Page 7 of Claim Me
Cocking my head, I glared at Mikhail. “And you’re chipper as usual, I see.”
“You should be the same after your vacation.”
“Five days away is hardly a vacation, but I admit getting the hell out of here was a nice change.”
He plopped down in the seat opposite me, his smirk as annoying as his constant good mood. He’d been that way since meeting the love of his life. Who knew the Russian Pakhan would fall head over heels in love with a girl who’d broken every rule. His constant glee was disgusting.
With the music still blaring, I pretended as if I had plans on ignoring him until he cleared his throat.
“Oh,” I chortled. “You’re still here.” I lowered my feet to the floor, leaning over to grab the stereo’s remote.
“What’s with the music? You’re suddenly a classical fan? I thought you swore off concertos and symphonies years ago.” As soon as he issued the taunting statement, his eyes reflected personal admonishment.
I ignored the reason why. The past would remain in the past. Marissa was entirely different.
“This isn’t just any classical music, bro. It’s Sergei Prokofiev.” I grinned, which allowed him to relax.
Mikhail was all powerful and wise, but his appreciation of music remained with heavy metal while I liked to consider myself highly cultured. He frowned.
“The Russian pianist?” I taunted. Deer in the headlights look. “Peter and the Wolf?Romeo and Juliet? Symphony number one?”
He lifted a single eyebrow.
“None of that rings a bell.”
“Nope.”
Laughing, I brought my glass to my lips. “Perhaps you and your sweet angel should get out of the house every once in a while. Go to the ballet. See a play. Hell, go to a rodeo. Something.”
“Bristol and I enjoy several shows, but we prefer creating our own world of blissful fantasies.” He issued growling, yipping sounds.
“Disgusting. Keep your sex life to yourself.”
He winked. “I wasn’t talking about hot sex, but we could.”
“Go to hell,” I tossed out. “Any shows you’ve seen are on the circuit, for God’s sake. Or maybe I should say the circus that’s become Las Vegas.”
“Since when did you turn snobbish?”
“Since I realized there’s more to life than slot machines and blackjack tables. Is there something going on I should know about?”
Mikhail laughed. “Can’t a man stop by and see his younger brother?”
“Not if the brother is the Pakhan of a powerful Bratva.”
He frowned. “You got me. Nothing significant. I wanted to remind you that we have the quarterly board meeting in a couple weeks. You need to have your expansion numbers ready for a possible vote.”
“You couldn’t provide the reminder over the phone?”
“Just checking on business.”
“Uh-huh. Let me guess. You wanted to check to see if there was any trouble brewing with our old friends, the O’Shaughnessy clan. Right?” The Irish mafia had caused my brother to finally grow some gray hairs with their attempt to slide into Las Vegas by discrediting us.
Instead, their illustrious leader had landed in prison, the firstborn son as well. However, there were more kids waiting in the wings. It was only a matter of time before they retaliated.
He laughed. “I wasn’t going to come right out and ask.”
“Bullshit. You were just trying to be polite. For once,” I teased. “There’s no unusual activity. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” My brother rarely minced words, but lately, he wore anxiety in his expressions. It was because he now had a family. “You’ve caught wind of something.”
