Page 65 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I extend a hand. “You have a busy day ahead of you.”

“Job’s already starting?” Her voice is light as she extends her own hand, but her guarded eyes hold an unspoken question:Did last night happen?

I take her hand and pull her up with a slight nod. It says,Last night never happened.

“No more free time?” she presses breezily. “If I’m going to be a paid woman, I figure I might as well enjoy it.”

“And you will. Trust me.”

“I don’t,” she says, teasing but also not.

I pause and nod. “Good. That means you’re smart. We can use that.”

“You really know what to say to a girl,” she purrs sarcastically. The alluring tone is a joke, but my gaze slides down anyway, snagging at the sight they find: the imprint of her nipples in the white silk slip she has on. She turns away when she notices where my gaze has gone. “Do I get to find out what I’m in for?”

“Of course. For now, it’s just preparing. Going shopping and to the spa, girl stuff.”

Her nose crinkles a bit.

“What?” I ask.

“‘Preparing’ makes me feel like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

I stride to the door and beckon her after me with a smile that might be reassuring. “I wouldn’t be taking my turkey shopping.”

A slight shiver goes through her as a memory from the shower cuts through me like a knife. Words I’ve never said to anyone, ever:You’re mine. Mine.

“You’re taking me shopping?” Joy is giving me a dubious look, rightfully so.

“No. Turn of phrase.” I go through the door the rest of the way, talking over my shoulder. I need to get out of here. “Mario is taking you. You’ll like him.”

16

Joy

Turns out, Gavril’s wrong. I don’t ‘like’ Mario—I love him.

With his jaunty two-step walk, clutching Chowder’s silver-link leash in one hand (“No way; honey, I’d lose my job if I let you so much as flick this thing”), and an ominously endless-looking itinerary in the other (“You’ll see, it’s a lot longer than it looks!”), Mario conveys me around downtown Toronto with infectious zest.

For every single freaky, fancy dress I wrestle into, the “Bellisima!” he trills at me is so delighted that I keep sneaking glances in the mirror to confirm we’re looking at the same person.

Although, what really is nothing short of a miracle, is our reception at these chichi boutiques:

“Oh hello, Miss Smith!”

“Good to see you, Miss Smith.”

“So happy you chose to visit our boutique, Miss Smith! We’ve been expecting you; we have an excellent selection picked out already.”

Me, I’m just like your friendly neighborhood PTSD victim, jumping half the time someone tries talking to me, casting suspicious looks in all directions, unable to shake the sense that any minute, one of these chichi she-demons will see right through me, and congregate with the others like jeweled-up crows, flapping their alpaca shawled arms like wings and shrieking, “Imposter! Imposter! Imposter!”

Ludmil’s come along, too, although Mario mostly shoos him away. His bald head pokes around the corner every so often to comment, “Yes, excellent,” and “No, I think not.” Weirdly, Mario listens to him.

One time, when I press him on why a particularly revealing silver bodycon “won’t do,” Ludmil’s icy glare cuts to Mario. “As we are both aware, Joy is meant to be a politician’s wife, not a go-go dancer in Vegas.”

That shuts Mario up, although once Ludmil disappears, he sighs and, in a tragic tone, moans, “No fun, the two of them. No fun at all.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Ludmil calls calmly from somewhere in the store.

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