Page 142 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Wow. Chills.

“Everyone!” Ludmil is calling now. “Speech time.”

He doesn’t really have to call everyone over. Already, the mere sight of Gavril approaching and ascending the podium has quieted everyone who’s paying attention. That’s the power of my husband. He commands respect without lifting a finger.

“I’m supposed to tell you all how you’re in good hands,” Gavril is saying, “so here goes: you’re in good hands.”

Everyone chuckles. Gavril is the only one not smiling.

Something stirs in my stomach: Gavril never mentioned what kind of speech he prepared. Which begs the question: What kind of speechhashe prepared?

“I’m supposed to thank everyone who was involved: the city, my friends, my campaign manager Rudy, my right-hand man Ludmil. So, this is me thanking them.”

He nods to Ludmil and Rudy and, after the applause dies down, continues, “I could tell you how these past few months have been a wild ride, one filled with unwanted realizations—of friendship, family, betrayal, and power, but I won’t. This speech isn’t going to be about all the people who helped me, though there were many, and they deserve thanks. That will come soon. This speech is going to be about one person who saved me, who reminded me of what matters when I began to lose sight of it. I’m of course talking about my wife: Joy Vaknin.”

I can feel countless eyes on me, although I can’t see them. I can’t take my eyes off Gavril, who’s now looking straight at me. As if there’s no one else in the room. As if this speech is for me alone.

“She’s stuck by me through thick and thin, better or worse. When I’ve been the kind of man I’m not proud of. She’s taught me what true loyalty is, what true love is. But most of all, she makes me want to be a better man every day.” He stops, still those eyes digging into me, assertive, adoring, as he nods. “Thank you, Joy. You’re the love of my life.”

As Gavril strides for me, at the abrupt ending to his speech, broken applause breaks out. It’s soon replaced by thunderous claps and cheering.

But I don’t care. None of that matters. None of it. Not the fame, the praise, the status.

The only thing that does matter is walking straight for me. Wearing the kind of big grin I only see when it’s just us two.

My Gavril. My not-so-fake husband.

* * *

It’s the first official day of mayordom.

As I walk through the glossy black glass building to my husband’s new office, I don’t feel different.

I know I certainly don’t look different, if only because I successfully avoided Mario’s desperate bid to give me a bob (“Think about Victoria Beckham!” he sobbed as I backed away slowly. “Think about Posh Spice!”).

Pretty sure I don’t sound different either, even though last night’s late-night celebrating with Gavril and me talking into the wee hours before some of the aforementioned hot sex did make me wake up with a bit of a sore throat.

I guess I do, at least, smell different. One of Gavril’s impromptu gifts last night: Hypnotic Poison by Dior. To my surprise, I not only liked the bottle—poison looks pretty, who knew?—but the smell also. Like I’m some hypersexual erotic temptress.

That’s how I feel, at least, with what I’m wearing underneath this trench coat.

But that part is a surprise, and I’m almost there.

Although I can’t stop my mind from playing out what would happen if some kind of crazy disaster forced me to remove the trench coat, the kind of reactions I’d get. Bulging-eyed stares, outraged gasps. Or maybe none of the above, since, if we were all grappling with a zombie apocalypse, presumably some scantily clad Joy would be the last thing on people’s minds.

Anyway.

The inside of the office is a hive of excited activity. I walk through briskly enough that I almost make it through with almost no one noticing before I hear, “Joy!”

I sigh. It’s Rudy.

“Could you get Gavril to look at these?” He waves a fan of papers in my face. “They’re a list of his campaign promises, and if we don’t start with at least honoring one of them right out the gate, well, then, approval ratings will drop and …”

God, ten seconds with the man and my mind’s already stress-spinning.

“Sorry, Rudy.” I sidestep him and rush to the far office door, the one I know is Gavril’s, with the luxe gold lion door knocker I chose as a joke. “Right now, I have to see my husband. It’s urgent.”

I knock with the lion, and the door opens up.

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