Page 56 of Emerald Malice

To my ongoing frustration, not even the peace and solitude of the pool house calms me.

I tear off my clothes and run myself a bath, hoping to drown the chorus of voices in my head.

So what you’re saying is, he’s single?

Andrey’s already got a hold on you.

You’re mine, lastochka. You just haven’t accepted it yet.

And under all these fresh memories, under all these confused emotions, a tiny drop of doubt creeps in, tremulous and unbidden.

Do I have feelings for Andrey?

There’s no doubt I’m attracted to him. He’s handsome and confident. He has a fearlessness about him that I find incredibly hard to resist. It’s the whole reason I talked myself into sleeping with him that night.

But attraction doesn’t equal affection. Lust doesn’t equal love.

I’m tempted to give myself a little release. But the only face circulating in my head right now is Andrey’s, and I refuse to masturbate while thinking of him. He’s already dictated too much in my life; he doesn’t get to invade my fantasies, too.

It’s with a sinking sense of failure that I pull the plug on my bath and climb out of the tub. Wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, I walk into the living room, only to discover Yelena setting out pasties on the coffee table.

“You’re like my fairy godmother, Yelena,” I sigh. “You always seem to appear when I need you most.”

She laughs. “That’s the mark of a good housekeeper.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re so much more than just a housekeeper?” Sitting down on one of the cushy armchairs, I gesture for her to sit, too. “Join me, please. I can’t eat all these pastries alone.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t protest. She takes the sofa and helps herself to a danish.

I spend the next few minutes of quiet chewing, debating whether or not I should pry into Andrey’s life or not. Why the hell not? He’s pried into my life plenty.

“So how long have you worked for Andrey?”

“A very long time,” she replies. “Truth be told, I can’t remember what I did with my life before.”

“So you know him pretty well then?”

She shrugs. “As well as an employee can know her employer.”

She’s downplaying it, but I’m willing to bet anything that someone as sharp as Yelena has noticed a lot in her time in the manor.

“Does Andrey have someone… special in his life?”

She stiffens so slightly that I almost miss it. “I’m not in the habit of discussing Mr. Kuznetsov’s personal life.”

Her refusal is polite but firm. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter that she hasn’t given me a direct answer. Her reaction is answer enough.

20

ANDREY

A flash of emerald green catches my eye.

That’s how I know that day three of this guerilla war has begun.

Since I took over this Bratva when my father fled the country in the middle of the night, I’ve been to war again and again. I’ve fought Greeks and Armenians, motorcycle clubs out of the Midwest and seedy Baltimore gangs toting sawed-off shotguns and attitude aplenty. I’ve sent them all packing, whether in coffins or police body bags spread across the five boroughs in tiny, bite-sized pieces.

But this… this is one war that might not end so cleanly.

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