Page 22 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

Mischa is wiping down the counter as I take a seat on one of the fading brown barstools. “Evening, boss,” he grunts.

Mischa has been running this place ever since it was established more than half a century ago. He’s as much an institution as the diner itself.

“Mischa,” I greet with a nod. “Has a girl been in here recently?”

Mischa smiles. “Nice to hear you talking about a girl.”

“It’s not what you think,” I say brusquely.

“With most women, it never is.”

I don’t bother asking him what that means. Talking to Mischa is like talking to the Sphinx. Every question is answered with another. Riddles on riddles. It’s fucking exhausting.

“So you haven’t seen a girl in a wedding dress come by here?”

He frowns, looking up at me with an expression that’s clearly concerned. “A wedding dress?” he repeats. “No, sir. I would have remembered that.”

Fuck.I glance around, but one sweep has the diner covered. Besides—Mischa remembers everything.

I turn my attention to the streets, still lively despite the hour. There’s no sign of an astonishing, shell-shocked blonde in an ugly wedding dress. I turn back towards Mischa, but I’m looking right past him at the bottles lining the back wall.

“Need a drink, boss?” he asks.

I think about it. For a long fucking time.

“No,” I decide at last. “Another time.”

I spin around on the barstool and keep my eyes fixed on the street. Maybe she got held up somewhere. Maybe she’s on her way here right now.

I don’t know why I care. I don’t know why I’m invested.

Maybe because I need the distraction. But something tells me it’s more than that. Something that’s excruciatingly hard to put a name to.

Fuck it.I glance over my shoulder at Mischa. “Actually, I’ll take a whiskey. The strongest one you’ve got.”

“I’ll bring out the good stuff for you, boss,” Mischa replies.

He disappears into the back. When he returns, he’s carrying a crystal glass half-filled with a burnt umber liquid that looks smooth as fucking silk. He sets in down in front of me and slides it closer.

“Enjoy.”

I pick up the glass and take a whiff. The oaky notes hit my nostrils first. Then I get the subtle tones of vanilla. I take a sip, swirling it around on my tongue first before I swallow.

“Well?” Mischa asks, as though he’s personally responsible for the whiskey I’m drinking.

“Fucking fantastic,” I say approvingly.

He nods, his impressive silver-white whiskers twitching up. “That whiskey is meant to be drank on a bad day,” he tells me. “You look like a man who could use it.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” I grimace, glancing out the window again.

“Does this girl in the gown have a name?” Mischa asks innocently. “In case she comes in when you’re not around?”

I hadn’t even asked for her name. Not even when I’d been buried inside her. Then again, she hadn’t asked for mine, either.

My fingers curl around my whiskey glass as I curse myself out internally. Fucking her was a massive mistake. I should have known better. I should have been stronger. Instead, I’d acted like a horny college student on his first spring break.

“No name,” I reply. “And I don’t think it matters at this point.” I take another sip of the whiskey. “I don’t think I’ll see her again.”

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