excuse about why you can’t tell me something or to apologize. I’m done, Vasily. You’re relieved of your duty. My father and Igor can take it from here.”

“You need to understand—”

“I am tired of you telling me that!” Brushing past him, I picked up the small satchel from the couch. Purses of any size weren’t my thing, but I wanted to be sure I had my phone and money easily accessible in case something went wrong.

Which it always did.

“The only thing I need to understand is that you don’t trust me,” I snarled. “And I don’t want aSovietnikwho doesn’t trust me. Want to keep your spot? Then man up and tell me what the hell you’ve been hiding. Show me that you think more of me than just Matthias’s widow who’s in over her head.”

Crickets.

Well, that was slightly heartbreaking. Vas was one of the few friends I had. Or thought I had, anyway. It appears I put more stock in that friendship than he ever did. To him, I wouldn’t be anyone other than a mafia widow. Someone he couldn’t trust to keep the secrets he was holding on to.

“Okay then.” Turning, I stalked out the door of the hotel room before he could see the tears gathering in my eyes and the broken shards of my soul.

* * *

“Moving those assets around was pertinent to keeping the Saudi prince safe,” the man pontificated. “He was so grateful he gave me one of his diamond encrusted turbans. The Portland Museum was honored to have us add it to their collection, of course…”

Jesus. Was this guy for real?

Conrad O’Neill, or Crunchy Jr., as I was referring to him in my head, hadn’t shut his useless trap since I’d sat down for dinner. Vasily didn’t have to worry about me memorizing facts about our company. This asshat didn’t care what I knew about Arctic Security. He was more interested in telling me how wealthy he was and how many people owed him a debt.

I wondered if it was bad manners to slit his throat before the appetizers came.

“Good evening.” The waiter approached with a smile. “Have we decided on our orders yet?”

Pushing back a laugh, I smiled and nodded. The poor man had been trying to take our order for the last ten minutes, but each time, he was ignored in favor of another boring tale of how Crunchy Jr. had saved everything from disaster.

The man should write a book.

If he hadn’t already.

“Yes.” Conrad barely gave the waiter his attention. “I’ll have the sixteen-ounce ribeye, rare, with potatoes and asparagus. Also, a glass of your best red.”

“Very well, sir,” the waiter acknowledged before turning to me. “And…”

“She’ll have the house salad with light dressing and a white wine.”

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