Page 19 of My Bratva Christmas


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“Well, well, well,” Valentin laughs, leaning against the kitchen doorway like a model from a Ralph Lauren ad.

These damn guys.

“I see my big brother wasted no time getting to know our lovely houseguest,” he says as I finish buttoning my blouse.

Should I be embarrassed? Ashamed? Guilty?

Because I am none of these. Something about what just happened sort of flicked a switch in me. Okay, maybe not as dramatic as all that, but I realize I have some power in this situation. I can make the best of things.

I mean, if I’m going to be a prisoner, I might as well be in a beautiful house with gorgeous clothes and the three most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on.

One of whom, by the way, can fuck like a champ. Are the others equally as talented?

Holy crap. They’ve turned me into a monster.

“Oh, hi Val,” I say cheerfully, like people walk in on me all the time, post-sex. “Can you grab the pie from the oven?” I ask, wiping down the kitchen counter like it’s the most important job in the world and I’m the only person who can do it correctly.

I have a sudden urge to look busy. Maybe it’s from all my years of managing parties.

But Valentin doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyebrows raised like I own the place.

He looks like he doesn’t even know where the oven is.

Grisha laughs and grabs two thick dishtowels. “You don’t want to ask my brother to doanythingin the kitchen, Lily. The man can hardly boil water.”

I turn and look Valentin up and down, and gather all my confidence. Which isn’t saying much, but still. “Geez. I thought you might be more useful than that,” I say in my best, new sassy tone.

Holy crap, am I getting salty.

And my saltiness is not lost on Valentin. “I can be useful in many other ways, if you’d like me to show you at some point,” he says, his voice taking on a new-to-me deep, scratchy tone.

Holy shit. Do I have a little flirtation going on?

I respond by flipping my hair over my shoulder and giving him my best seductive smile. This might not be natural for me, but I’ve seen a few things in my line of work and while I don’t take written notes, I sure as shit commit a lot of my observations to memory.

Especially how women get men to eat out of their hands.

I never imagined putting this stuff to use—I watch mostly out of curiosity—but maybe some of my long, thankless hours watching rich people party are beginning to pay off.

Satisfied the kitchen counter is clean enough to eat off of, and that Grisha rescued the pie from the oven in the nick of time, I sashay out of the kitchen to head to my room for fresh clothes.

I brush up against Valentin, mainly because I can. “I’ll get back to you on that, Val.”

A few hours later, after an incredible Christmas dinner of oysters, salmon medallions, filet mignon, and assorted exotic vegetables and sauces, we’re sitting around the dinner table ready to explode. The room is warm from the roaring fire, we’re drinking some incredible wine, and we’re all a little drowsy.

Well, to be honest,I’mnot. I took only a sip or two of wine and a few bites of dinner, not wanting to burst the buttons of my second pair of pants for the day. But most importantly, I’m biding my time, listening carefully to gather anything I can about the situation I’m in. All I know so far is something I overheard abouta bratva.

Or maybe it’sthebratva. I’m not sure. I’ve never heard the word. But it seems tied into the guys’ Russian names. I’d Google it if I had my damn phone.

“Gentlemen,” I start, hoping to catch them off guard, “when are you planning on telling me what’s up with Sergey, and what’s behind everything that went down last night?” I am cool. Casual. As if I’m asking about tomorrow’s weather.

I hoping the wine will loosen their tongues a bit.

They look at each other for a minute, I suppose communicating in their silent criminal-kidnapper language, and turn back to me.

Artem leans onto the dining room table with his elbows and rubs the sexy facial scruff on his chin.

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