Page 25 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

I stilled. Even I knew that name.

“He turned you down?” I repeated, incredulous. “I can fix that.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“You heard me.” I put down my glass and took out my phone. “I will change his mind about you.”

“No.” She grabbed the phone from me, our fingers tangled with the device. “I don’t want anything handed to me.”

God, this girl. This woman. She’s fucking eighteen. Legal. And prefers vodka over water.

“Not everything is about ability. Trust me, I know corruption and favors. This is a construction company for Christ’s sake. Sometimes people have to be coerced to do the right thing. Everyone has a price.”

“Please don’t.” She waved me off, fear lacing her tone. “Just forget I said anything.”

I hated that she turned frightened all of a sudden. “Why? Talk to me.”

“You haven’t even seen my work,” she argued.

“Then show me.” I folded my arms. “Convince me. And I’ll get you an apprenticeship with someone who would consider Fritz gum on the bottom of his shoe.”

“Now?” she asked, a breath of laughter escaping her.

“Tomorrow night,” I corrected, shrinking the space between us, leaving no question about what I really wanted from her. “Have dinner with me. Bring your portfolio.”

The weight of the invitation ignited a war behind her eyes. Those lies told about me and her father’s warning didn’t match up with the nice guy I was being in that private room with her.

“Your reputation covered a lot of things,” she said, stepping back. “Liking art wasn’t one of them.”

“I’m not without culture despite dealing in concrete and iron,” I said. “I enjoy aesthetically pleasing things. And what art reveals.”

“Reveals?” She perked up, and her gaze softened. “My mom said my art revealed who I was to the world.”

“Your mother is a very smart lady.”

“Was,” she whispered. “She died a couple of years ago. Cancer.”

An echo of pain pinched my heart as I was ready to admit something I didn’t often acknowledge. “Mine died, too.”

Not from cancer. Suicide. But we don’t talk about that.

My mother, a Chicago industry heiress, was forced to marry my father when he got here from Russia, and he made her life miserable.

“I have a sister,” Sandrine added after a moment of silence. “She’s older.”

“So do I,” I said, thinking briefly of Ksenia.

That earned me a smile, bright and unguarded, as the vodka warmed her cheeks. Jaw trembling, she stared at me, her edges softened and tightly coiled at the same time.

She leaned in, her gaze centered on my mouth.

“What are you doing?” My groin roared to life in my pants.

“I just need to know,” she whispered, rising on her toes.

For a split second, I considered if I would let her go with just a kiss. But the door to the lounge crashed open before her lips got anywhere near me.

“Sandrine!” Her father’s voice cracked through the room like a gunshot, his eyes blazing with anger.