“Do you think that’s wise?” he says.
I shrug. “We can’t stop them doing a write-up. Might as well work with them to make it as favorable as possible.”
“Not much to see yet . . .” Anton says.
“It’s good,” I tell him defensively. “We can build hype before the opening.”
Anton, Violet and I have formed a somewhat unconventional alliance. Traditionally, only one person sits at the head of the table in a Bratva family.
My father didn’t want to choose between his two children, once he found out that he had a daughter as well as a son. He wanted Violet and me to run his empire together.
Anton was an additional complication. Even though he was my father’s top lieutenant, he isn’t a Vor, so he had no right to fall in love with his boss’s daughter.
To shut the mouths of our old-school family, we formed a Triumvirate. Violet rules by right of birth, being the firstborn. Anton because he took the name Turgenev when he married Violet. And me because I was raised to succeed my father, since he didn’t know he had a daughter.
We’ve had our disagreements. But so far, we’ve worked together better than I could have hoped.
I respect them both. Violet is intelligent, and far more adaptable than I could have imagined. She was raised in England, in a family with no ties to any kind of mafia. Her brother is a detective, for god’s sake! She was singing in a nightclub when my father found her. Yet she’s learned Russian. She’s learned our history and our ways. And she’s become quite the shrewd businesswoman.
Anton I already knew to be tactical, ruthless, and loyal to the extreme. He’d do anything for our family. Especially for Violet.
I worry that it’s me who’s the weak link in the chain. I’m the youngest, only twenty-three this year. In secondary school and college I spent more time drinking and fucking than I did attending class.
Once I graduated, I planned to buckle down and learn my father’s business, both legal and less-than-legal. But then he was killed such a short time later. I still had so much to learn from him. I wish I would have started sooner.
I want to prove myself. Not just to Violet and Anton, but to everyone.
So I wait for the reporter, determined to be as charming and persuasive as possible, when talking about the potential of Vivre. I’m going to convince this writer that Vivre will be the most gorgeous hotel in Paris, even if right now it’s still covered in plastic and dust. I’m going to make them fucking love me.
I’m convinced of this, until Mila Drozdov walks up to me holding a notebook and pen.
I stare at her with my mouth open.
I absolutely, no matter what, am not going to say, “What are you doing here?” Though I want to so bad that it almost chokes me.
I can’t think what else to say instead.
Mila looks similarly flustered. She tucks a lock of reddish-blonde hair behind her ear, tugging on the skirt of her butter-yellow sundress like she’s trying to look professional. She does not look professional. She looks a little bit scared, a little bit nervous, and way too pretty to do any sort of normal job. The idea of her working a counter in a deli or driving a bus is ludicrous. She stands out too much. It’s like she’s wearing a ball gown even when she’s dressed in completely normal clothing.
That’s what’s always driven me crazy about Mila. How I don’t want to find her attractive, not at all. And yet I’m helpless against it.
Mila has her own kind of gravity. It pulls me in. When we went to school together, I would tell myself that I wasn’t going to look at her or talk to her. Then I would find myself irresistibly drawn toward her, time after time. I’d have to say something, anything, no matter how rude or idiotic. I had to get a reaction out of her.
That was the crux of it, really. It drove me insane that out of all the girls in school who fawned over me, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She thought she was better than me. ME! Roman Turgenev. Son of the most powerful man in Paris. When she was nobody and nothing.
It makes my blood boil just thinking about it.
So I would try to put her down, put her in her place. And she’d fight back like a little wildcat, making me angrier than ever.
That’s our history. Spiteful, immature, contentious.
Still burning inside of me, like an ember that hasn’t gone out.
So now I’m staring at her, wondering why I keep bumping into her. Wondering why she’s back to torture me after all this time.
“I’m here to interview you,” Mila says, rather unnecessarily. I gathered that from her notebook and the timing of her appearance.
“You work for Clarion?” I say.
I’m not sure why my voice always has this tone of scorn when I speak to her. I can hear it, but I can’t seem to change it. It’s like my vocal cords only have one setting, because I’m trying too hard to keep them from clenching up in nervousness.
“Yeah,” Mila says, flushing red.
“Don’t you think that’s a little unprofessional? Writing a story about someone you know?”
“I wouldn’t say we know each other,” Mila says coolly. “Just because we went to the same school five years ago.”
“Still,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not giving you a tour.”
“Why not?” she demands.
“Because it’s pointless!” I tell her. “You’re obviously going to write some smear-job on me—“
“I am not!” she shouts, interrupting me. “I’m a professional!”
“Oh yeah?” I laugh. ”How long have you had this job?”
She squirms, going redder than ever.
“How long?” I demand.
She pressed her lips tighter, tilting up her chin. “About a week,” she says, loftily.
“About a week,” she says, loftily.
Now I’m really laughing, shaking my head at her.
“That’s just insulting,” I say. “What are you, an intern? Do they even know you came down here?”
“I was specifically assigned to write about you,” Mila says furiously. “And I’m going to do it, whether you like it or not. So you can cooperate and give me some talking points that you’d like me to include, or you can try to ignore me. Either way, this story is getting published. So don’t come crying to me if you don’t like the results.”
God, she makes me so mad! Why is everything a fight with her? Why does she continually make me feel like a teenager again, raging and emotional, and totally out of control?
I take a deep breath, trying to recover my composure. I’m an adult. I’m the head of the fucking Paris Bratva. I’m not going to be barked at by some girl.
I fix her with my ugliest glare, trying to make her whither under the heat.
“I don’t appreciate threats,” I say to her in a low, dangerous tone.
It gratifies me to see that she does look frightened, at least a little. Her eyes get bigger, and her throat jumps as she swallows hard. She takes a step back on the uneven pavement in front of the hotel.
“It wasn’t a threat,” she says, her voice quivering slightly. “It was a promise!”
She has such a long, slender neck. It’s creamy white, like her skin has never been touched once in her life. I want to wrap my hands around that neck and squeeze until her big blue eyes get bigger than ever . . .