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He rolls onto his back and laughs. It’s a deep and joyful sound, and even though I’m surprised as hell, I can’t help but laugh along. Why did I think I could fool him at all? Maxim’s too clever and too used to living in a bratva family to be so easily manipulated.
“Princess, I knew from the second you came out of that lunch with my sister and started talking about the business. But I’m not so stubborn and stupid that I can’t listen. And besides, you do have a really good grasp on how it all works. All those reasons I listed are legitimate.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, grinning. “I won’t try something like that again.”
He waves a hand in the air. “That’s how these things work. You try to convince me of something and I make up my own damn mind. I’m a big boy, Siena. You don’t have to stress about telling me what you think is the truth. Just tell me what you want.”
“In that case, give me your credit card, I want to go shopping.”
He chuckles and grabs my hand. He holds it tight and bites my thumb. “You can tell me what you think, princess. From now on, just be straight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now. I have to punish you for trying to trick me into agreeing with you.”
“Oh, really? You have to?”
“No other choice.”
“Ah, truly a sacrifice you’re willing to make.”
“You’ve been bad.” He grins and kisses my wrist. “Extremely bad.”
“Sounds like you’re really reaching for an excuse to spank me.”
“I don’t need excuses when I have your eager and willing consent.”
“I never said—” But I don’t finish that sentence, because he rolls me over and slaps my ass hard.
I gasp in surprise and he smothers me with his mouth, and he’s right, he has me, all of me.
Chapter21
Maxim
Mother smiles at me over her cup of tea. “When was the last time we did this, Maxim?”
The cafe proprietor lingers nearby, watching like a hawk ready to swoop in and offer whatever we might like—small cookies, more drinks, an assortment of fine vodkas from his personal stash. He’s a bratva man, one of the many businesses we help support through semi-legal means. We’re affiliated with a string of shops like this all over the city in a myriad of different industries, from car repair to carpet cleaning, each of them beholden to our network in some particular way. My father likes to act as though our muscle is the backbone of the bratva—but I know it’s these businesses.
The room’s comfortable, filled with tchotchkes on shelves, little reminders of Russia like nesting dolls and small silver trays and painted eggs. The tables are a dark lacquered walnut and the chairs are draped in red velvet. It’s the most exclusive cafe in the whole city, with elaborate tea service and intricate pastries piles high atop sterling silver plates, and normally, appointments are booked out for weeks. We were able to walk in and be seated immediately.
“It’s been too long, Mother,” I admit. My voice is almost swallowed in the heavy carpet and curtains. Other groups sit nearby, but we’re tucked away in a back corner at my favorite table beneath a large oil portrait of Lenin with his ruddy cheeks and revolutionary eyes. I despise the man, but he’s Russia.
“Remember when we did this once a week? Your father said I was spoiling you, bringing you here. But you loved all the different teas.”
“That’s because Jasha would spike the pot with vodka.”
Mother clucked her tongue and shook her head. “He would never.”
“He would, but he didn’t.”
“Jasha’s a good boy. So is Feliks, and so are you.” She smiles at me over her cup. “But I suppose a good boy can also love vodka.”
I laugh gently and shift in my chair. I wave at the proprietor and ask him for some more cookies, the special ones with the dark chocolate my mother likes. She gives me a slight frown—those cookies don’t actually exist as far as either of us knows—but the man simply nods and walks off like he’s sure of what I’m talking about.
“That’ll keep him busy for a bit,” I say softly, looking back at her.
She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re becoming a true bratva man, Maxim.”
