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But as the door silently swings open on well-oiled hinges, it’s Bianka who enters. A broad grin splits her fair face, and she greets Artem like one might the friend of a sibling rather than the dangerous and lethal soldier he is.
But my captain doesn’t seem to mind as he offers Bianka an indulgent smile before greeting her with a formal, “Baryshnya.”
“Thank you, Artem,” I say, excusing him with a nod.
He gives a subtle bow before exiting the room without another word.
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t interrupt an important meeting,” Bianka says, though her tone is anything but apologetic.
I lean back in my chair, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement as I watch her sashay across the room toward me, impressively large shopping bags in hand. “Somehow I doubt that,” I observe dryly.
“Well, Ihadto show you my new school wardrobe. Ellie and I have been at the mall all day, and I’m dying to show off what I bought.”
A chuckle threatens to bubble up from my chest as I watch my little sister dig through her bags stuffed with tissue paper and clothes. Somehow, each month she manages to burn through the generous allowance I give her for clothes and other necessities. Her love of fashion and shoes is nothing short of an addiction, in my opinion, but I can’t deny her anything, and clothes are far less harmful than some of the other things a young woman her age might be interested in.
Her affinity for clothes combined with her love of theater has staved off my ever-growing concern of when her attention might turn to boys. So far, she’s given me every indication that I have nothing to worry about. Even if the Marchetti twins were eyeing her like fruit ripe for the picking during our encounter the other day.
A smile plays across my lips as I allow her to extract every shred of clothing from their respective shopping bag so she can hold it up in front of her like a prized possession. I must admit that my sister has a good sense of style. If she weren’t so dead set on becoming an actress, I think she might make for a talented fashion consultant or even a designer.
Each time she holds up a new piece of clothing, Bianka expects some indication of approval from me, something to confirm that she should keep whatever it was she bought, and I oblige her indulgently, knowing it would crush her if I didn’t appreciate each item. I’m well versed in this ritual at this point and even find that I enjoy the time with her. It gives me a reprieve from the darker conversations I seem to endure every time one of my captains requests my attention.
Finally, her fashion show is complete, ending with a pile of discarded clothes heaped onto the chair Artem refused to accept out of respect for our Bratva’s formal customs.
“Well?” Bianka demands, her face glowing with anticipation.
“It looks like you’ve bought everything but the mall itself,” I observe lightly.
Bianka plants her hands on her hips. “I meant, what do you think of my clothes? Are they suitable for a freshman in college? Are they maybe for someone younger? I don’t want to come across as a schoolgirl trying to look like I’ve grown up. Maybe I should take back a few of the dresses,” she speculates, biting her lip as she looks at the pile.
I chuckle as I rise from my chair to walk around the desk toward her. Gripping her shoulders, I smile down on her affectionately, entirely aware of how I’ve let this meddlesome little troublemaker into my heart despite my better judgment.
“They’re perfect, and you’re going to look wonderful in them. Just the right style for an up and coming Broadway actress.”
“Really?” she presses, her green eyes questioning as she peers up at me with a rare glimmer of vulnerability.
“Really,” I assure her.
Before I can react, Bianka wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek against my chest as she hugs me fiercely. Then she releases me just as quickly.
“I know you don’t like discussing business with me, but whatever you and Artem were discussing, I hope it works out. You’ve been stressed a lot since our father…” Bianka’s words die out as she studies my face.
I’ve never spoken with her about the family business, and she knows better than to ask anymore. At first, when she showed up on our father’s doorstep, she’d been insatiably curious–to the point that my father had gotten quite angry with her. Still, I know she sees more than she says, and if I were willing to open that avenue of communication, she would be a compassionate listener. But telling Bianka about my business would only put her in unnecessary danger. And she’s at enough risk as it is just from being associated with me. The less she knows, the less of a temptation she will be to my enemies.
“All I’m saying is you might try taking a day off every once in a while. Maybe you and Artem could go bowling or something?” she teases.
“Bowling?” I ask, my eyebrows rising.
“Or, you know, a guys’ night. Something besides business and rivalries and revenge.” Bianka presses her lips together as her eyes widen, revealing she knows she’s said more than she should.
“What do you know about my revenge?” I demand, anger eeking into my tone.
“I mean, I might have picked up a little bit of Russian since I moved in…” she hedges, avoiding my eyes.
“Have you been listening in on my meetings?” I demand.
“No,” she says innocently, shaking her head with more force than necessary.
“Bianka,” I bark flatly.
