familiar symptoms.
“Come on, Elena,” Danika said. “I think your plane leaves soon and I would feel terrible if you were stuck in those dirty clothes.”
As we left, Tatiana lay back on the pillows, eyes fluttering close. I doubted she felt as good as she had led Danika to believe.
By a stroke of luck, Danika located the guest room. Her excitement and pride were infectious—and almost made me laugh along with her.
“I’m so terrible with directions,” she said as she walked into the bathroom. She stopped by the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You won’t say anything, right? I don’t mind Kostya knowing…but I wouldn’t be able to stand Roman’s gloating. Every time I fuck up, he sees it as a personal achievement.”
I didn’t like Roman, so I agreed. “Of course. Fuck that guy.”
Danika’s smile took up most of her face. “Fuck that guy,” she said with a nod.
As soon as I began to run the shower, there was a knock at the door. Danika seemed very apologetic as she told me it was time for my flight. I didn’t bother changing, even at her insistence. If I was going to be forced back to Chicago, I was showing up covered in dirt and fury.
“I’m so sorry,” Danika said. “If we hadn’t gotten lost, you would’ve had time to shower and change and maybe even nap—”
“It’s fine, Danika,” I said.
At the door, a familiar face waited. Great, I thought, taking in the half-feral gangster before me, the pit bull has come to piss me off.
Roman grinned nastily at me. “You ready to go back to Chicago, Elena?”
“I want to speak to Konstantin.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. The boss has much more important things to do than speak with a bitchy widow.”
I glared at him. “Tell your boss I know what’s wrong with Tatiana.”
Danika peered around my shoulder. “You do?”
Roman’s eyes flared, but he said to Danika, “You let her see Tatiana? Dmitri’s going to fucking kill you.”
“I doubt it,” I said, coolly. “Take me to Konstantin or let Tatiana die. It’s up to you, Pit Bull.”
Roman worked his jaw, his accusatory glare still on Danika. Like her standing behind me meant she supported my actions. Danika, herself, was peering up at me with uncertainty.
“Roman, if she even has a clue…” she began.
“She doesn’t,” he retorted. “She’s just trying to avoid going back to Chicago. La Cosa Nostra wives don’t know anything about anything.”
I nearly rolled my eyes at his dismissal, his arrogance. I doubted Roman was very educated, either. “Is that really a chance you’re willing to take?” I asked him.
Roman snapped his teeth at me. “Fuck, fine, whatever. Let’s go.” He grabbed my upper arm, dragging me down the hallway.
I tugged at his grip, but it was a lot harder than Danika’s delicate hands.
“Let go of me, you animal!”
Roman pushed me forward, straight through two open doors. I stumbled, trying to find my footing. When I did, I found myself looking straight into Konstantin Tarkhanov’s pale brown eyes, both filled with amusement.
“Mrs Falcone,” he greeted. “I thought Danika took you to get cleaned up.”
I straightened, throwing him a glare. “I’m not going back to Chicago.”
“Yes, you are,” muttered a voice behind me.
I turned, taking in the study as I did (plain, classical, dusty) and spotted Roman standing by the doorway with another man. The second man had inky black hair, paired with snow-white skin and watery blue eyes. Looking at him felt like holding shards of glass.
I glared at him and snapped my head back to Konstantin. “I know what’s wrong with Tatiana.”
The amusement in Konstantin’s eyes died, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
A hand grabbed my shoulder roughly, yanking me back. The man with black hair was glaring down at me, his cheekbones sharp enough to slice through my skin. “How fucking dare you!”
“I take it you’re Dmitri,” I muttered. “Now, let go of me.”
He didn’t budge.
“Let her go, Dmitri,” came Konstantin’s hard voice.
Instantly, the Russian brute let go.
I rubbed my shoulder, trying not to show how hard he had gripped me. I turned back to Konstantin. There was no point trying to plead my case to Dmitri—Konstantin was king around here. Even in regards to Dmitri’s sick wife.
“I’m not lying,” I said, hating that I even had to say that. Lying wasn’t my natural disposition. It used to get me in a lot of trouble: always saying what I was thinking. I remember my mother grabbing my tongue once and threatening to cut it off I didn’t stop moving