Page 92 of Scarlet Promise

“No.”

“It’s my money, Demyan.”

He presses his lips together. “It’s a bad idea.”

Something in me snaps. “How wouldyouknow? You spend millions and millions on illegal shit. You have a billion-dollar bratva, and only some if it’s legitimate money. I want to do something good with an amount that wouldn’t put a dent in your fortune, not that I’m asking for a drop of yours. I’m requesting half of mine early for a good cause, and you think it’s a bad idea?”

“Yes, I do.”

I slam a fist on his desk, spilling his coffee. “Doesn’t it get tiring being up there on your pedestal?”

“It’s not that, Angel,” he says. “How long until you lose interest in this and move on to the next shiny thing? It seems like fun right now, but shit like that isn’t. It’s not all pretty things. This is real life.”

I stare at him, shock vibrating through me. My mouth hangs open. “Do you even know me at all?”

He sighs. “Send me the sales listing.”

“It’s not for sale right now because no one ever bites, and he keeps taking it down only to put it back up later on.” I’m pretty sure it has something to do with time spent on the market can devalue the property or something.

I don’t know. I’m not an expert. But I don’t need to be. I know how much I’m willing to spend, and if he won’t bite, I’ll buy something else.

But Demyan thinking I’m some kind of vacuous socialite… That stuns me.

“Then that’s a problem,” he says.

“Did you listen to me?”

“I did, but things don’t stay new and shiny for you for long.”

“Be very careful,” I warn. “If this is about Max and Ilya, you’ll regret it.”

“Damn it, Alina. Stop being combative. Just send me the info you have, and I’ll have someone look into it.”

“Don’t bother,” I say quietly. “I’ll figure something out myself.”

I turn and walk out, ignoring him call my name.

Chapter Twenty-One

ILYA

High-tech security isa warning system in my world. Nothing more.

There’s a reason my focus is on manpower, not on lasers or whatever the fuck people have in other industries.

But it’s not going to hurt. I like the idea of the added layer of a better tech security system, like an alarm. My grandfather had one similar. Chase oversees the installation, along with the woman who designed the system. It’s a two-tier system, with codes or cards or biometrics I can turn on or off. I opt, privately, to keep biometrics off. Too many horror stories of innocents with access who lose their lives, eyes, or fingers for invaders to get in.

Santo’s helping with the manpower.

I dread the conversation with what he wants of mine when this is done. What he’ll get when our negotiations are done.

After the system’s upgraded and Chase, the designer, and the technicians are gone, I take a seat at my desk, contemplating my next move.

My phone starts to buzz. I check caller ID. What the fuck?

Demyan.

My blood goes cold then hot. Is he calling to apologize? I force a laugh. This is Demyan. Those words won’t ever leave his mouth. Still, he’s able to offer olive branches or just pretend nothing happened at all. Those last two I can see happening.