Page 91 of Shattered Crown

Liza’s eyes soften. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

“You are the best,” I say and mean it.

She gives me a quick hug. “I’m happy to help you. Now, plaster a smile on your face because Maxim is storming over here, and he looks like a charging bull.”

I square my shoulders and pull myself together in time to offer Maxim a warm smile when he approaches me with a glass of seltzer and a worried expression.

“Thank you,” I say and take a big gulp. “I was overwhelmed with all the attention on us, but I’m feeling much better.”

“Are you sure? If you want to go home, we can leave.”

“No, no,” I insist. “You go work the room. I know you have associates here that you need to speak with. Go wheel and deal, and I’ll make the social rounds later on with Liza.”

He brushes a piece of hair from my forehead and drops a sweet kiss. “As long as you’re sure. If things change, come and find me.”

“I will,” I promise him. “I'll find you.”

MAXIM

I’ve spent the last ten minutes cornered by Mr. and Mrs. Petrovich while they drone on about my generous donation to their fundraising cause. Apparently, I donated a quarter-million dollars to help build a state-of-the-art luxury shelter for Moscow’s stray dogs—something I will be having a word with Nadya about since she handles my philanthropic donations. I’mall for animal shelters, but I doubt mutts need a sauna or a silver-plated water bowl.

“There you are.” Roman mercifully appears beside me. “Mayor Rashnikov would like a word.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to the Petroviches, thrilled for any excuse not to hear about sheepskin-lined daybeds for dogs.

As soon as we’re out of ear shot, I turn to Roman. “Are you serious about that mudak wanting a word?”

Roman chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “Fuck no. As soon as he took one look at you, he high-tailed it the other way. He’s probably hiding in the bathroom or something. I was liberating you from a conversation you clearly weren't enjoying.”

“A state-of-the-art dog shelter,” I grumble. “I worry about the future of humanity sometimes.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Roman snickers, but his voice barely registers above the hum of the gala's chatter.

I scan the room for Kira for what feels like the hundredth time. Something is off with her tonight. I can feel it. Through a sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, I spot her laughing with Liza.

A wave of relief washes over me. She looks more like herself—color has returned to her cheeks and her eyes are bright, but there is something about the way her expression falls when she thinks no one is looking. Something changed after I told her about Irina and Ilya. She was fine until that point, but in the car on the way over here she barely said two words to me.

Fuck, who could blame her? I’m a walking red flag. Burned and broken. Kira’s got her entire life ahead of her. Even if I keep her, one day she’ll wake up and want a man who's whole. Who doesn’t bear the weight of past scars.

A cold pit grows in my gut at the thought of losing her, but I can’t go there right now.

Beside me, Roman whistles through his teeth, pulling me from my whirlwind thoughts. “Look what cockroach dared to show up.”

My head snaps up, zeroing in on Boris Ivanov's stocky form as he edges through the crowd. We've been after Boris since Kira spilled that he's the source of the false rumors about my involvement in Masha’s death. His associates have been covering for him, saying he's tied up in Poland with “critical” matters. More like drowning in vodka and bedding whores.

"He must be feeling pretty bold to show up here," I muse aloud.

Roman draws in a sharp breath, leaning in. "Any progress on tracking down Masha’s killer?"

I shake my head, frustration evident. "It's a dead end. After discovering the photo with my Zippo, we've hit a wall." I turn to Roman with a sly grin. "Let's have a little chat with Ivanov."

“My fucking pleasure.”

Roman and I split without a word. He veers left while I take the right. People try to catch my attention in the crowd, but I walk on by with no acknowledgement. Boris continues his path towards the bar, oblivious to the net closing in around him. It’s too late for him to bolt without making a scene when he realizes Roman and I have him surrounded.

He clears his throat nervously. “Maxim, Roman … nice to see you, as always.”

“Is it, though? Is it really?” I throw an arm around him and lead him towards an isolated alcove near the back of the hall, away from prying eyes and eager ears.

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