Page 32 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
I’m the only one who knows whether or not there is truth to any of these rumors. And I’ll never tell. If anyone in my organization has a chance against me—it’s her.
Her head is shaved, brows so pale they seem nonexistent, and her blue eyes are striking against porcelain skin. Her strange, ethereal features stand out all the more against the all-black ensemble she insists on wearing. She moves purposefully across the littered ground despite the stilettos she wears.
Putting the sledgehammer head-down, I lean on the handle and wait for my sentence.
“Konstantin.”
“Olena. I’m surprised to see you here.”
Her eyes scan the site. It’s a mess, and it smells like trash and the wet water of the sound. But in nine months there’ll be forty-two condos. Mid-level, mid-income, and empty—unless someone is in need of a safehouse.
“There,” I gesture, toward a roughed-out concrete pad. “That will be the main office. Passports and papers. And the laundry rooms—” another, much smaller, concrete pad with the makings of an electric line, “for laundering, of course.”
Olena tries to look interested, but she’s distracted.
Which means she’s found out.
She’s foundher.
“Can we talk? Preferably somewhere with four walls enclosing us?”
The men know better than to murmur, but they’re beginning to cluster. They’ve become so used to me visiting the sites, throwing on a high-vis vest, and shoveling or sawing or destroying. It’s interesting that a visit from Olena is what sets them on edge.
“Rein’s. Let’s go.”
Rein’s Deli is as packed as always. It smells of pastrami, pickles, and diner coffee. Olena gets less glances here than at the construction site; I blend in perfectly in work pants and a sweat-stained shirt.
“Mr. Martynov,” greets the chef.
“Spencer. Your boss around?”
“No, not today, sir. He’s at his daughter’s basketball game. I can call him?—”
“No, no. I just wanted to check that the issue with the health department was taken care of.”
“It was sir. Thank you. Your usual?”
“Yes, please. And whatever Olena would like.”
Olena browses the menu, making an impossibly quick decision: “Kippered salmon salad and stuffed cabbage.”
Spencer nods and gets to work, calling the order out to his prep and sous chefs.
We settle into a booth, Olena’s long legs stretched to the side, ankles crossed.
“What exactly are you doing?” The question is mild, but direct.
“I am starting a family,” I tell her. “A legacy.”
She snorts. “A family? Does that seem like a good idea to you, Konstantin, considering where you came from?”
My brother Mikhail’s face flashes through my mind; the look he gave me the day I left.
The fact that I never saw him when I returned.
“I know it’s hard to believe, Olena, but it doesn’t have to be like that.”
Her features harden. The coffee arrives and the conversation goes quiet until the server steps away respectfully.