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As I walk to work, I stare at the amethyst bracelet on my wrist. It felt strange returning to my empty apartment last night. It’s as if nothing had gone amiss, and the quiet of that terrified me.
My phone buzzes despite the early hour of the morning. It’s the burner phone Dmitri gave me.
Anonymous: I miss that sweet little cunt of yours.
I bite my bottom lip. Absolutely vulgar and yet entirely Dmitri. It’s dangerous even playing into this, but I battle with the knowledge every day that I might not make it to the next. And there’s always been something about Dmitri Volkov that has been hard for me not to bite back.
Me: It’s a surprise you haven’t been able to keep a woman down with language like that.
The reply is almost immediate.
Dmitri: Rather the opposite, especially since most of them prefer it when I tie them down.
My chest tightens at the thought of how many women he’s been with. I hate that it’s something that I even think about because he is far from mine. But women had always thrown themselves at him in our college years, and I doubt much of that has changed even now. But this says much about his ‘tastes’ that he tried to warn me about, so I consider what type of response I should have.
Me: I suppose it doesn’t give them much of a chance to run away when they see your inadequate package.
Dmitri: Be careful. That mouth of yours might get you into a compromising position again soon.
Warmth floods my core at the memory of all the various positions he put me in, and I was grateful that I’d worked on my flexibility for so many years through ballet to keep up with him. But there was nothing elegant in the way that we fucked.
Thank goodness these texts self-delete after two minutes.
The bell jingles as I walk into Cappa Café Monday morning for their jalapeno bagel that Dmitri had recommended I might enjoy. I’d never admit to taking him up on his suggestion, but I was curious. I’m mid-reply when I hear my name.
I turn to see Ara, who’s sitting with three women. They’re all beautiful, and I recognize some of them from articles, gossip, or on occasion, “wish lists” from some of my male clients. The moment I knew I’d be allowed to continue my match-making business in New York, I’d made sure to do as much research as possible on the single members in high demand.
“I didn’t know you came here?” Ara says as she walks over to me. It was a few blocks away from my work, and I wondered if this was why Dmitri had recommended it in the first place because, by chance, I might run into Ara who he seems fond of. Another chill runs through me, curious if they also have history. I bite back down on the stupid jealously, surprised by its appearance.
“It was recommended to me by a friend,” I say with a smile.
Despite Ara being a previous client and we’d only met those two times, I quite liked her. And that was dangerous. Dmitri might be encouraging me to make friends, but I knew better than to make such leaps, especially when I’d been warned away from the Italian mafia who Ara was now engaged to the head of.
Most likely because The Lion didn’t want to risk their attention.
“Would you like to join us for coffee?” she offers.
Her friends are looking over her shoulder now, curious.
I want to.
When was last time I hung out with a group of women in a friendly setting? I think of the friends I’d made in Russia, which runs a chill down my spine.
And look what happened to them…
I shake my head. “Thank you, but not today.”
She seems disappointed but puts a hand on my arm. “Well, if you ever want to catch up. Let me know.”
I have the impression that Ara is a person with few friends. There’s something sharp about her, not in the same obvious way as Dmitri, but an undercurrent of something lurking. And yet, I’m not uncomfortable with it. Simply aware.
But I wasn’t willing to put her in a light The Lion might gravitate attention toward. So I order the bagel and coffee, preparing for my day, and leave. I look back at the phone but decide to pocket it instead. Perhaps I’d gotten too carried away in hope this weekend. If I’m still too scared to have a coffee amongst women, should I even be texting a man? Especially the one I’ve been distinctly warned away from.
I’m not entirely sure why I have the distinct impression Mirabella Latine is eye fucking me, but I’m certain it has something to do with my sister.
“I knew it was a good idea to invite you to that wedding,” she says in a suggestive way. Yep. Definitely Layla. I’d rather she not get some action on the job while pretending to be me, but I’m not surprised in the slightest. “And who knew I’d meet Marco, who’s absolutely the man of my dreams.”
I’d researched him since Layla advised me of her matchmaking skills. He held none of the qualities on Mirabella’s four-page “requirements.” Layla did, however, miss out some finer details.
