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His jaw ticks. “No, but if you keep on being a brat, I’ll start.”
“Whatever,” I mumble. “It’s none of your business. It’s not like you care about her. You demonstrated that very clearly.”
A shadow crosses Maxim’s face. “I’d still like to know how she’s doing.”
I gesture to my phone. “You’re welcome to call her.”
“I doubt she’d like to hear from me.” He sneers.
“True.” I look at my nails. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
A muscle in Maxim's cheek twitches, and I have to suppress a grin. He reaches into his front pocket, retrieving a sleek brown wallet. From it, he pulls out a black Amex card and slides it across the table towards me.
I don’t reach for it.
“I have my own money," I say, not liking the idea of being in his debt.
“That's not how this works, Kira. You're no longer the New York mafia princess, free to do whatever you like. You’re a Belov now. My wife. What is expected of you is a level of decorum and respect fitting the Belov name."
I'm tempted to ask what exactly defines the Belov name—abduction, perhaps dark rituals?—but he leans forward and runs a thumb over my knuckle, and I swear my brain checks out.
“When you’re out with me, I need you to look every inch my equal.”
We lock eyes for a moment, the room crackling with unspoken tension.
“What does it mean to be your equal?”
His eyes briefly dip to my lips, before meeting my stare. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, he’s already exiting the room, not sparing me another look. On his way out, I catch a glimpse of a pistol concealed beneath the hem of his Armani jacket.
Respectable businessman, my ass.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KIRA
An hour later,accompanied by Roman and a small contingent of Maxim's men, I arrive at the high-end boutique in central Moscow Liza recommended.
Despite the size of my entourage, I bet Liza has come up with a way for us to talk privately. She’s the think-ahead type, balancing my spontaneity. My aunt used to tell me, "You leap without looking, and Liza's there to build the bridge under your feet.” While I could be impulsive, Liza’s always been my level-headed anchor—the one who organized our group study sessions at school and wouldn’t let me drink too much at parties.
We enter the store to find Liza waiting. Attentive assistants flit about her, and with a sigh of relief, I realize she had the foresight to close the store to the public.
“Kira.” She rises and wraps her arms around me, before pulling back and taking in the handsome man by my side. Her eyebrows raise in a silent question.
“Liza, this is Roman Vasiliev, one of Maxim’s—” I’m about to say guard dogs when he steps forward, his eyes running curiously over my friend.
“An associate of Maxim’s,” is all he says. “And now personal guard to Mrs. Belov.”
“Nope. Please never call me that again,” I hiss.
He ignores me completely. “And this is the lovely Elizaveta Ivanova, I take it.”
He sticks his hand out in greeting, and Liza eyes it like it’s a dead fish before giving it a cursory shake.
“I’m acquainted with your father and fiancé,” he adds. “But I only know you by reputation.”
Liza's eyes narrow. “Yes, well, don’t believe everything you hear.”
