Page 34 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Guess I should start ranting and raving, too, while I’m at it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, a photographer, the one with red frizz and cat-eye aviators, inches up.

I wave her away. She storms off with the air of someone who’ll be back, if not for a picture then for a scolding.

Joy is looking at me, still undecided on whether I’m one of the good ones or not. Oh, if only she knew. “Thanks,” she mumbles.

I don’t tell her that I didn’t do it for her. I tell her, “Believe it or not, there was a time I was on the streets, too. At least I had my brother with me. We found our way out eventually.”

Her pressed-together lips say it all: she only believes the ‘or not’ part of it. And why bring up Osip …?

“You grew up here?” I ask, to change the subject.

“Toronto? Yeah. The streets? No.”

That’s all she says, folding her hands together. Without thinking, I reach for them. “You’re hurt.”

It bursts through us both, the shock of the touch. I drop them at once.

Those little hands. Such small hands, splashed with such red and blue that I thought—

“It’s nothing. Just paint.” She won’t look at me now.

Good. This thing, this inconvenience, jabbing through me … I don’t like it.

“I’m a painter,” she says, to fill the space.

My questioning gaze tells her to continue.

“Not any of that abstract shit—not that it’s all shit. Just—I like impressions more. Lots of color, light. Painting things I’d like to see. Pretty things. Maybe it’s stupid, but, far as I can see, the world’s ugly and stark enough without me making more art showing it that way.”

She turns her head away, fast. Though not fast enough that I don’t catch the color rising in her cheeks.

“And I didn’t steal the paint stuff either. Or do sketchy stuff to get it. I found it in a dumpster.” Her glare at me is accusing, as if it’s my fault that she’s babbling away, then she shakes her head. “Never mind. What does it matter?” She rises. “I should get going.”

“Hold on,” I command.

Who should saunter up then but Ludmil, master of timing that he is. He’s chewing on some pizza crust. He nods towards the swarm of cameras clustered behind us, all faceless members of the press muttering to each other. “They want you to say a few words.”

“I will,” I tell him. “I have something to do first.”

Ludmil nods at me, then saunters back the way he came to hold them off for another few minutes. He probably figures this is some clever publicity stunt.

If only that were all there was to it.

On her side of the table, Joy is already summoning a goodbye. “You look busy, and I should be going anyway.”

I almost smile. Despite her circumstances, the woman still has her pride. It remains to be seen whether it will help or hurt her.

“Just one thing first,” I tell her, standing and angling so my back faces the cameras. So only Joy will see what I do next.

Out comes my leather wallet, and from that, I pluck one of the chrome business cards Rudy personally designed for me, along with a stack of twenties. “I think you should have these.”

A card and cash is trite, tacky, but it’s all I have time for.

“If you need anything, anything at all …” I trail off.

She isn’t smiling how she’s supposed to.

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