Page 71 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“You don’t know that.”

I think of my little slowly built-up cash stash, of my late-night plans—how they wavered between getting out with Mom or, if she wouldn’t leave Damon, getting out myself. We all know how that turned out.

I reach for another pizza slice, then realize there’s none left.

Gavril catches my eye. “More? There is dessert, too.”

“Alright.” Really, all I want is to get away from this table and Gavril. I’m tired of how my body is buzzing, how it builds every time he speaks to me.

“Walter!” Gavril calls.

Just like that, the butler materializes. “Finished, Mr. Vaknin?”

“Yes. We’d like the dessert now, please.”

I stare at Gavril as Walter picks up our plates and pizza box and glides off. Gavril even says thank you. One minute, he’s acting like a dick to the butler, the next he’s Mr. Manners. The man is a never-ending contradiction.

“I was a busboy at a bar, years back.” He says it thoughtfully, as if to himself. “It costs nothing to be kind. Although I do forget sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

He laughs. “Perhaps more often than that. Still, it’s better than most. Most people are assholes.”

I laugh and raise my hand. “Amen. Former cashier here. I had some lady scream at me because the green grapes were ten cents more than she expected.”

“The customer is always wrong,” Gavril quips. “And don’t get me started on bosses.”

“Trumped-up buffoons who only care about how things look and dismiss any decent suggestions?” I think of Johnny from the grocery store and shudder. “Although I shouldn’t generalize. I did have one good boss, way back when.”

“Miracles do exist.”

“Yeah, it was a genuinely good place to work. Good people, good hours, and …”

The efficient footsteps of Walter bring me back to reality. I stop. I’ve almost forgotten myself again—where I am, and with whom. I’m seated in some Italian-style villa, with my fake husband, being served some chocolatey heavenly thing by his butler.

I can’t forget: no matter how it feels, I’m not safe.

“Ptichye moloko,” Gavril explains in a crisp Russian accent as the plates are set down and wine is poured into wineglasses that were brought along as well.

I let my fork sink deep into the chocolatey depths, nod. “Yummy chocolate thing. Got it.”

If Gavril wasn’t already chewing, then his smile would be bigger, I can tell. “Not like that.”

I pause mid-oh-my-God-it-really-does-taste-better-than-it-lookschew. “Huh?”

Rising and going behind me, he takes the big fork out of my right hand and puts the small fork in my left. “Like that.”

“Etiquette lesson?” I say with forced casualness, as if I’m not hyper-aware of how close he is, how my fingers are still tingling from his touch.

He says nothing, only goes back to his seat and sips his wine. I sip mine. Anything to take the edge off.

Gavril lifts his cup. “Here’s to your first day as my fiancée.”

I feel a bit dorky lifting my cup to myself, but I do it. I don’t have any quips left this time. Nothing to separate me from the atmosphere that’s buzzing under my skin. The now.

Our wineglasses clink. We drink deeply. Over the rim of my glass, the way he’s looking at me, like if I didn’t know any better, I would swear that he genuinely …

“Bathroom,” I mumble, bobbing up and away. I’m out of the room before I skid to a stop, realizing I’m lost. Where the hell is the bathroom?

---