Cassie doesn’t reply. She looks nervous, and I understand why. Damen’s bigger than me, not by much, but he is bigger, and he’s got a face that can look positively murderous in repose. If only she knew he was ten times softer than me, and she could wrap him around her little finger if she played the damsel in distress.
Damen gets stuff done if it needs doing, but he doesn’t like it. He avoids violence unless necessary or ordered to do so by Stamatis. Unlike Alesso, his colleague and brother in arms. That one positively relishes mayhem and violence, which is ironic because Alesso looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“Cassie, pleased to meet you. Oh my God, you’re gorgeous. Do you know what? You remind me of Star. She’s a friend of ours, more than a friend. She’s like family, I suppose. In fact, soon she’s going to be my… What is it, darling?” she asks Damen.
“Well, her mother is marrying your father, so that makes her your stepsister.” Damen rolls his eyes at her, but he’s smiling too, and his face is full of adoration. As if his wife is fun instead of annoying.
“It’s mental,” Maya exclaims. “One minute, my father was my uncle, and the next he’s my daddy, and now he’s marrying Rhea, who is awesome. But Rhea’s daughter, Star, she’s with Markos, who is like Damen’s brother… I can’t wrap my head around it all sometimes. Anyway, you remind me of Star. Not in your personality, from what I’ve seen of it anyway.” Then Maya leans in and whispers loudly, “Star escaped a cult. She’s very different to most people, but you do have a look of her.”
Fuck me, this woman is one of a kind. She’s the sort of woman I should be going for, not virtuous types like Cassie.
“So did her mother, Rhea, escaped a cult, I mean, and now Rhea is marrying my father. It’s all so, complicated.”
“Not really,” Damen says.
“I think it is. So many of us, all friends, and now soon-to-be relatives. I mean, Rhea, cult escapee Rhea, is going to by my mother.”
“Still not complicated,” Damen argues, but he’s got a good-natured, relaxed look on his face as he watches his wife.
“Damen, you know, I think we ought to get some French pieces.” She wanders over to the desk and touches it reverentially, her mind apparently now on my furniture.
“Fuck my life,” Damen mutters. “I think you’re about to cost me an awful lot of money.” He throws a glare my way. “Honey,” he says more loudly. “Konstantin is a very. Rich. Man. Don’t get ideas about us buying the same shit.”
He says it so easily. No seeming issues about my wealth being more than his at all. Damen is a man easy in his skin. Am I?
“But, babe,” she says with a pout. “Just a few pieces maybe. Something like this would go so well with the Versace dinner service displayed on it.”
I nearly choke at the idea but say nothing.
“Your dress is nice,” Maya says to Cassie, who is wearing one of the dresses I bought her from Gap, with a print and cap sleeves.
“Is it Balenciaga? I saw the paisley dresses in there, lovely.”
“Erm, no; it’s Gap,” Cassie says.
“Oh, wow, bargain.” Maya crosses to Cassie and touches the dress. “Nice material too. I’ll have to check it out.”
“Your clothes are amazing,” Cassie blurts out. “You’re so glamorous.”
“Thank you. So have you seen much of Paris?” Maya leads Cassie off by hooking their arms as if they’re best friends and walks to the open French doors, toward the lit balcony area leading to the garden.
Damen turns to me as we both walk away from the women. “I’m digging into as much of the Armenians’ business as I can. It seems that Aram Ohanian has a massive hard-on for both you and Andrius.” He sighs and shakes his head. “He wanted Allyov’s territory and he wants Andrius dead.”
“Fuck.”
“Now that you’ve taken out Popov and Tigran, he also wants you dead. The good news? He’s got a member of Brit Intelligence crawling all over him, and he doesn’t know it.”
I know it. He must be referring to Marcus, but how does he know?
“How do you know?”
“Because British Intelligence are good at covering their tracks, but I’m even better at uncovering them.”
Fuck me, Damen is shit hot.
“Marcus,” I say. “He’s called Marcus. Thick Yorkshire accent, and looks like he’s about to murder someone any second. Said he’d call,