Page 6 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
The warm flush of pride this gives me is unexpected. It has been years since I cared if anyone believes a word I say, and I wasn’t actively trying to change anything. But it makes me feel lighter somehow.
“Let me take your place at the launch today, Leo.”
Cartier will be there. She’ll be a captive audience. All I want is the chance to show her around town, and I know that I’ll be able to win her over.
Leonid shakes his head. “One of us should be there.”
“Gianna needs you here.”
I mean, my sister-in-law looks fucking amazing. Leonid looks wearier than she does with his day-old stubble and the puffy circles under his eyes. But still… Two babies equal double the amount of feeding and diaper changing, right?
“You won’t get this special time back again,” I add for good measure.
Gianna smiles. “He’s right, Leo.”
They lock eyes, and any fool can see how devoted they are to each other. I feel a twinge of something sharp and twisted inside my gut. Jealousy? Envy? It has always been this way between me and my brother, only now I don’t feel the overwhelming urge to steal what he has and smash it into a million tiny, lethal shards.
“You want me to stay?” Leonid’s voice is thick with emotion, and my pulse gives a little skip.
Gianna nods as both babies start squalling at the same time. Feeble sounds that would cut straight through to another person’s heart.
It’s my cue to go. “I’ll say hi to Mayor George for you both.”
Then I turn around and leave before they can change their mind.
The doorto the shelter is open when I arrive.
A valet has been arranged to park the cars of the important guests, and people are already heading inside. Men in smart black suits. Women wearing Chanel, Dior, and Versace. It’s the kind of event where wealthy philanthropists come to charm the press and boost their online profiles with stories of their charity work, while the mayor and the police commissioner congratulate themselves on their squeaky-clean records.
Journalists are outside, camera lights flashing as they snap pictures of VIPs worthy of whatever magazines print their stories.
I try to avoid these events where possible. Victoria is the face of the Ivanov family, but she is currently involved in a messy legal hearing between her husband’s brother Boris and a Japanese Yakuza boss.
I toss my car keys to the valet and climb the steps to the women’s refuge ignoring the cameras.
The building smells of fresh paint and lemon-scented polish. I came here at the beginning, when Leonid first purchased the building, and he and Victoria were still discussing the obvious ways in which it would improve our status in the city. Our sister saw the refuge as a PR opportunity. But it was obvious even then that Leonid had zero fucks to give about his reputation.
It was a gift to Gianna. My brother was simply there to sign on the dotted line and hand over the cash required to complete the necessary renovations.
Had he been more involved, I doubt that I would be standing in the foyer now, studying the quote above the arched entrance painted in bold, aesthetically pleasing cursive:Storms make trees take deeper roots. Deep. I wonder where Gianna got that from.
“It’s a Dolly Parton quote.”
The voice comes from nowhere, and I turn around to find Mika, Gianna’s other friend from the hospital, smiling at me like she knows exactly why I’m here and she’s down for being my wing woman. She has dark, almost black hair, olive skin, and is wearing a pink-suede knee-length waistcoat over a white shirt and pants that make her look as if she just defected from a hippy commune.
“Are you here to represent the owners, or is it a personal visit?” Glossy red lips stretch into a wide easy smile.
She’s a beautiful woman. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t hesitate to wow her with the Ivanov charm. But I’ve already met Cartier, and it’s like being blinded from staring directly at the sun: everyone else has become a silhouette.
“Both.”
It’s a lie, I’m here purely for selfish reasons, but I might as well step up and prove to my brother that I can be responsible when the situation requires. I wouldn’t want them to report back that I came purely to flirt and drink champagne.
Mika links her arm with mine as if my answer either way would’ve made no difference. “I might need to hide you for a while, although I’m not sure how that’s going to work.”
She guides me through the foyer and into what will be some kind of community room once the refuge starts welcoming their first residents. It’s bright and spacious, the bay windows at either end of the room allowing the sunshine to puddle on the floor and bathe today’s guests in a golden glow. The walls are painted pale green. The sofas are plump and inviting. A large TV screen is mounted on one wall, and there’s a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed full of books at one end of the room.
Today’s event is geared up for introductions and speeches, but the building already feels like home. And that has nothing to do with fresh paint and new furniture. That’s down to the three women who have put their heart and soul into making this a safe place for women who’ve forgotten what security and stability feels like.
