Page 95 of Emerald Malice

I’m still playing when my phone lights up with a text message from Mila.

MILA: Hey, whatcha up to? I thought we could order a pizza and watch a movie together

I answer without hesitation.

NATALIA: So you can report to Andrey afterwards? Thanks, but no thanks. Let’s agree that you stick to your wing of the house and I’ll stick to mine.

I send the text and put my phone face-down on the stool next to me. A few seconds later, it lights up with incoming messages.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I ignore them all and keep playing.

33

NATALIA

“Nat, please. Just open the door—the window, even! I just want to talk.”

Talk about déjà vu. Not so long ago, I was in this exact same position with Kat. What is it with me and the people I’m drawn to? I sure know how to pick ’em, don’t I?

The longer I think about it, the louder the little voice in my head gets. It’s you. You’re the problem.

“Natalia!”

My hands crash down hard on the piano keys. The chord that comes out is so cringeworthy that I immediately apologize out loud to the instrument.

This piano deserves better.

I abandon my attempt to play and walk over to the stereo, fully prepared to put on some music and drown Mila out. But she’s still shouting at the top of her lungs, and not even Bon Jovi at his best could top that.

“Okay, I know it was a dirty, rotten, no-good, lowdown thing to do. But I thought—at the time—it was harmless. I didn’t know you. I figured spending time with you and letting Andrey know how you were doing wasn’t such a big deal, y’know? It wasn’t that bad, right?” She groans. “But then I did get to know you, and I really, really like you. But I’d already agreed to report back to Andrey. Plus, he was just using my info to give you nice presents. Is that such a crime?”

My hand is poised over the play button, but I can’t bring myself to start the music.

“And yes, I had something to gain from agreeing to do what he wanted me to do. I had to look out for myself, Nat. You know my position. I just?—”

I’m as shocked as Mila seems to be when I lean forward and wrench open the window. “What did you have to gain?” I demand.

“Uh, well…” She looks around surreptitiously, no doubt trying to determine just how many shadows are lurking in the darkness with their ears peeled. “Can… can I come in so we can finish talking?”

“No.”

“Okay. That’s fine.” She fidgets in place. “Andrey is basically my… my shield, I guess you’d call it.”

“Is that Bratva speak? Because I don’t get it.”

She takes another cursory glance over her shoulder. “You know who I’m married to.”

“Yes. We’ve crossed paths,” I say coldly.

“Well, he’s been cheating on me since the night we got married.”

It’s a little harder to maintain my frigid composure. But I do my best. It’s not that I’m biting back jaw-dropping surprise—leopards don’t change their spots, after all, and cheaters don’t change their bedsheets—it’s more that I’m stopping myself from spitting in her face, No fucking shit, Mila. He’s an asshole. That’s what assholes do.

“And after we moved here, he’s become less and less subtle about it,” she continues. “I’ve walked in on him with, like, four different women in our bed already.”

Okay, I’m still mad, but my heart also hurts for her. Even when you hate your husband, it can’t be easy to catch him red-handed like that so many times. Or, I dunno, red-penised or whatever.

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