Page 4 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Three

ALINA

The Roast is my favorite spot. The coffee shop’s popular with its cute little booths in black and white geometric designs, the bursts of greenery from the plants, and of course its amazing coffee and tea.

The place smells like heaven, and the buzz of the machines and the quiet chatter of patrons make my heart lift.

Here, no one bugs me or hits on me, and it’s such a happy little spot that I’ve always found it a panacea for sadness and the jagged edges of my broken heart.

But this morning, I can’t stop the jump and dance of my nerves as I wait for Ilya.

Honestly, I was so glad he called.

Earlier, I pressed call and then disconnect so many times that I’m sure I could now be a world-champ yo-yo star.

And the fact that he wants to talk to me about something will make this whole thing less embarrassing.

It’s almost Friday, and I have no idea what to do. The whole Santo thing is… I don’t know. Weird. Potentially scary?

All I said to Isla was that the big guy just couldn’t get the point. I didn’t tell her how he’d slid his hand up my skirt or that I knew who he was. She thought the six-foot-six guy was hot.

I’m not endangering her.

So I didn’t tell her. And outside of Erin, I don’t think there’s anyone else I could tell. Erin’s friend Kara is great, but we’re not that close.

There’s only one other person.

Ilya.

And if I’m honest, out of everyone I know, he’s the one who may have an idea of how to get out of this thing with Santo.

We’re close.

I can tell him anything.

It’s kind of weird. I’ve known him since I can remember, but it’s only since Max died that we got even closer. Our friendship became its own entity, one that exists outside Demyan.

Two years ago, I couldn’t imagine actually functioning, smiling, or having fun. But Ilya changed that. He didn’t tiptoe around my loss, didn’t change how he was. And more importantly, he’s never once treated me like I’m suddenly made of glass.

No, Ilya was always there with a broad shoulder to cry on. Vodka, whiskey, and a pack of cards at the ready.

With him, there was no before or after Max.

By that, I mean he wasn’t a before-Max Ilya or after-Max Ilya. His shoulder was the same one I cried on when I broke my arm and when the first boy I liked didn’t like me.

And he’s always made me laugh.

Ilya, treating me like normal, was what I needed. Exactly what I needed.

And through it, I’ve come to see I can say anything to him. Our friendship’s that deep. I treasure it.

The fact he’s easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt, either .

I sense him the moment the door opens. The pressure changes, heads turn, and Ilya steps in wearing a crisp suit.

The dark gray brings an air of distinguishment to him.

Even though I know he can kill without blinking, the suit hides that savage edge, just like it hides the grin beneath his surface, his terrible jokes, his laughter.

My stomach flips.

But as he approaches, the smile I’m used to only half emerges, and he seems distracted.

Immediately, I reach out to him. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine.” He squeezes my fingers, and that touch revs the heat inside me.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.” The fleeting smile appears again, only to morph into a concerned frown. “You know if you’re going to party without me and get those dark circles, I won’t share my cure with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Raw eggs, black bread, and salted salo washed down with vodka.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Cured pork fat is already salted.”

“Extra salted.” He taps his temple. “I’m smart.”

I laugh. “Why did you want to meet?”

“Meeting you’s smart, pretty dove.”

“I’m not a rat with wings.”

“No romance in your soul.”

“Uh-huh.” I push the menu at him, the one he hates with all the fancy coffees on it. “Why did you want to meet?”

Ilya shrugs, knocking the menu out of the way and reaching across to one of the two cups in front of me. He takes the left one, the one I ordered for him. It’s extra strong, extra sweet. Totally and unexpectedly Ilya.

“Can’t I just want to meet up?”

I roll my eyes. “You see me every day. Especially with Demyan away. And you could have just nixed this place and ordered me to have a coffee with you in the kitchen.”

He raises a brow. “You want me to order you about? Interesting. Consider that filed away.”

“No!” I swat at him, and he offers the smuggest little smirk I’ve ever seen. “You can’t order me about.”

“Yes, I can. I’m bigger than you. Meaner than you. Stronger than you.”

“But you like winding around my little finger.”

He takes a swallow of his coffee. “I let you think that.” He leans in. “Besides, this is coffee you bought for me. So much sweeter than one from the mansion. Plus, it’s free. I like free.”

He finishes it right as the waitress comes around, and then he orders two more. I sip at mine, which is almost done, delighted he ordered another and doubly delighted he really does want to spend time with me.

I don’t examine it.

I just take it as a nice moment, which I like to cling to now.

After the waitress sets down the new coffees, Ilya picks up his and adds his sugar.

“How was last night? Isla keep you up and get you raging drunk?”

“It’s rude to point out my dark circles.”

“We’re friends. I don’t lie to you.”

“I’ll accept lies that tell me how pretty I look, thank you.”

He just shrugs. “I don’t lie. And you’re always, always pretty. So what happened?”

I groan and spill the whole story about Santo. I leave out the part where he put his hand on my leg and slid it a little up under my skirt. With that kind of stuff, Ilya is a little like my brother.

