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“I’m saving it for a rainy day.”
“You probably have enough for several winter storms.” She stares at the money in her hand. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Of course!” She bends down to put a coaster under the lemonade glass and then sits in a chair facing the couch. “I don’t usually have high-ranking Bratva enforcers in my home discussing the intricacies of custom embroidery and its value.”
Dropping down on the couch, I realize that I’ve been crass. “I didn’t know you were spending your own time on my clothes.”
“It’s a creative outlet.” Leaning forward, she sets the money next to my glass of lemonade. “No one made me do it, and I never expected anything in return.”
I watch her push her blond hair over her shoulder and can see she’s clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t properly compensated you for your work.”
“I appreciate that, but let’s be honest; you never asked for anything beyond a simple monogram. You owe me nothing.”
How many people wouldn’t take the money from someone who so clearly can afford it? “You can’t refuse payment.”
“Yes, I can.”
Her mouth tightens, and I realize she’s going to deny me. Something that never happens. Even with men who match me in size and ferocity.
But this woman does it, despite the fact it makes her uncomfortable. Why do I like her moxie? As well as her contradictions. One minute she’s sweetly compliant, and the next, she stands her ground like the goddess Athena. Ready to take on any battle.
I shake my head and decide to move the conversation in another direction. “Where are you from?” Her eyes dart to mine. “I noticed some books by Pushkin in your bookcase. Are you a fan of poetry, or was it your mother?”
“I was born in Moscow and came here when I was four.”
Lifting the lemonade glass, I drink half of it down and wait. When she doesn’t say more, I realize she doesn’t want to discuss her past, which tells me where the mystery begins. “I came with my family when I was twelve. Perhaps we were neighbors.”
“I doubt that.”
The words are clipped, and uncomfortable tension twists around us. How the hell did she go from chattering in the car to short responses? “What’s going on, Lina? Do my questions offend you?” Her foot taps nervously against the wood floor. “I would like us to get to know one another?”
“Why?”
I watch her stand abruptly and walk around the chair. “Did I misread the signals?”
“I didn’t know a hitman bothered with things like signals.”
What the fuck is going on? “Do we have a problem?” Her shoulders drop, and she shakes her head.
“I’m sorry.” She retakes her seat. “I’m uncomfortable exposing my frayed and complicated family history.”
“Do you think I’m going to judge you?” Her green eyes fill with uncertainty, and I want to crush anyone who shamed her.
“I think it would be impossible not to.” She bites her bottom lip. “Not that I should be worried about it, given how you spend your days. It’s not like you inhabit some moral high ground.”
“I am a loyal Bratva avtoritet and do whatever is required, which makes me a monster to some and a hero to others.”
“I am not a neophyte. I understand your world and might very well be the offspring of an evil crime lord. Or a king.” She looks at her hands. “The crime thing is probably more likely.”
Hiding my shock, I feign a blank expression. “Are you an unclaimed Bratva princess with a powerful Vor for a father?” She lets out a long breath and closes her eyes. “Shit. You are, aren’t you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know who my father is. We left Moscow in the dead of night with suitcases filled with cash and jewels. My mother told me many stories over the years but never revealed my father's name. She claimed it was for my own good, so as far as I know, the boogeyman could knock on my door tomorrow, or a long-lost relative. All I know is that Mama spent twenty-five years waiting for the other shoe to drop. And her bipolar disorder wasn’t wholly responsible.”
“Damn.” She fidgets uncomfortably. “Have you ever wanted to find out the truth?”
“Of course.” She looks around the living room. “Was Mama a famous model in Russia or a poor ballerina who never reached center stage? Am I the illegitimate daughter of a Russian oligarch or the product of a marriage to a Bratva soldier she wanted to escape?” She shakes her head. “Questions I will never answers to.”
“I could help you.” I watch her fold into herself. “If you want answers, I will get them for you.”
