Page 7 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
Guests are already starting to filter into individual cliques, glasses of champagne in one hand, eyes casually roaming the competition while their smiles remain firmly fixed in place. I instantly recognize several faces and return their shocked expression with a well-practiced smile and curt nod while I help myself to a drink from the passing server.
This is the reason why I avoid events that require me to make polite conversation. I can overlook history. Other people don’t find it quite so easy to let go and move on.
I don’t see Cartier.
Mika must notice me scanning the room for a glimpse of honey-blonde hair. “She’s in the back yard practicing her speech.” Before I can offer to share my expertise, she adds, “Don’t even think about it. Let her have her moment of glory before you reduce her to a gooey mess of suppressed hormones or she’ll never forgive me.”
“Think of me as a distraction.”
“Ha!” The sound escapes before she can stop it. “Losing your cell phone is a distraction. Police sirens wailing past when you’re mid-conversation is a distraction. You, friend, are on a whole different level.”
I smile, and she gives me the side-eye.
“Can you not do that? Please? At least until Cartier has finished shaking the mayor’s hand and saying ‘cheese’ for the cameras.”
“You don’t want me to smile?” I feign hurt. In my experience, it’s a game-changer when it comes to women. Not that I’m trying to impress Mika. “What happened to representing your boss and her husband?”
She scrunches up her face and sighs. “I’m going to have to get her drunk, aren’t I?”
“No.” I’m firm on this one. “That’s my job for later.”
Mika chuckles. “Good luck with that one.”
The mayor’s unmistakable voice enters the room before him, demanding attention, and shutting down the pleasant hum of existing conversations. The guy is an attention-seeker who’d have made a great TV show host if he hadn’t chosen the path of politics.
His smile is wide, his handshake strong. He has a greeting for everyone, a few words to make them feel special. His knowledge of the other guests is sufficient to make each one personal. Mayor George wants to be liked. He wants to be remembered as the mayor of the people.
Which is why his smile drops when he notices me.
He recovers quickly, but now his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the patter is forced. He makes a beeline straight for me and Mika, tossing pleasantries at other guests out of the side of his mouth as he advances.
“Mayor George.” I get in first.
I step away from Mika, who is watching the scene play out open-mouthed, and gesture for the mayor to follow me towards a server with a full tray of champagne flutes. I hand him a glass, and he accepts, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking help.
“My brother sends his apologies, but his wife gave birth to twin girls early this morning.”
“So, he sent you in his place?” The mayor’s lips twitch like a ventriloquist.
A light flashes in our faces, and I lean closer. “Smile for the camera.”
3
CARTIER
“On behalfof Gianna and Leonid, I want to thank you for coming today…”
I’m in the backyard practicing my speech. A few simple words of gratitude to the mayor of Chicago, that’s all I need, and I can’t even do it without my face glowing like a furnace, and my voice sounding like I swallowed a spoonful of peanut butter.
“Ugh!” I stomp my foot and squeeze my eyes shut. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Deep breath in. Release it slowly. Fool my body into believing that I’m in control.
I peer out across the garden. The high surrounding walls are covered in blooming roses. There’s a vegetable patch directly outside the kitchen with neat rows of squash, carrots, runner beans, and potatoes. A rockery. Shaped flowerbeds, miniature potted palms, a pond filled with Koi carp, and a secluded arbor for those seeking some peace or a quiet space to read.
I love it out here. When Mika and I first saw this place, the garden was like a construction site: mountains of dirt, pilesof rubble, and a dumpster filled with trash from inside the building. Watching it take shape brought me as much joy as watching the renovated rooms develop their own characters.
But today, my gaze can barely settle on a red-winged butterfly hovering around the buddleia bush before my pulse is off again on a never-ending marathon.
