Page 30 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Yepper! Everyone’s pretty psyched about it. Some event down on Dundas. Better get your little butt down there while you can!” With one final curtsy, Wanda races off.

I know better than to try to follow her. Wanda waits for no one.

As for what she said about the event on Dundas … could that really be it? It’s possible, I guess. It’s not often that we have special meals. But still, Teddy getting caught up in the buzz and forgetting to meet me here doesn’t sound like him.

In any case, it’s far past the time we normally meet, and I’m not doing any good by hanging around here. Food is calling.

It’s a bit of a trek to the site, with some speed-walking past other hobos who look slightly deranged, as well as Asian tourists taking snapshots with bricks, traffic-light poles, and other oddities. Once I get there though, I know—one pizza whiff, one exhale—oh, hell yeah, this was worth it.

I’d walk miles just for that smell. Hot, warm, cheesy pizza.

When is the last time I even smelled pizza, let alone had some?

The line is thrumming with excitement, too, or maybe it’s just from all the hired help behind the tables, waving and cheering. God, you’d think they were the ones getting pizza, instead of waving those stupid banners that say … What is that?

Gavril Vaknin for Mayor.

Huh. The name sounds vaguely familiar. It brings to mind an image of some billionaire superhero stud with lightning in his hands.

It makes sense, though. Rich people don’t dole out free pizza just for kicks. I guess the odd one does do charity when he or she gets bored and wants to fork out less on taxes, but typically there’s a very practical reason behind so-called ‘altruistic giving.’ The practical reason, in this case, appears to be a nice, fat dose of good publicity for a budding politician.

Accordingly, there’s a whole brigade of cameras looking less paid-to-be enthused than the other banner-wavers. Guess this is just another day on the job for them.

I keep my head down. The last thing I want is for my mom or Damon to catch a glimpse of my current shit state on the news.

Not that it would make any difference. Mom made her decision. I made mine.

Over the past few months, I’ve tried calling her a couple of times. Hoping beyond hope that she’s finally dumped Damon, finally come to her senses.

But each time she’s answered, I’ve hung up. Couldn’t do it.

And then, one time, two months ago, Damon answered the phone. I hung up as soon as I heard his grumble. I haven’t called back since.

Behind me, someone bumps into me hard. The kind of hip jab that you don’t do accidentally. I turn around to glare at the offender, but instead, once I see what I’m up against, I pretend to scan beyond her.

Even in my short time on the streets, I’ve developed enough smarts to know which battles not to even think about bothering with.

And the woman with the rainbow broom hair, lipless mouth, artifact teeth, and pinwheeling eyes is not someone I want to mess with. Even on the streets, most men retain a sort of grudging respect for women. They might try to sneak into your sleeping bag if they think you’re susceptible to whiskey-breath charm, but they have to be super drunk, and they do it unhappily, half-muttering apologies all the while.

Women, however, have no such qualms with personal boundaries. I’ve seen two of them go at it with broken bottles over some moldy pizza crust, screaming and pulling out whole chunks of hair all the while.

I switch my attention to the head of the line, where pizza heaven awaits. That, and a man who’s clearly presiding over it all, giving out orders, listening to complaints, shaking hands, handing out pizza, doing the whole ‘Yes, I really do care about the downtrodden’ thing to a tee.

It registers as a dig inside me. A grudging lifting of something.

That man—Gavril Vaknin, has to be—is really that. Aman. The toned V of his shoulders looks even more cut in that clinging black tee he’s wearing. His hair is a dark, coiffed tangle. His eyes are wide-set. The smile doesn’t quite reach them.

And he’s looking right at me.

It happens in an instant, his gaze spanning the crowd, snagging on me.

Oh, hello there.

A smile or something like it curls up his lips, even though no cameras are snapping. It’s just for us.

Then the bald man at his side says something to him, and he looks away. The line shuffles on; the pizza is doled out. The moment is lost.

“Be careful of that one, yeah.” The voice is so quiet at first, I almost think it’s coming from inside my head. But then I see a grizzly-haired older woman eyeing me knowingly.

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