Page 122 of Crimson Tears

I stand to my full height with my hand over my heart. “You cooked dinner for me?”

He just shakes his head and I laugh, leaving the room to get some of the insulation out of my hair.

I may or may not have crawled around in the ducts at the tower. But I definitely did not carve a hole into a wall. That was one hundred percent there before I got there, pinky swear.

I quickly shower because the smell of Boris’ dinner wafts through the house, and my stomach grumbles through the whole affair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was becoming addicted to this man’s food.

But how could I not when he cooks every meal from scratch and flavors it at the same level as Gordon feckin’ Ramsay?

I rush back to the kitchen just in time to see Boris setting out a tray.

“We are having dinner in the theater room. My team is playing, and I want to keep track of how they do this season.”

Boris takes some bowls out of the cabinet and hands one to me.

“Who's your team?” I ask. I don’t follow a lot of sports, but one of my old friends growing up plays for Arsenal and it’s European football season.

“Chelsea.”

Of course, Arsenal’s biggest rival. Well, one of them at least.

“Who are they playing?” I add some of the incredible smelling stew to my bowl, holding back from licking my lips over how delicious it looks.

“Arsenal.”

That figures.“I’ve got a mate on that team, so I hope your team loses, no offense.”

He shrugs. “The stadium was sold out, so I do not really care. Either way, I get paid.”

My jaw drops open. “You get paid? Like you bet on sports?”

Out of all the things he could do with his money, mindlessly gambling it away on a sports team was one of the last things I would have imagined from someone like him.

He laughs, walking us to the theater room. I’ve only been in here once before. There are two rows of large leather couches in a U-shape facing a feckin’ huge screen that apparently had to be delivered in parts.

“I do not bet on sports, Kid.”

He presses a button on the side of the couch and a tray pops out for him to place his food on. Rich people are ridiculous sometimes. But I take advantage and do the same. Because why not?

Taking a huge bite I groan. This man knows how to cook. I might actually put on some weight living here.Oh well, being thick and happy is the best way to live.

“So how do you make money then?” I ask with my mouth full as he turns on the game. The clarity of the screen is insane, instantly transporting me to the field; it seems as if I could reach out and touch the green grass.

“I own the team of course.”

I laugh and shake my head because I’m not an idiot. “Todd Boehly and Clearlake Capital own Chelsea FC.”

I might not know much about the sport in the grand scheme of things, but everyone remembers when the Russian oligarch was forced to sell the team because of some questionable political choices.

Boris just chuckles. “Who do you think owns Clearlake Capital?”

“Not you, two guys co-founded it.”

He leans back in his seat, smirking at me. “They may havefoundedit, but I am the official owner as of two years ago.”

I shake my head in disbelief and humor because of course he owns a fecking football club.Of course.

“Is there anything you don’t have your hand in?” I ask arrogantly.

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