Page 8 of Beautifully Deranged

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You don’t have to say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you like me.”

He scoffs, but I see the heat in his gaze.

“You’re trouble,” he hisses.

“And you like trouble.”

?Chapter Five?

Mikhail

The city sprawls beneath my office window. It’s always been clear how my life swings between two worlds: the one I built with my own hands and the one I was born into. My construction company looks clean on the surface, but deep down? Nothing is ever truly clean when your family name is tied to the Russian mafia.

My phone buzzes, the screen flashing my brother’s name.Roman.I take my time answering, leaning back in my leather chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin. I already know what this is about.

“Brother,” I say.

“Mikhail. Are you busy?”

“I am.”

“You’re always busy.” A pause. “I need a favor.”

Of course he does. Today’s workload is hectic, my schedule packed. This is the world I built for myself—one that, no matter how far I run, never keeps me from picking up when he calls. My brother, the pakhan. The head of it all. I don’t ask what the favor is. We both know he wants me to launder money again. “How much?” I ask.

“Ten million. Needs to be clean by next quarter.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“You can handle it.”

“That’s a big number, Roman. It takes time.”

“We don’t have it. The shipments are coming in, and we need the books clean before they do.” He grunts.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’ll handle it just fine, like you always do,” Roman mumbles. As much as I’m not a fan of it, I’ve never let them down before.

“Oh, by the way, how’s the girl?”

“What girl?” I spit.

Roman scoffs. “The one with the mouth who follows you like she owns you.”

You may distance yourself from the mafia, but they never distance themselves from you. Eyes are everywhere, all the time. My fingers flex against the desk. “She’s nothing.”

“Sure. Just remember, women make men sloppy.”

The line goes dead. I almost break the phone in half. If my brother ever found out about our little game, it would be disastrous. He wouldn’t see her as a passing amusement. He’d see her as leverage. A pressure point. A weakness. She can’t be any of those things. I push away from my desk. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. But even as I tell myself that, I feel the flicker of something sharp and alive in my chest.

Anticipation.

I know she’s been inside my apartment again. I know she’s been watching. And despite how fucked up this is, I find myself looking forward to whatever game she’s playing next.

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