Page 87 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I keep the smile glued on as I curse inwardly. Yvonne Templeton, one of the bigger political donors in Toronto, and I almost didn’t place her! Should’ve scanned that stupid reminder pamphlet Rudy made for me. It had names, pictures, good talking points.

Only, every time I picked it up I wanted to rip it to shreds.

I hated the faces on it. Hated the names. Hated what it all stood for. I’ve built myself up so that I don’t have to rely on others.

Ludmil’s voice sounds in my head from one of our recent discussions:“Politics is a different arena. You have to make connections. Otherwise, you won’t reach the same amount of people, won’t stand a chance.”

“… This one?” I’m jolted back into the conversation by a slap in the center of my chest. Joy is beaming at me as if I’m some sort of God. “Gavril and I bonded over art, of course.”

Yvonne lifts her neon pink rhinestone glasses to give me a bemused gawk. “Gavril enjoys art?”

“Of course, Gavril enjoys more modern art than me—functional art, he calls it when he buys it. But what he really enjoys most of all, are—”

“Nudes,” I blurt.

Joy tries not to giggle. Yvonne drops her pink glasses. She’s a well-known prude, is even against birth control and risqué magazine covers. What the fuck am I doing?

“Excuse me.” She gives a little titter. “But I thought I heard you say—”

“You heard right. The naked female form is what I most enjoy—pink nudes, purple nudes. Monet nudes. Blocky Picasso nudes. The more nipple, the better.”

Joy can’t hold it in any longer—she bursts out laughing.

Yvonne’s many-ringed fingers have clenched around her lemonade. Ludmil appears out of nowhere, grabbing me by the arm. “Excuse us for a moment.”

“What the fuck are you doing, Gavril?” he hisses, as he steers me towards the nearby bar.

“What?” I ask, ripping out of his grasp. I walk alongside him to the packed bar. A drink is the only thing that will make this event bearable.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he grumbles as he grabs a whiskey bottle from behind the bar, waving aside a protesting bartender, still talking in a low voice only I can hear. “But being around Joy is screwing with your head.”

“It was a joke. A stupid one.”

Ludmil walks me to an abandoned hallway, then hands me the bottle. He waits until I’ve taken a swig, before saying, “You’ve let your guard down about the Skull Kings, too.”

I swallow. Lowering the bottle, I eye him. Even though no one’s nearby to overhear, Ludmil doesn’t bring up business in public. He knows better.

“This isn’t the time,” I say curtly.

Ludmil nods. Waits. He knows better than to argue. Has already said what he wanted to. Now his words are working away at me.

“Attacking the Skull Kings is not ‘letting my guard down,’” I add with finality.

Ludmil plunges on, “The old Gavril was a stickler for control. Wouldn’t have let this alleged Skull King new leader just slide.”

I take another long drink, never taking my eyes off him. This has gone on too far. “Nor would he have tolerated disrespect.”

Ludmil’s eyes lower. “Boss, I don’t mean any disrespect. But when we met and you decided to take me on, you told me straight-up that you didn’t view disagreement as disrespect. And I promised you that I would always tell you what I thought. Not be a useless yes man.”

When I bring the bottle down again, after another drink, I’m surprised to find it emptier than expected. And my mind made up. “You’re right.”

How something in me leapt at the laughter on Joy’s face … I’m ruining my campaign chances for that? I’ve been a fool.

“The men are talking, too,” Ludmil continues. “Want to know why you haven’t introduced them to Joy yet. Why you’ve been missing Bratva meetings.”

“You know why. They know why.”

“They think you’re going soft. That Joy’s gone to your head.”

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