Page 8 of Silent Ties

If the photographer is around he’ll get a great shot of my disgusted face.

You signed up for this.

The pit in my stomach is a combination of several things. Being dragged along by this mafia prince. And that same terror that’s been inside of me since Daisy admitted she’d fucked up. That she needed my help to pay back her debt to Marissa.

And shit, Marissa certainly came up with a form of payment.

The fancy car is back, idling at the curb, a good thing since I freeze the second we exit the elevators and go outside. Snowflakes land on my shoulder, the wind tugging at my hair. The heat is a godsend when he slams the door shut behind us, the driver off a half-second later.

“What’s your name?”

Outside is a blur, the clumps of snow on the side of the road, the people, and the tourists. Cars aggressively move around us because even at this time of night traffic is a bitch. I pull away from the window knowing I can’t make out a single thing.

“Russet.”

He frowns slightly. “Like the potato?”

If I had a dollar for every time someone said that I wouldn’t be as rich as this mafia prince, but I’d be pretty damn close.

“Last name?” he asks in that same bored drawl. He wiggles in his seat, his long legs making things difficult to get comfortable.

“Smith.”

“Russet Smith.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. With or without the coat, he looks like a model. Dark hair is curled atthe tips, just slightly too long, in a way that makes me want to brush it back. He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up, his muscular forearms on display.

And then there’s those eyes. Smoldering is putting it lightly. They’re pure smoke. The kind that suffocates you before a firefighter can save your life.

Falling for the pretty boy. Classic Russet.

It’s important to remember Maxim Zimin can kill me in two seconds flat. And if he doesn’t want to then he’ll just get somebody else to do his dirty work.

Maybe he’ll hop out and the driver will keep going. I’ll get to some scary wharf or a back alley. Will it be a bullet to the head or something kinder like drowning?

Shit, it could be waterboarding.

I don’t know anything about Marissa’s operations but of course, they’d drill me. I was so fucking busy not trying to trip over myself in front of the Russian mafia, I forgot to worry about a very important detail. I was planted here by their enemy.

Marissa called this morning. Gave me no warning which I suppose is a good thing. If she had given me even one night to think about it, my nerves would have won.

That’s not true.

No, it’s not. Because I’m doing this for Daisy.

The car jolts to a stop or maybe that’s just my heart.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Zimin.” Maxim flings open his door, but somebody else gets mine.

“Is this?” It’s an underground parking garage but there’s no mistaking he knows his way around. The door to the elevator is already open, a button is pushed for us and it takes an obscene amount of time for us to arrive at a penthouse.

“I said welcome home.” Maxim narrows his eyes, disturbed that I doubted him.

My mouth is on the marble floor, though. The private elevator opens to a circular foyer, complete with a chandelier.

“Five bedrooms, six bathrooms,” Maxim lists off. “A library which doubles as my study, a private gym and butler’s pantry. Like I said welcome home.”

He kicks off his dress shoes and moves toward the living room. Not knowing if that means this is a shoes-off household, I remove my high heels, my toes wiggling in relief before I scurry to follow after him.

And then kick myself for doing so.