Page 46 of Caught By the Bratva Beast

The argument this morning with Maxim was the worst that we've had yet. When I finally left the bathroom, sure that he was leaving me alone, I started to explore the house, hoping that I could avoid him.

I've walked from nearly one end to the other, going through all three floors, looking at each bedroom, study, and library that there is. And I haven't found him.

It's a relief knowing that I don't have to deal with him right now.

I blew it out of proportion this morning, but if he'd kept questioning me, staring at me like he could see through me, like he was stripping away the layers of my very being to find out the truth that lay beneath, then he would have figured out I was lying.

I would have succumbed, and my guard would have fallen to pieces.

Though I spent years training to be able to lie well, it would have been nothing for him to see through me, realizing that there's more going on than he thinks there is. He knows how to get what he wants; people lie to him all the time.

At that point, my life would be in danger. I would have had to call Nicolo and tell him that I need to evacuate, and he would be pissed.

He's convinced there's a Bratva spy planted in the Italian mafia. He thinks that if I spend time snooping around Maxim’s house when he isn't home, I'm going to be able to find out who it is.”

Nicolo is underestimating him. Maxim isn’t dumb enough to leave information like that sitting out.

When I turn the corner into the kitchen, it's different from the one in Russia. The kitchen in Long Island looks like something straight out of an Architect magazine. Very sleek and modern matte cupboards and stainless-steel appliances. A huge center island with an off-white marble countertop and camel leather barstools.

Laura looks up as I walk into the kitchen, stirring whatever she's got going on the gas cooktop.

The smell of chicken greets me as I draw closer to her, glancing in the pan, and seeing the discarded lemon halves on the counter beside her. “I don't know what you're making, but that smells delicious.”

“Chicken piccata,” Laura says, stirring the sauce and nodding to the bottle of white wine. “I know it's still early in the day, but I thought early lunch would be a good idea.”

“You don't have to do this,” I say, looking around for the cupboard that has plates in them, opening one and closing another until I find them. “I'm sure I would have managed just fine on my own making something to eat.”

“You're the woman of the house. It's my job to take care of you and Maxim. I love cooking. If I hadn't worked for him and his family, I would have gone into culinary school. But times were different then. It was harder for a woman.”

“If you're sure that you don't mind cooking.” I put out the plates before grabbing the lemon halves and tossing them into the garbage disposal, running it for a second until they're gone.

“You don't have to worry about me, Miss. I have no problem with getting lunch ready for you. If there's anything else you need, let me know.” Laura dishes up the food, takes a plate for herself, and disappears through a door that leads to a pantry and then a door on the other side.

Raising my eyebrows, I lean to the side, trying to get a better look at where she goes. It has to be some kind of staff lunchroom.

Maxim doesn't seem to be the kind of man who banishes staff to a different room to eat, but maybe Laura is more comfortable doing that. Perhaps it was something established by her.

I gather my plate with the breaded chicken in lemon sauce draped over it, the capers swirling to the side, and a little bit of the excess.

The gears in my mind start turning as I scarf down my lunch. The sooner I get through the food and leave the kitchen, the quicker I'll be able to go start rummaging through Maxim’s study.

There's no sign that he's going to be home anytime soon, which makes this the perfect day for snooping.

With the fight this morning, it's not likely that he's even going to come home tonight. I've never known a man to come home after a fight. The few friends I used to have during college would fight with their boyfriends. The boyfriends would leave for the night. They'd come back the next day with flowers, pretending that nothing had ever happened.

Maxim isn’t going to come home with flowers. He's more likely to come home with a gun demanding that I tell him the truth. I need something that I can use against him before he gets to that point. I need to find out who the mole is, so Nicolo is ready to make a move.

The second I finish my lunch, I put my dishes in the sink before heading to the study.

Everything in the study is dark and masculine, from the black paint on the walls to the deep wood accents climbing up them. The bookshelves are covered with old books, and I wonder if he has read them all.

I walk behind the desk, pull open the drawers, and shuffle through the papers scattered within them.

Maxim is a very regimented person but the state he leaves his paperwork in wouldn't suggest that.

I sort through the papers and skim through most of them until I start to see a repetition of the letter A used as a name.

There's something about seeing the letter repeatedly that doesn't quite sit well with me. If it is one of Maxim’s men, this could be the mole.

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