Page 37 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

But right now, I’m in my element. Confident. Head high. Whatever program is waiting for me today, I can handle. Will handle. Because my work is my passion. And since there’s a supreme lack of anything else to be sure about in my life, I’ll take it where I can.

Before I have my foot off the elevator, Leila moves in front of me. “Oh God, Corinne. I’ve been worried sick about you ever since I saw Alvin made that statement on Facebook.” Her eyes are saucers, and her fingers dig into my biceps.

But I’m more interested in what she’s saying. “Alvin made a statement?”

She nods and whips out her phone as if she’s had it on standby to show me. “You didn’t see it?” She’s swiping and tapping and finally holds the screen out so I can see the engagement picture he posted that now has a big circle with a line through it over my face. That’s a little melodramatic, but I save that thought for later.

My stomach is quivering. Apparently, whatever Tomas said to him before we left meant nothing because the post, while short, is definitely there.

I regret to inform you that Corinne O’Shea and I are taking a break from the life I hoped we would be building together. Please respect my privacy on this matter, and if you have any questions, please direct them to Corinne or her parents.

“Wow.”

At least he didn’t say anything about Tomas or the Italians in our honeymoon suite, and I knew he wouldn’t say anything about the suitcase full of toys and sexual weapons. I also knew he wouldn’t be able to pull back from making me look like the villain. But all in all, it isn’t nearly as bad as I thought.

“Well, because I feel it’s important for people to understand, just know, we aren’t on a break. We’re finished. Done.”

“What happened? I saw you guys leave the wedding together. You looked so happy.”

I can’t talk about it. It’s too complicated and convoluted for any story to come out coherently. Instead, I shake my head and look away. Hopefully, she’ll read it as shame or embarrassment and leave the subject alone.

“I just want to get back to work and back to normal.”

She pulls me in for another hug. “You’re right. When you’re ready to talk, just know I’m here for you.” There’s such kindness in her eyes, and I so need to talk to someone, I almost blurt out all the details. Instead, I admire her scarf and hold it out in front of me.

She grins. “It’s Hermès.”

Hermès scarf. Prada jeans. Louboutin heels. Not a day goes by that Leila isn’t dressed to impress even when she looks casual. And she loves talking about her clothes. If I can get her chatting about her style, she won’t be so interested in talking about me.

While I want to tell her everything, I don’t know how much I can before one or both of us ends up on Tomas’s kill list.

“Well, it’s perfect.” I lay a hand over my chest. “And the shoes. You have such great style.”

She grins wider. If she knows I’m deflecting, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she goes on for a few minutes about the shoes.

I don’t have any pressing business on my desk because I cleared what I could before I left for my wedding and passed everything else off to other coders. But now I’m back and itching to jump back into work. Since we’re standing at my desk in the cluster we call the bullpen, I nod and pull out my chair.

We’ve discussed shoes and bags and scarves, my wedding, and a little bit of what happened, but I’m finger-tapping-on-the-desk anxious. This is the only normal thing I’ve done since I walked down the aisle towards Alvin. I need a little bit of normal to even things out.

When she finally runs out of things to say, I make my excuses and settle down to something that I’m confident contains no unwelcome surprises. Work has never been such a welcome presence.

And for a little while, it’s exactly the escape I needed.

* * *

I grind away at my terminal for a couple hours—way past the normal time everyone arrives—and still the bullpen is empty. Even Leila has disappeared. I look up at her office door. It’s closed.

Odd. If I was paranoid, I would be thinking of scary movie villains and running for my life.

It would be completely ridiculous if I wasn’t conscious of the black Lincoln town car downstairs with the Russian security sitting inside.

But instead of screaming and running for my life toward the unnaturally dark stairwell—isn’t that how it goes in the movies?—I head to Leila’s office. It’s up a winding staircase to a floor above the bullpen.

She’s inside talking on the phone with her feet on the desk and a cup of coffee in her hand. She waves me in, probably thinking I’m going to engage her in another conversation about her clothes or the new wall art hanging behind her desk.

“Hey, I gotta get back to you.” She hangs up without waiting for a response. As I take the seat in front of her desk, she smiles. “So how you doing?” Her voice is too slow, too soft for it to be appropriate for a business setting.

So I pump up the enthusiasm. “I’m doing great. Really glad to be back at work.”

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