Page 86 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Might have been seeing the picture of us together that did it.”

Her forehead creases. “But we never …” She nods her head, realizing. “Oh.”

“Yes. One of Ludmil’s many talents is playing around with Photoshop.”

“Hm. Okay.” She nods, turns away.

“We’re almost there.”

“Don’t worry. My head’s in the game.”

“Never thought otherwise.” With others, I welcome silence. With her, I want to fill it. Among other things I want to fill …

Focus, Gavril.

Already though, an image from the other night has gotten into my head: Joy sinking into me as I fuck her against the window. My cock springs in my pants.

The car stops. The door opens. I close it again abruptly. “Just a minute,” I growl to the driver.

Dammit, what this woman does to me.

I grab her by the back of the head and press my face to hers. Her mouth parts, surprised, wanting. Our tongues twist together. She sinks into me. Everything else ebbs away, only—

With the last of my self-control, I rip myself back. “Remember.”

Her eyes say that she knows, understands. Not what I meant ostensibly—what to do, who to be, et cetera. She knows what I really want her not to forget: who she belongs to.

“Ready now,” I call to the driver.

The door opens. I step out, Joy’s hand in mine.

It’s time.

Loud thumps of bass spill out of the venue’s white temple columns onto the sidewalk ahead of us. A few people mill around, fishing their tickets out and frowning. We don’t so much as pause. I nod to the skinny doorman as we walk through. We don’t need tickets.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Vaknin,” he says, bowing.

Here, the music is even louder. The event organizers probably figure that the louder the music is, the more people will donate. For my part, I’m pissed off already. Pissed at the who’s-who looking us over. The men leering at Joy in a way they have no right to do.

I put my arm around her, and she leans into it. “She’s a natural,” Ludmil had said. He was right.

Joy’s impressed eyes are on the cops. The men in blue are trussed-up with their stupid uniforms, waltzing around all self-important and superior. Fuck them all. They take my money when it suits them.

I scowl. The main difference between them and me is that they get a pass from the government, a good-boy sticker, one that exempts them from owning up to their bad choices.

I tear my eyes away, looking for a distraction. Back when I was a kid and first on the streets, that was all I wanted: to become a cop and help people. Then I saw what cops really are. And I learned better.

“Mr. Vaknin, Gavril! A pleasure,” purrs some squinty woman whose name I’m sure I’m supposed to know as she sashays up.

I try to form something like a smile, while my mind rolls through name possibilities … Linda, Lorna, Lianne, Lindy, Lavinia …

“Yvonne, my husband has told me so much about you,” Joy enthuses. “And he was right—your fashion sense is one of a kind!”

‘One of a kind’ is certainly a kind way to describe her painfully neon lime dress and orange feather boa. But how did Joy know Yvonne’s name?

“I only wish he had mentioned you,” Yvonne simpers, wagging a finger at me. “Just how long did you have this in the works, Gavril?”

“Not long.” I smile. “You know me, Yv. I make a decision and stick to it.”

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