Ugh. Yes, I know the rumors about my boss. I try to ignore them. It’s easy enough—nothing overtly wrong ever takes place in his office. I would know if there was; I’ve been in charge of Kostya’s desk for eleven months now, and I know just about every single thing and person that comes in and out of the offices of Zinon Enterprises. So what if some shady-looking dudes swing by unexpectedly every now and then? Everybody has shady friends. And so what if Kostya doesn’t like being on TV? Plenty of people don’t. I might be the only thirty-something girl in California who doesn’t harbor secret dreams of becoming a star actress, so I can understand the desire to stay out of the public eye.
But Kostya’s reluctance to ham it up for the cameras and the tight operation he runs in his businesses means that lines of questioning like this are few and far between.
All of which leads me to believe that this man is the only type of person who’d be asking questions like that: a reporter. Probably one of those slimy ones from a tabloid rag, the kind who dig through trash cans and dumpsters for their “source close to” their subject.
“I already said you’re mistaken.” My tone is ice cold. This budding friendship is over. I pick up his hand and shove it away.
But he isn’t flustered, not even a little bit. He shifts gears so quickly my head spins, and the nice- guy act disappears like a bad dream. “So, tell me, Miss Charlotte Lowe …” he snarls, voice acid.
Am I supposed to be impressed that he knows my name? If he knew where to find me, the leap isn’t so big to think he would also find out who I am.
“What’s it like to work for someone who can’t go to a simple fundraiser without drawing gunfire? Do you worry for your own safety?” He moves closer to me but raises his voice as if he’s trying to make a scene.
I ignore him and move up to place my order. As soon as I’m finished, he starts again. “You know he’s the boss of the entire West Coast Russian Bratva, right?”
I don’t answer because nice girls—which I am—don’t say fuck you in public. I just close my eyes and dream of paninis.
“You ever pull a trigger for him? Or are you more ornamental for Zinon?”
Ornamental? “What does that mean?” Goddammit. I didn’t mean to ask that out loud.
“Oh, you know—make his coffee. Count his cash. Spread your legs when he wants something warm and wet to crawl into. The things Russian mobsters keep girls like you around to do.”
Oh, hell to the motherflippin’ no. This isn’t my first rodeo dealing with ugly reporters poking at Kostya’s fortune. Normally, I’m nice enough to firmly rebut them and send them on their way.
But he just went way, way too far.
I don’t give a shit if there’s even the tiniest inkling of truth to the man’s accusations. Kostya may be an asshole, but he’s my asshole to deal with, not this son of a bitch’s. And that bit about spreading my legs is some next-level grossness. Time to put him in his place.
I whirl on him. “Kostya is a businessman. And the police said the shooting after the gala was gang-related and random. Do you want to see the report? I could fax it, or email it, or shove it up your ass, since your head is already up there.”
When I’m finished, and I’ve said the worst I can muster with butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth sincerity, I turn away, if only so I can better resist the temptation to take my bag and maim him with it. The last thing I need is a felony charge for assault with a deadly weapon—and make no mistake, Hermès can be deadly if wielded when full of enough female paraphernalia. Also, my mother is waiting across the dining room. The second-to-last thing I need is another lecture from her.
The man laughs cruelly. “You stupid girl. He killed three men while he was wearing a Ralph Lauren tux. Does that strike you as businessman behavior?”
“It was Armani, you dense shithead.” My arguments need work, but the fury racing through my veins is putting a halt to all conscious thought that should be occurring north of my eyebrows. “And Kostya Zinon is no more Russian Mafia than I am.” I give him my best cold glare and continue. “Don’t you think the cops would be a little nosier if they thought he was the Big Bad Bratva Wolf?”
Even as I say it, I remember the calls from men who refused to tell me who they worked for, asking about this and that package or rendezvous. I remember the training that Kostya’s outgoing secretary gave me—Never confirm or deny anything over the phone. At the time, overwhelmed by nervousness, I figured that every billionaire’s secretary got the same spiel when they started. But it didn’t take too long on the job before I started to get a little suspicious.
Not that I’d mention any of those thoughts to this asshat.
“Christ, you are naïve. Do you really think a man with money like him doesn’t have a couple corrupt cops in his pocket? Maybe even an assistant DA?” He bites his lip, and I really want to smash my purse on top of his head. Maybe he’d bite that damned lip off. “Tell me: does Kostya get a lot of visits from off-duty police officers? You ever see any little envelopes full of cash changing hands?”
“Watch yourself, douchebag. If he is Russian Mafia, do you really think you should be harassing one of his employees?”
For just a second, I wish Kostya was what this man is saying he is. I’d beg for him
