Page 42 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“Dirty cops. Bribery. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Does not matter. You see now, yes? You see why she was so heavily guarded.”

“Yes, and she was guarded by a guy with a vendetta, so bang up job keeping her safe.” I say.

Roman licks his teeth and considers this. “What would you do, Ukrainian?”

I shrug. “I’m American, technically. My parents are from Ukraine. And I am just a normal man with a normal job. I do not live in the criminal world like you all do.”

The big man grins with no small amount of menace. “Oh yes, normal man; I know about you. You went to Oxford. You were a barrister working on human rights cases. You now work fora United States Senator. You have very high security clearance. Your parents live in New York City. Your father manages a hedge fund. Your mother is a personal shopper. She has Sunday brunch with a group of clients every week at a restaurant called Le Petit Grille.”

I feel the shock of his knowledge open up my face, my eyes wide.

His grin widens. “Did you think I would not do my homework? You were a potential threat.”

I school my expression to something reflecting less shock, more indignation.

“I wasclearlynot the threat, you motherfucker,” I growl. “Nowwhatare you doing to get herback?”

Roman looks like he might show me just exactly how much of a motherfucker he can be, but the phone sitting on the end table next to Vera rings, making us all jump. She looks at it, takes a deep breath, and then answers.

“Sasha.”

She listens for a moment and then moves the phone from her ear, pushing the button to turn on the speaker.

Sasha Gusev has a whinier voice than I might have expected from a crime boss. I imagined him tall and barrel-chested, a tough guy with a deep voice. He sounds more like Joe Pesci, and I nearly laugh as he chews out Vera and Roman for a long time, in English. He tells them they are both failures; that they literally had one job, which was to keep his daughter safe.

“The Ukrainian?” he asks, finally.

“He is here,” Roman answers.

“He can speak for himself,” I say. “And his name is Vasily.”

Sasha chuckles on the other end of the phone. “His name will be written on gravestone if he is not careful.”

I do not doubt that, so I say nothing. For now.

“My men are working on this. The information you share is helpful and I thank you but know that this can go badly for you if you are lying.”

He switches to Russian, presumably thinking I will not understand when he tells Roman to keep a close eye on me. He says, “You watch him shit if you have to,” and I grimace at the thought. So does Roman, for that matter. In that prospect, at least, we are united.

He says he will be back in touch when they have more information, and he expects this to be soon. Keep the phone nearby. Roman hangs up without saying goodbye.

“He has people everywhere,” he says. “We will know quickly what they find.”

Vera is probably a good-looking woman when she isn’t scowling. She is probably in her mid-forties with black hair that is styled in a sleek bob that falls to her shoulders. She has very blue eyes, I notice, and holds herself with the postural elegance of a woman who has long lived in luxury. Her rancor toward me, however, makes all of that moot. She might as well be a gargoyle come to life.

“How do we know it wasn’t him?” she says to Roman, her lip curled in disgust. “He was with her when it happened. He has been grooming her for months. He was out running the same night as she was? He happens to live in the same building? It is all very convenient.”

“You are a sour woman,” I comment.

Roman looks to me as if this was an angle he had not considered. “Well?”

“No,” I say firmly. “And I could throw the same accusation toward you, stuck here in the U.S., babysitting your lover’s adult daughter. Always the nanny, never the wife.”

Vera hisses at me and stands, swatting away my comment with a flick of her elegant wrist.

“I am going to shower and try to rest,” she says. “Do not let this maggot out of your sight.”

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