“The fucking press is here.”
Vasiliy tutted under his breath. “There will be no
trouble,” he said as if offended. “Mr. Baroni was just
leaving.”
Yuri clasped his hands behind his back and just stared at
me. He didn’t display any of the rage and bluster of the
bratva I was used to dealing with. He seemed as calm
and patient as one of those English butlers. His steady
gaze seemed to say: I’d hate to have to cause a scene
by snapping your neck.
But I wasn’t backing down. I looked around Yuri at
Vasiliy. “You piece of shit,” I muttered. I could feel my
hands bunching into fists, the rage surging and boiling
inside me. “You think you can do this, you Russian
bastard? There’s a line and you just stepped over it.”
Vasiliy casually waved Yuri out of the way so that he
could step right up to me. “Mr. Baroni. Since we are
face-to-face, let me deliver a message.” He turned and
called over his shoulder. “Mikhail!” Then he turned back
to me. “A message from both me and my business
partner.”
There was movement in the crowd behind Vasiliy. A big,
pink-faced Russian was approaching, his collar too tight
around his flobbery neck. And he was pulling someone
along next to him, someone smaller who I couldn’t see
yet through the crowd. I just got a glimpse of—
Platinum-blonde hair.
My entire body went cold, all my rage flash-frozen as
everything just...stopped. Oh no. Oh, Jesus, no. Not like
this!
For a split-second, I actually considered running. I’d
never run from anything in my life but even looking like
a coward in front of Vasiliy would be better than the
look on her face when she—
Too late.
Mikhail pushed through the crowd and stopped beside
Vasiliy, towing Irina into place beside him. The sight of
his soft, pink hand around her wrist made me want to
kill him.
Irina’s jaw dropped as she saw me. I saw her blink in
puzzlement and an iron band cinched tight around my
chest: I knew what was coming.
“Who’s this?” asked Irina. I could hear the strain in her
voice. She wanted to be wrong.
“This is Angelo Baroni,” Vasiliy told her. “Our rival.”
13
Irina
One second and my brain just failed to process. It can’t
be. Of course it isn’t.
Two seconds and I realized it was true.
Three seconds and I knew I’d been staring too long.
Vasiliy or Mikhail would notice, they’d guess and then
Angelo would be dead. But I couldn’t stop staring into
those brown and amber eyes, my face threatening to
crumple at any second. My tears would seal his fate.
Already, Yuri was frowning at me. He’d guarded our
family for years, knew me maybe even better than
Vasiliy. If he guessed….
A life as a Malakov saved me. I’d had years to perfect
hiding my emotions. I shook my head and looked away.
“I want no part of your...business.”
Next to me, Vasiliy bristled. He hates it when I distance
myself from the family, especially in public, but he didn’t
comment. On my other side, Mikhail wasn’t so polite.
His hand tightened on my wrist, clammy and
unpleasant. “Behave,” he hissed, as if to a child.
It was exactly the wrong thing to say to me. “I’m going
to get a drink,” I told him coldly. I was desperate to get
out of there before I lost it. The anger and hurt were
blossoming inside me, silent explosions that made me
tremble. Already, I couldn’t look Angelo in the eye.
Mikhail leaned down to me. “You are supposed to be my
date tonight!” he hissed, outraged. “Act like it!” He
jerked my wrist, pulling me closer.
I pulled away. His fingers dug hard enough into my
wrist that I knew he’d leave bruises, but I gritted my
teeth and yanked. My wrist tore free of his grasp and
then I was stalking away across the room, my anger
hiding what was really going on inside my head. I heard
Mikhail take a single step to follow me but then he
stopped: I imagined Vasiliy putting an arm across his
chest to block him. Let her go.
I found a door that led to the garden. Despite the cold,
a few people were out there smoking. I pushed past
them and into the darkness, shoes crunching on the
snow-covered grass, trying to lose myself amongst the
bushes and trees. The air was freezing, that sharp sort
of cold that slashes right to your bones. But at least it
cooled my eyes. Don’t cry, don’t cry.
A banker. I’d thought he was a banker. Loans.
Insurance. The same sort of euphemisms Vasiliy
sometimes used. How could I not have seen it? Now I
knew why something about him had seemed familiar.
He was a gangster. He’s just like them!
And yet he’d seemed so utterly different. Even now, the
thought of him made my chest tighten. I hated him...but
I still liked him. That made the anger bubbling up inside
me burn like acid. Chyort, I cursed. You stupid, weak
fool!
This was all my fault. I’d known, back in Central Park,
that seeing an American was impossible. But I’d tried to
ignore who I was...and so fate had reminded me.
A hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. I cried
out, expecting Mikhail...but it was Angelo who suddenly
loomed over me.
The anger suddenly exploded. My arm was swinging
before I was even aware of it. My hand cracked across
his face with a noise like a gunshot. Then I instinctively
tensed, ready for his fist.
“Okay.” His voice was a low rumble. “I deserved that.”
I stood there panting, staring up into his eyes, my body
slowly relaxing as I realized he wasn’t going to hit me.
I’d been around Russian men for so long, I’d just
assumed he’d swing at me. But as I looked into those
dark, amber-flecked eyes, I didn’t see even a hint of
that casual, brutal violence that came so easily to
Mikhail. All I saw was pain. Pain that he’d hurt me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurted.
He just stared at me for a long time, rubbing his hand
across the cheek I’d hit. “Because I couldn’t stand losing
you,” he said at last.
He’d lied to me before and I told myself I shouldn’t trust
him again. But listening to him, there wasn’t even a
shred of doubt in my mind: he was telling the truth. I
remembered the look on his face outside Fenbrook: he
hadn’t wanted to lie. He’d had to.
I shook my head. “This can’t happen! You’re our
enemy!”
He was between me and the house. I pushed past him,
my arms hugging myself against the cold. But his big
hand took hold of my bare upper arm as I passed. It
wasn’t anything like Mikhail’s cruel grip. It was firm but
gentle—I could have pulled out of it if I’d wanted to. But
the warmth throbbing into me felt incredible. I stopped
walking and we stood there facing away from each
other. I had to fight the urge to turn back to him. If I
did that, I might do something stupid.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said softly.
My stomach knotted. “You know it doesn’t work like
that. I’m a Malakov.”
The hand on my arm pulled, a gentle pressure towing
me backward until I stood in front of him again. I
wanted to resist but my feet seemed to move by
themselves. Then I was looking up at him, his big,
muscled form blocking out the star-filled sky. When he
spoke, each word was a deep growl edged in fire,
burning down into my soul. “I don’t fucking care.”