Page 56 of Sinful Promise

“Good morning,” I greet Irina, trying to sound as perky as possible. “How did you sleep?” Besides the weather, I have nothing else to talk to her about. I suck at making small talk, especially with a woman like her. She is so out of my league. I’m afraid to ask her about her work life. Roman claims they’re friends, but I’m still suspicious. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has lied to me to manipulate the situation.

“Like a baby. I usually do.”

Lucky for her, she doesn’t have a price on her head. I keep my thoughts to myself. Growing up with my douchebag of a father, I learned how to quell my sarcasm, and if Irina is here to help Roman, she’s helping me. I need her as my ally.

How long will this mafia feud continue? The timeline and plan of action have not been shared with me. Roman doesn’t appear to be overly stressed. If anything, he’s too calm. Is he telling me everything?

The threat of imminent violence or even death is never far from my mind. I’m only functioning from the adrenaline rush of the stud sharing my bed. I woke up last night and found him curled around me. I held my breath and prayed it would never end.

I wonder how much Irina knows about me. She knows my father’s name, which I find strange. I’ve never heard him mention the name Irina, and I can’t imagine their paths crossing. She knows several languages, which is unusual but not unheard of. In fact, most adults my age know English as a second language. In Belarus, most of us choose English over German in school.

I’d like to be friends with Irina. She seems to know me without me having to say much. If she’s familiar with the players in the criminal world, maybe she’s an undercover agent who’s gone rogue or is part of Roman’s organization.

I’ve never had the opportunity to live on my terms, and these few days on the yacht have shown me what I’ve been missing. Freedom is not about drinking and dancing all night. It’s about having a choice in deciding who you spend your time with. I want to share my life with someone I care about. A life where we both work, come home, share our day, and eat dinner together. We can enjoy each other’s company and take a vacation every year. Maybe there is a family, maybe there isn’t. This romance with Roman has taught me so much. Not just the sex. Although making love under the moon, on the deck, in the bed…who knows where next, is nothing to complain about.

Alex joins us, looking refreshed in a polo shirt and jeans. He’s wearing flip-flops again. I imagine he loves being in a country with hot summer days. I doubt he ever gets a chance to wear sandals or flip-flops in Russia. “What’s it going to be today, girls?” he asks, accepting a Bloody Mary from the steward who appears out of nowhere. I’m beginning to think this deck has trap doors and secret passageways.

“I have no clue,” I reply in all honesty. “Are we off the coast of Italy?”

“We are indeed.” Alex sips his drink. “What you see out there is called the Tuscan Archipelago, which comprises seven islands.”

“Seven?” My interest is piqued. “I’ve heard about Eastern Europeans and Russians traveling to the Black Sea in the summer for its nice beaches. I never thought about islands off the Italian coast.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. The beaches and sunny weather are amazing, and the food is out of this world. Everything is fresh, the pasta, the bread, the vegetables, and fruit, and it’s all served with bottles of wine.” Alex grins.

“You mean you drink wine in Italy, not vodka?” I tease.

“Italy and France have very good wines, but France is the only country that makes Bordeaux.”

“What is Bordeaux?”

“A specific red wine. There is a variety of other Bordeaux’s and they can be red, white, or sparking wine,” Irina answers. “Other countries and wineries make merlots and other reds, but France is known for Bordeaux. It’s stronger tasting than a Chianti, which is made from Tuscan grapes. Just look for a rooster on the label around the neck of the bottle. It ensures the wine is from Tuscan grapes.”

A handsome steward shows up with a tray of bellinis, and Irina helps herself to one. I pass on the bellini and ask him to bring me a mimosa. As he leaves to fetch my drink, I notice Irina checking out his ass. I really can’t blame her. He looks Russian and has a nice athletic build.

I follow Irina to the buffet. Today, there is an assortment of breakfast meats, cheeses, made-to-order omelets, and Belgian waffles. The smell of cinnamon French toast makes my mouth water.

“Don’t feel bad if you’re overwhelmed by wines,” Irina reassures me. “A person can spend their entire life learning about them and still not know everything. We pick up information from others, and I’ve visited numerous wineries. Most wineries offer tours that are both educational and fun. I happen to know some owners of Italian vineyards. Their estates are massive. I spent a night in one of the mansions in Tuscany. I love speaking Italian.”

“I wish I knew half of what you know. I can’t possibly keep up with you. The way you speak and dress and carry yourself. Hell, you’re even fluent in a number of languages. It’s enough to make me dizzy,” I confess without admitting that she makes me feel like the ugly duckling standing next to a swan. “There are heels in my closet that I’m afraid to walk in. I’ll probably never wear them.”

“Oh, well, I can help you with that. I’m good at fitting into any social setting. My mother worked undercover for the French government. I picked up many tricks of the trade from her. I can teach you anything you want to know. We should hang out for an afternoon. It would be fun.”

“I’d like that very much. I could use the help.”

“Women who are secure aren’t afraid to share what they know with other women.” Her knowing smile makes me wonder if she’s referring to clothes, makeup, or sexual positions.

Irina orders a simple breakfast of turkey sausage and an egg white omelet, and I’m tempted to do the same if it will give me her body. She must work out with weights because her arms are extremely toned. I need to find the gym on this vessel and the motivation. Maybe there’s a personal trainer who will kick my ass in gear.

I ask, “Do you see your mother much?”

“Sadly, my mother was killed in the line of duty a few years ago. I miss her terribly. She was so much fun to be around.”

“I’m so sorry. I never knew my mother. I wish I did. I wonder what we have in common regarding personality traits and what things we both like.”

“Dasha, take my word for it, you’re nothing like your father,” she says, sipping her bellini.

“Do you know him?”

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