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CHAPTERONE
ALYONA
“It’s not you,it’s me.”
I meet Marcel’s gaze, his words a sucker punch to my gut. Is this guy for real!? He’s using the most overused line in the history of breakups on me. And to add insult to injury, he can’t even look me in the eye. He keeps fidgeting with his cell phone on the tabletop, his eyes pinging around the dimly lit Parisian bar.
He clears his throat. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together,” he mumbles, “but I think it’s better if we part ways here.”
Leaning back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, I don’t bother to hide my sarcasm when I ask, “Aren’t you going to suggest we stay friends?” Since he’s clearly a fan of clichés, I thought he might want to use the second-most overused line in the breakup handbook.
Marcel looks aghast, as if I’ve suggested we rob a bank together. What is this guy’s problem? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months, I thought it was going well enough. He’s a French painter that I met at a fashion industry party on the Rue de Turenne. He pursued me in the beginning, doing all the legwork. Showered me with compliments and flowers. It was pleasant enough, the sex was… satisfactory, and I enjoyed his company, but I wouldn’t say this is a major heartbreak.
It’s not like I was looking for love with him, or any of the men I’ve met in my seven years in Paris.
No, I already lived through love once before and barely survived. Never again.
Still, I crave companionship, and a girl’s gotta get laid now and then. But I’m getting mighty sick of the it’s-not-you-it’s-me line. Maybe French guys are commitment-phobes? Then again, the last guy I dated was Italian, and before that a Brit, and they both fed me the same bullshit line. So maybe itisin fact me.
“No.” Marcel’s mouth sets into a grim line. “I don’t think we should remain friends. It’s just… too complicated.”
Ouch.
I reach for my martini and polish it off in two large gulps, reveling in the liquid burn. “In that case, it’s been a slice. I’ll leave you to pay the bill.” Snatching up my purse from the seat beside me, I rise to my full height of five nine, allowing him to appreciate the length of my legs, accentuated by four-inch Louboutins, and my little black Prada dress. I don’t work in the fashion industry for nothing. I know how to use my assets, and judging by the wistful sigh Marcel releases, he seems to agree.
Just not enough to keep me around.
“Au revoir, Marcel. Good luck working through your mommy issues in therapy.”
“Alyona,” he says, apologetically.
But when I glance back at him over my shoulder his eyes widen with alarm. “There’s nothing else to say,” I assure him.
The look of relief on Marcel’s face is palpable. He closes his eyes, exhales a sharp breath, and then hurries off to find our waiter.
Like all my breakups, this one comes out of the fucking blue, right as things were settling into a comfortable rhythm. Dump Me Debbie, that’s me. I usually make it a few months before they inexplicably find something wrong with me. Just like Leo had.
I step out of the brasserie onto the sidewalk. It’s a gorgeous spring night, and Paris is bursting with energy—tourists crowd the streets and young lovers stroll arm in arm.Well, isn’t that just perfect?A walk would do me good, help me blow off some steam. I choose a route along the Seine, heading towards the seventh arrondissement, the chic neighborhood where my flat is located.
I’ve had my place since I first moved here at eighteen. Well,fledmight be the correct word. At the time, my only thought was to escape New York and the man who had nearly destroyed me, but I’ve slowly built a life here. I learned French. Made friends. Now I have a fulfilling career as a buyer for a luxury fashion brand, and I live in the city with the world’s best pastries. What else do I need?
Yes, I miss my brother and friends in New York, but the ocean separating me from Leo Kozlov makes it all worthwhile.
As I cross over the Pont des Arts bridge, a handsome man with sparkling green eyes and an olive complexion flashes me an interested smile. In the past, I might have returned that smile, but not tonight. Maybe not ever again. There’s only so much rejection a lady can take.
Jolting me from my bleak thoughts, “What is Love” blares from my phone—the world’s most ridiculous ringtone, which is assigned to my sister-in-law, Rowan—finally giving me a reason to smile. “Why are you calling me from your vacation? Shouldn’t you be making a baby?” I say by way of greeting.
“Welp, since you asked, I wore Yulian out last night, so he’s still sleeping. It’s six in the morning here.”
“Yeah, didn’t need to know that,” I add with a laugh, dodging the tables of a crowded sidewalk cafe. “So what’s Fiji like? Everything you dreamed of and more?”
“It’s pretty awesome,” she confirms. “And the best part of it is that I get Yulian all to myself for the next two weeks. In an hour, we head to a more remote island for the full off-the-grid experience. No cell service!”
My eyes widen in surprise. My brother is not the type to step away from his work. I mean, bratva leaders don’t exactly work a nine-to-five. And my brother runs security for the Kozlov Bratva, the Russian mafia that controls the East Coast of the US.
The bratva that we grew up in.
Except I turned my back on the brotherhood long ago. After it took both my father and mother from me much too early, I swore I’d never be part of that underworld.