Murderous .

I sigh and finish with, “And he kept hitting on me, not getting the hint. He knew who I was, and he knows Demyan. And he wants me to go out with him. I told him… I told him I’m engaged, and now he wants to meet me and my fiancé.”

I look down at my hands.

“The asshole won’t be breathing after I tell Demyan.”

My gaze flies up. “No!”

“Your brother will want to know.”

“Ilya, you can’t tell him. You can’t .”

“Why not? It’s sort of my job,” he says.

“Ilya, we’re either friends, or that’s all fake and you’re my brother’s lackey.”

He isn’t, and my words are unfair, but I can’t think of another way than appealing to his ego.

Ilya doesn’t say a word.

But his face tells me he can see what I’m trying to do. But I think he’s also willing to give me a chance to convince him.

“He can’t find out,” I say quietly. “Because it’s Demyan.”

“How is that a reason?”

I breathe out and take a swallow of my coffee.

“Because Demyan won’t ever let me live it down, and any advances in my own autonomy will be set back.

Way back. And I’m sick and tired of always relying on my big brother.

I should have just said no and let the bartender call the cops or throw him out. ”

“From what I know, Santo’s jacked. There’s more I could say, but…go on.”

“This is my mess, Ilya. I shouldn’t have told him I have a fiancé. And I need to clean it up.”

He frowns and doesn’t say anything.

“Which is why I kinda called you,” I say, my hands out, palms up on the table. “I don’t know what to do. Any ideas on how to get out of this? He’s apparently sending a car to pick me and my fiancé up on Friday. ”

Ilya chuckles. “Well, unless you did go and get yourself engaged in the past twelve hours, I don’t think you can fix this on your own. You need help, and that’s okay.”

“And Demyan?”

“Marriage between siblings is frowned upon. Plus, I imagine Erin might have something to say.”

I kick him lightly under the table, and he feigns pain.

“Ow, my leg…”

“Be serious.”

“Okay, this is our issue. No Demyan.”

“No Demyan. So what do I do?”

He takes my hand. “How about this? I’ll go with you to meet this Santo and pretend to be your fiancé.”

Ilya’s offer hangs in the air, and I want it. I want to pluck it and hold it close.

I can’t breathe as light weaves through me.

But then it fizzles, and I exhale.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

I’m such a hypocrite because that’s exactly what I was hoping he’d offer. Not all of me, obviously, just the desperate part.

“You didn’t. I offered.” He shakes his head. “Don’t make me beg for your hand in fake marriage. I mean, I can get down on one knee. Pretend to propose.”

He starts to rise, but I lunge over the table to hold him down.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Make me the happiest man at this table and be my fake fiancée.” He moves the coffee out of the way as he grabs a napkin and quickly fashions it into a giant ring.

Laughter erupts as I let go of his lapels and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I don’t think as I start to pepper his cheeks with kisses, the smoothness of his shave electric under my lips .

I like him with a close beard, but there’s something about his smooth-shaven cheek that’s delightful.

I got that all the time with Max since he kept himself clean-shaven, but?—

I stop myself and breathe. “Thank you.”

He pulls me off him and gently pushes me back to my side of the booth. “It’s nothing.”

But Ilya looks pleased, his cheeks a little flushed.

“It’s not nothing. It’s a lot. For me. It means so much to me,” I say, the words tumbling out.

His grin blooms. “Friends help each other out, right?”

“Yes.” I smile back. “They do. And I promise you won’t have to do anything awkward like kiss me.”

He chuckles. “Well, thank goodness I don’t have to do anything disgusting like that.”

I ignore his sarcasm, grateful for it. “You know, they make this amazing-looking chocolate cake. We should get some to celebrate?—”

“I’ll have a piece sent to you,” he says, getting to his feet.

I rise, too, my smile slipping a little. “You’re going?”

Ilya nods apologetically. “Yeah. I’ve got meetings. What do you think the suit’s for?”

“Me?”

“You wish.” He kisses my cheek.

He smells divine, like musk and a Tuscan summer, citrusy and fresh, with a touch of dark promises in that musk.

“There’s a lot of boring stuff that takes up time.”

“My brother owes you a raise,” I say, only half joking. “You practically live in the mansion, and you’re burning the candle at both ends in the name of business. You’re working so hard for him that a raise is?—”

“My little champion dove,” he says with a laugh, then he switches to English. “Text me all the details of this meeting on Friday, and don’t worry about Demyan. He appreciates me. He’s done a lot for me, and I’m happy to return the favor.”

It hits me that for most of the conversation, we’ve been speaking Russian. I didn’t even notice I’d code-switched until this moment. There’s something about Ilya that both languages feel right.

He kisses my cheek again, his hand warm on my arm, his lips tingling my skin.

But it’s over too quickly, and then he heads out the door, stopping only at the counter to pay and point out the cake.

I hug myself, my stomach sinking because he’s going, but knowing I’m incredibly lucky to have a guy like Ilya in my corner.