means something. I don’t know… Having someone in your corner, it means a lot in this world.”
His words take me back. I was expecting jokes, or something dirty about how hot she is in bed. Instead, he spoke from the heart, which isn’t something you get often in our kind of company.
It makes me think. Maybe it would be good to have someone in my corner, on my side. Someone I could rely on day-to-day for the little things. I do everything by and for myself. It’s fucking lonely if I’m honest. I screw nameless, sometimes faceless women, whose features simply blur into one, and I never have more than a fleeting connection with them.
What would it be like to have someone who would bleed for me?
Then I remember I did once, and it all got fucked up. Now I hate her, and she hates me. Not that I know where she is. She apparently left Russia years ago, and I’ve not heard from her or about her in ages.
Dasha.
It’s ironic because her name means God’s gift, and my name means similar, given by God. We were fated to be together and then torn apart by the Devil himself—me. I betrayed her, and then she betrayed me back twice as hard.
I was young, stupid, and what I did was a drunken mistake; what she did? Cold, calculating, and it got me the beating of my life. I still have the scars and will carry them with me forever, along with the others, ones my father gave me.
Yes, Dasha ran, and probably good for her that she did. She was beautiful and young. So very young and naïve. We hadn’t even slept together as I wanted to wait until she was eighteen. Then, I fucked it all up.
I sigh and gratefully accept the drink Konstantin offers me. Today is going to be very trying. I fucking hate the opera.
**
Four hours later, I’m stuffed in a suit and shiny shoes, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable. I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of a guy. This sort of thing feels restrictive and false.
The women are still prettying themselves up, and we men are waiting for them downstairs, sipping at vodka.
Heels clacking in the hallway have our heads turning to see Maya enter the room. She looks regal. Confident in her body and her attire. She’s wearing a black dress with jeweled straps, high heels, which only add to her height, and her hair is in a loose arrangement, probably to show off the huge chandeliers in her ears.
“You look beautiful,” Damen says, going to her and kissing her cheek.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling.
The low rumble of conversation begins again, and it makes my skin itch. I hate shit like this. Fuck me, it’s so stilted. I want to take my gun out and shoot up one of the vases or something just to punctuate this monotone rumbling of polite droning.
There comes the sound of more heels clacking outside the room, and I half glance at Cassie and then turn back.
Holy shit, where was she hiding that body? She’s wearing an emerald green dress with a deep slit at the front, nipped in on one side of her waist with a jewel, and the fabric flows to the floor.
Her curves are insane. I tend to prefer slim women, model types, but no straight guy could look at Cassie’s body and not be interested.
K glances at her, and his expression morphs into something I can’t read, and I’ve known the guy a long time. He watches her as she enters the room. She’s unsure, despite being the most alluring woman I’ve seen in a very long time.
She walks to him, not confident in her heels, and smiles when she reaches him. He reaches for her, tips her chin up, and says, “You look beautiful, Cassie. Truly beautiful.”
“Thank you, Konstantin. You’re looking kind of hot yourself.” She turns to the room and makes a gesture with her arm to include all us men. “You all look hot!”
We finish our drinks and head out to the car. This is a fucking charade, and I don’t understand why Damen doesn’t put his foot down more with his wife. We’re all armed, which took us ages to sort out with security, and now we’re heading off to a busy event when there’s a very real threat against us, from the Armenians, no less. Yes, they have little presence here in France, and yes, Damen thinks he knows where they