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Abby

Madrid, Spain

Present day

“How do you feel about swapping the Spanish sun for Miami humidity, Abby?” Dimitry gestures to the waiter for more wine, his dark gray eyes holding mine across the table.

Thankfully the waiter arrives, saving me from answering immediately. Tonight, winter in Madrid is anything but warm. Rain trickles tears down the glass windows, beyond which the cobblestones are slick and cold.

It’s summer in Australia right now.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of Australia a lot. Of the life I left behind—and of the life that is slowly taking its place.

“Darya will be back from her honeymoon soon.” I avoid Dimitry’s eyes along with his question. “I can’t leave her when the baby is coming in a few months, especially since she’s asked me to be godmother.”

I toy with my tapas, which gives me an excuse to look at my plate instead of my boyfriend.

And Darya Borovsky isn’t just an excuse. She’s my best friend.

She’s also married to Roman Borovsky, Dimitry’s oldest friend.

It sounds perfect. Four close friends, all partnered up. There have been times over the last few months when it’s felt like that, too. Sunlit Spanish afternoons filled with wine and laughter that felt like I was living in paradise.

Butthere’s always a snake in paradise. And the one in our garden is called Stevanovsky.

Up until recently, that was Roman’s surname. It’s still Dimitry’s. They were both orphans on the Miami streets when they joined the Stevanovsky bratva clan and took that name as their own.

Now the Stevanovskys are Spain’s most powerful clan. And although Roman’s name has recently changed to Borovsky, he remains theirpakhan.

Which means he’s also Dimitry’s boss.

Lately, that last fact is one I’m finding increasingly difficult to live with. Even if Dimitry Stevanovsky is an addiction I cannot imagine living without.

Dimitry leans across the table and spears a sliver of myjamónwith his fork. “When Darya gets back to Spain,” he says in a deceptively casual voice, “she has Roman’s mother to help her. Not to mention her own father, and an army of household servants.” His hands are so huge, blunt and scarred, they make the polished fork look like a toothpick. “I can’t imagine anyone who needs help less. Besides.” He gives me a grin, but I can sense the wariness behind his eyes. “I’m supposed to be godfather, but you don’t see Roman hesitating to send me off to Miami.”

“No, of course not.” My acerbic response is out before Ihave a chance to think better of it. “Roman gets what Roman wants, right?”

Dimitry’s face tightens.

I’ve just walked too close to the line no good bratva soldier ever crosses: loyalty.

I might not give a single fuck for their rules, but those rules are Dimitry’s world.

Which is part of the problem.

“I just mean that Roman never lets anything get in the way of business.” I attempt to soften my tone. “And while we’re on the subject of Roman’s business, have you told him you want me to leave Spain and join you in Miami? I’m the bar manager of his flagship nightclub, after all. He might not be happy about filling my role at Pillars for... How long are we talking about, anyway?”

I can almost feel the air thickening as I ask the question. That’s the thing about hard conversations.

There’s never a right fucking time to have them.

Dimitry studies me over the table. I’ve always loved the way his eyes seem to caress me, absorbing every nuance of the way I talk or move.

Tonight, though, his scrutiny feels like a test I’m destined to fail.

“Pillars will survive,” he says quietly. “But I might not survive Miami without you.”