I look for a doorbell. There isn’t one. As I’m about to knock, I see a small, short, older woman approaching. She opens the door.
“Hello, Miss Allison,” she says in a faint Russian accent. She indicates for me to step in. “May I take your bag?”
“No thank you,” I say, gripping it tightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name …”
“Irina,” she says. “Shall I take you to Mr. Alekseiev? He is in the den.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
She starts walking. As I follow her, I’m taken aback by the utter extravagance of the house. There’s a chandelier above us, limestone floors, and a spiral staircase with a handrail that’s carved to look like writhing snakes.
I nearly walk into Irina. She stops at the first door in the hallway. Even the arched entrances here are elegant.
Irina gestures for me to wait before she steps into the room.
“Mr. Alekseiev, Miss Allison is here,” she says.
“Thank you, Irina,” Lev’s voice says.
She steps out and indicates for me to walk in.
“Thank you, Irina,” I tell her.
“It was my pleasure.”
She leaves as I walk into the room. There’s a large fireplace on the west side, two love seats, and two recliners curved around it. In the center of the furniture is a large glass coffee table. There are various bookshelves around the room and a small bar set up on the east side. The décor makes it appears small and cozy, but I’m pretty sure it’s larger than my apartment’s kitchen and living room combined.
Lev is sitting in one of the recliners, a lowball glass in his hand. Unlike me, still wearing the shoddy the clothes from yesterday, he’s changed. He’s wearing a new dress shirt and different pants. It’s less formal than what he had on before, but it only means his body is more apparent than ever.
I try to avoid staring by looking at his face, but those eyes have leverage over me. I sit down on the love seat farthest away from him. I pick up a wood carving of a bird, each of its feathers spread out like a fan.
“It’s a bird of happiness,” he says casually, like we’re friends meeting for tea. “An old Russian toy.”
I set the bird back down. “You care a lot about your heritage, don’t you?”
“My ancestors fought and thrived so that I could live. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I just find it interesting.” I shrug before looking straight at him. The intensity in his face almost makes me flinch, but I keep my gaze steady. “Someone who is proud of their Russian history might be easier to manipulate by certain criminal organizations.”
I expect him to be angry. To insist he’s not connected to the Bratva or that he could never be manipulated. But he smiles. And something about that smile makes me feel less aggressive.
“That’s quite the jump,” he says. “If I was Italian and proud of my Italian heritage, would you accuse me of being in the Italian Mafia? Or is your prejudice only for Russians?”
I flush. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes, you did.” He leans back into the chair. “If you’re going to blow smoke, at least have the courage to stand in the fire.”
I raise my chin. “I just want to know how you can afford a house like this. I’m sure Black Glacier makes a nice profit, but not this nice.”
“Should I be a little hurt that you didn’t look into me at all?” he asks. “You had my full name on my business card.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I knew everything I wanted to know about you from last night.”
“Apparently not, if you’re still asking questions.”
“What would I have found out if I looked into you? Is there a Black Glacier in every city?”
He walks over to his home bar. He picks up a vodka bottle. Mariya’s Revenge. It’s a top-shelf vodka. I noticed a few bottles of it in the club because the tops of the bottles are shaped like shotgun shells. When Jonathan was asked about it, he told a patron that a shot cost $77.
Lev pours a shot and hands it to me.
“What is this for?” I ask, taking it.
“I want you to tell me what you think of my product.”
The shot glass nearly slips between my fingers. “You own Mariya’s Revenge?”
“Yes.”
I set the shot down. “Why would you need to marry me then? You’re rich. You own a successful business.”
“‘Successful’ is an insult. I put Fool’s Fire vodka out of business in six months flat.”
He’s like a blister: self-inflated, under my skin, and rubbing me the wrong way.
He slides his hand into his pocket. My eyes follow the movement, imagining the warmth of his skin, the grip of his fingers, and how it would feel to be between his thigh and his hand.
I snap out of my reverie. When I look back up at him, that alluring smile is back on his face. I could smack it. Or kiss it. Still undecided.
“Anyway,” I say. “I think we need to look at our deal again.”
“Our arrangement,” he corrects.
“I don’t care what it’s called. You have to know I won’t marry you. It’s a ridiculous—”
“Proposal?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Proposition.”
He takes his hand out of his pocket and clasps them in front of him. “I have this life because I am willing to do what others won’t.”
“I’m not going to marry you,” I repeat.
He takes the shot glass from in front of me, walks back over to the home bar, and starts mixing up a drink.
“It’s a little early to be drinking, isn’t it?”
“Have you slept since last night? No? Neither have I,” he says. “So let the party continue.”
I check my shirt, checking if there’s any dirt that I’ve missed on it that gives away my sleepless night. His comment is a reminder that, amongst all of this opulence, I’m the cheapest thing here.
He hands me a drink. It’s
