Page 103 of Bratva Butcher

He looked her up and down with disdain and then turned away from her without even saying a word.

Ouch.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr…” Johnathon began.

Dimitri stared at me for several long seconds, tension building between us before he swung his gaze to Johnathon. “Dimitri Volkov,” he said, accent thicker than I’d ever heard it before.

Mrs DeShawn smiled at him. “Lovely to see you again, Dimitri.”

“You as well, Margaret,” he said, nodding his head once in greeting. “Andre, Joel,” he addressed politely.

Johnathon arched an eyebrow. A flicker of unease flashed across his face, though he tried to hide it. “Wow. Your reputation precedes you, Mr Volkov. Don’t you own like half of Las Vegas?”

“Three-quarters,” Dimitri corrected, shrugging a shoulder. “But who’s counting?”

“You, obviously,” I mumbled under my breath.

Dimitri narrowed his eyes at me.

“Quite impressive,” Johnathon continued. “I’mDrJohnathon Warren, a world-renowned psychologist. I own several clinics throughout London.”

“And I’m Richelle,” the brunette said again, placing a hand to her chest to try to draw attention to her breasts.

“I heard you the first time,” Dimitri barked, making her flinch. He looked me dead in the eyes, holding my gaze. “And…you are?”

Okay, so he isn’t going to blow my cover…yet.

“This is Natalie.” Johnathon placed his hand on top of mine on the table. “Mydate.”

Instead of balking at his touch, like I so desperately wanted to do, I manoeuvred my hand to grasp his.

Dimitri clocked the movement, scowling. He leant forward, bracing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers. “Natalie,” he said, rolling the word off his tongue like he was tasting it. “You know, you look so familiar. Have we met before?”

The dick.

“Nope, can’t say we have. And I would remember. I always remember rude people.”

“I’mrude?” he asked, hand to the chest.

“I’d constitute kicking someone out of their chair when there were plenty of available seats at other tables quite rude, wouldn’t you?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mikhail snickered into his glass as he took a sip.

Dimitri’s lips curved up into a small smirk. “I guess that depends on who you ask.”

I gestured to the other people around the table. “Why don’t we open it up to the floor, then?”

“I think it’s rude,” Johnathon piped in, and I wasn’t the least bit surprised with his answer. He and Dimitri were having some sort of invisible dick measuring contest, and I had no idea why.

“I think it’s fine,” Mrs DeShawn shrugged. “You see, you might not know this, dear, because of your social standing”—subtle drive by insult there—“but there are certain levels of class. Mr Volkov simply outclasses Mr Phillips, therefore, if he wants his seat, he has every right to take it.”

Aristocratic, entitled old bitch.

“One for. One against.” I looked at Joel and Andre.

Andre opened his mouth to answer, but Joel placed a hand on his husband’s shoulder. “I think we will abstain from participating in this particular conversation,” he said smoothly.

It didn’t end up mattering. The topic dropped immediately when nine waiters appeared out of nowhere, each one carrying a plate of food. In unison, they stepped forward and deposited a plate in front of each of us.

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