Page 79 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Ludmil doesn’t blink. Probably hears this type of question every day. “Of course. Mr. Vaknin is a real estate investor and developer.”

“Business must be good.”

He only smiles. He knows I don’t buy it. Just how he knows it isn’t his problem. It isn’t even Gavril’s, really. It’s only mine, me and my stupid conscience. We’re the only ones with issues about being insanely attracted to a terrible person.

As we pull up to the mansion, Ludmil eyes me.

“What?” I ask.

“He’ll never admit it, but Mr. Vaknin has a lot riding on you. Some of us were guardedly optimistic about you—but he was vehement from the start that you were the one. Just see that you do him proud.”

I rise. “I don’t owe anything to anybody.” I’m out of the car door before anyone can open it for me, then back inside the house.

I don’t know what to think of what Ludmil said, or even what tone to take with it.

Be still, my idiotic heart. Remember: Gavril is paying you to be his fake wife. That’s it.

Back in my very purple bedroom, I grab my phone, clicking over to Mom’s number. But I pause before I dial. I remember something else.

I forgot to ask Gavril or even Ludmil what line I’m supposed to take with Mom. Presumably, they told her something convincing as an explanation for her suddenly being up and transplanted to a new swanky apartment building and doctor, something decent to keep her satisfied for now, but I need to know exactly what that is before I go blundering in with my own crap-tastic version of events.

The door creaks open, and I jump. But it’s only Chowder, galloping to me as happily as if Walter just promised him a lifetime supply of Purina dog chow. Which, for all I know, he did.

Curled up together on my bed, as I stroke his gray shag, I stare into Chowder’s glassy black eyes. “What now?” I ask him.

He tilts his head at me. He has as much of a clue as I do.

A.k.a., none whatsoever.

18

Gavril

“She is a goddess,” Mario enthuses. The toss of his black curly head clearly indicates that the word is self-explanatory enough.

I let Ludmil do the honors. “Meaning?”

Mario frowns, tugging at the orange- and yellow-checkered cravat at his neck. “Meaning she dresses like Jackie O mixed with Madonna, looks rosier every day, dances like a ballerina, and the other day, when I tried to trip her up with giving her the wrong dessert spoon for the tiramisu, she specifically requested the right one.”

“So, she’s doing well.”

“Pah!” If Mario had been wearing a hat, he would’ve ripped it off in outrage. “She is doing outstanding! She is an angel sent from the heavens above!”

Ludmil revolves in his chair so that the red-faced Italian won’t see his laughter.

“Excellent,” I tell Mario with a pleased nod. “You’ve done well. You’re free to go.”

He does, looking pleased. Probably already planning a shopping spree to celebrate. “Do you believe him?” Ludmil asks outright as soon as the door swings shut.

“She does seem to have charmed him,” I admit. “Tonight will be the first test.”

“The first test, but not the last.” All the earlier mirth is gone from Ludmil’s face. Now, he just looks troubled. “You know, Gavril, if she fails …”

“I am prepared to do what is necessary.”

To his credit, Ludmil keeps his face from showing his skepticism. Although I still know it’s there.

“She won’t fail, though,” I continue. “She’s ready.”

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