Page 48 of Nine Months to Love
“He’s the one who sent me the outfit.”
“Did he also force you to wear it?”
I hate that he has a point.
We make our way down the stairs, Taras keeping a careful distance like I might spontaneously combust. Or maybe he’s just trying not to look at the way this dress clings to absolutely everything.
“Careful on the staircase,” he says when I wobble in the Louboutins. “I don’t want you to trip on all your righteous indignation.”
I flip him off. He laughs, and suddenly, the awkwardness dissipates.
“It’s a pretty dress,” I defend myself as we exit through the front door. “And these diamonds are nice, too. Besides, this dinner is entirely innocent.”
“Right. So’s that slit in your dress. Very ‘innocent.’”
A sleek blue Lamborghini waits in the driveway, engine purring like a satisfied cat.
“Really?” I ask. “A Lamborghini?”
“Boss wanted to make an impression.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He opens the passenger door with exaggerated gallantry. I slide in, trying not to flash him in the process. The dress really wasn’t designed for getting in and out of low-riding sports cars.
My plan for moody silence lasts approximately two minutes before curiosity wins. “Where is Stefan? Why didn’t he pick me up himself?”
Taras shifts gears. “He’s a busy man. He had things to do.”
“Like hunt down his mother?”
The smile drops from Taras’s face like I’ve slapped him. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. “That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” I study his profile, the sudden tension in his jaw. “Why does everyone hate her so much? I mean, I get Stefan’s anger—she betrayed his father, disappeared, all of that. But you’ve never even met her, have you?”
“No.”
“But you still want her dead.”
“I suppose, yeah.”
“Well, I’d say that’s a pretty strong opinion to have of someone you never actually met.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, navigating Boston traffic.
“Has she earned her reputation?” I press. “Or was she treated unfairly? Or maybe, just maybe... both are true.”
“I know she managed to convince you that she’s some misunderstood martyr,” Taras says finally, his accent thickeningwith emotion. “But trust me, she’s not. Natalia Safonova is a fucking snake.”
“Based on what? Stefan’s version of events? Stories passed down through the Bratva telephone game?”
He takes a sharp turn that presses me against the door. “Based on what she did to my family.”
That stops me cold. “Your family?”
“Both my parents worked for Stefan’s family, actually. My father was avorto Matvey—Stefan’s father—and my mother was the housekeeper.” His voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before. “They even had a little cottage at the far end of the property.”
“That sounds... nice?”
