Page 7 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

It was on the tip of my tongue to snap something about his sarcasm being unseemly, but I recognized his little challenge was my shot.

“I’ll bring out another serving of the pasta,” Andre offered, waving for one of the kitchen lackeys to get it done.

“And I’ll get the wine,” I said, jumping up.

Everyone tried a few bites, followed by my crisp Pinot Grigio. They all said something noncommittal, saying it was great both ways. Even Andre was diplomatic, refusing to admit the obvious. Was I so far off the mark?

Doubt began to creep in, and to my horror, tears began to sting my eyes. I resolutely blinked them away, waiting for Mik’s final assessment.

My reputation was on the line when the place opened. A reputation that already took a huge hit for reasons that had nothing to do with my capability as a sommelier. I watched him take another bite of pasta, then a sip of the Pinot, his eyes locked on me, his expression unreadable.

Would he even be able to tell a difference between his choice and mine with his low-brow beer palate?

I needed this job, this second chance, but I wasn’t sure I could stay if I was forced to put out less than the best.

Chapter 4 - Mikhail

Wrapping the pasta around the fork, I raised it to my lips, glancing at Laurel, who watched me like her life was on the line. After eating a three-course lunch, I could see why Nik and Emerson had paid the chef so damn much. Now it was time to sample the wine she thought would go better than the one I picked out, and for a second, I thought she might have stopped breathing.

I liked getting under her skin. Probably too much. Despite her ability to also get under mine, the attraction was immediate and unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I had to know more, and the night before, I followed her to her place.

Not exactly easy since she was on a city bus, but at least there was no chance of her getting lost in traffic. Her apartment wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen, and the neighborhood was relatively safe. There was a gate that she had to enter a code to get into, but I was too far away to see it from where I waited at the curb.

No problem; all I had to do was stroll in after the next people who entered. One of them held the gate for me. This city was rife with crime, and not only the kind my family was involved in. Random, violent occurrences that could happen to anyone who wasn’t paying attention or looked like an easy mark.

Laurel had glanced to her left and right before entering the security code on the gate, but didn’t realize I was only thirty feet behind her, and then her naive neighbors let me waltz right in. The courtyard was clean enough, and at the moment, it was quiet, all the curtains closed, and no one loitering on the walkways.

When I was a teenager, I often did collections for my family, and if the borrowers didn’t want to pay or couldn’t, then I acted as an enforcer. I’d seen plenty of shitty apartment buildings, and for some reason, I breathed a sigh of relief once I knew that Laurel didn’t live in the kind of place where people like me showed up to crack heads over a missed loan payment.

She was under my skin, and that nondescript apartment told me nothing about her, and there wasn’t even a hairline space between her red and white curtains. That both annoyed me and also gave me that odd sense of relief. No one else would be peeking in on her.

With no information, I meant to do some more digging when I got home, but on the way, my cousin Dima called, asking for help with an emergency. I wanted to be closer with my cousins, not the outsider who rarely visited, so I jumped to chip in.

The fight was vicious, and it would have been almost comical how the other guys just kept coming if I didn’t have other, better things to do. The whole idea of not instantly killing your enemies so you might be able to extract information out of them was very American, and time-consuming. And annoying as hell, but Dima wanted the guys at the top of whoever was bugging them—us—now.

By the time I got home, I fell into bed, too tired to launch my investigation into my sexy sommelier, but woke up looking forward to seeing how she reacted to her bar getting torn down.

It was a pleasant surprise when she stuck up for herself and rose to my challenge to pick a better wine.

And damn it, she was right. Her wine was better by far, bringing out the richness of the sauce instead of overwhelming it. But was I going to admit it to see her smile or keep getting under her skin?

“It’s a fine choice,” I said, deciding to stay as neutral as the chef.

She looked like she might explode, but nodded, ever professional, and disappeared into her office in the back of the building. I went to mine to start my search. And still came up with nothing more than surface-level things. I already knew she was a few years younger than me, that she was stunning, and that she had her sommelier certificate from the small winery in Virginia.

Supposedly, her year-long hiatus from the career she loved was because she was visiting vineyards across Europe, but everyone had social media these days, and there wasn’t a single mention of her anywhere.

Nobody had a gap like that unless they were in prison, and that thought made me laugh out loud. Not prim little Lauren, although I supposed I could easily fool someone into believing I’d never done anything illegal. But no, not Lauren. I would have bet my brewery that she’d never so much as gotten a speeding ticket.

Until I came across an archived web page for a vineyard in Napa Valley. It didn’t connect to the live site, but it was very plainly somewhere in the ether that was the internet. Laurel Harris, head sommelier at Canyon Vines. The place was famous, according to California wine enthusiasts, and had a great reputation.

If Laurel worked for them, why hide it? Seeing that on her resumé would have put all my concerns about her qualifications to rest. It wasn’t like I didn’t trust Nik and Emerson, but Emerson could be a softie.

I stood up, stuck my head out of my office door, and asked one of the builders who was measuring out the frame for the new bar to ask Laurel to come to my office. I may have been questioning why she was hired in the first place, but this discovery raised even more.

And I didn’t like liars. Time to put her to the test.

As soon as she was seated, I smiled. “I enjoyed your wine choice,” I said. “It was better than mine.”