Then there was the whole thing that happened later. I’ve been wrestling with the call since the moment Kostya abruptly hung up on me. I may be deferential to a fault sometimes—blame my upbringing—but he went too far when he cursed at me, and before I could stop myself, I gave him a piece of my mind.
And what was all that about a kid? A dead ex-wife? I still remember his exact words: “A dead ex-wife I would have preferred to kill myself.” There was a tone in that that said he wasn’t joking. It sent shivers down my spine at the time, and as I recall the menace in his voice, I feel the same sensation again.
Shady. Very shady.
Still—he may be an asshole with a shady past, present, and future, but that doesn’t change the one enduring fact about our relationship: just thinking of him makes my panties wet.
Not a good thing when dining with my mother.
“Hey, aren’t you that girl from TV?” The guy behind me leans in to speak by my ear. His voice is low and sultry.
Oh boy. Here we go again.
I chuckle anyway because this is California, and we both know there’s a fifty-fifty chance that that line will work. Aspiring actresses want to be recognized and you can’t swing a dead cat around without hitting at least a half dozen girls dying to be the next Angelina Jolie.
Not me, though. I’m a secretary—an “executive assistant,” if you were to look at my job description, although an innocent bystander might confuse that with “indentured servant” if they happened to look at my paycheck. Either way, I am firmly in non-actress territory. “No. I think you must have me mixed up with someone else.”
He puts his hand on my arm, and my Spidey senses start tingling. “I’m sure it’s you. With that guy … the Russian mobster … Zinon. Yeah. That’s it. Kostya Zinon.” He nods and smiles as my skin flushes.
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
