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This is my fault. I’m the one who’s grown complacent and sloppy. I’ve let our proximity cloud my judgment. I’ve fallen into the trap of believing that proximity equals intimacy.
Newsflash, Wren: it doesn’t.
35
WREN
I’m in the kitchen trying to force down a sandwich when Dmitri gets home.
My knee starts bouncing and I drop the sandwich instantly. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous; it’s not like he holds the moral high ground here. If anything, we’re both to blame for the fight.
He storms into the kitchen with his jaw set tight and his nostrils flared. He spares me only a cursory glare before he goes to the fridge and yanks out a cold beer. He drains half of it before he slams the bottle down on the kitchen island so hard that I’m stunned it doesn’t shatter.
He’s looking down at the marble countertop when he speaks, but his words are directed at me. “You will never speak to me like that again. Not in private. Not in public. Is that clear?” Just like earlier, he’s not screaming, but my eardrums ring from the harshness of his words.
My instinct is to just agree with him so that we can put this issue to bed. But my pride won’t let me give in that easily. “If I agree, will you give me my job back?”
He glowers at me. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“You’re a businessman. I thought everything was a negotiation.”
He rounds the counter and stands right in front of me. “Not when it comes to my subordinates,” he spits. “And not when we’re in my domain.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Everything is your domain! You’ve rigged the system and you expect me to be happy about it.”
“You have every luxury?—”
“Except freedom!” I exclaim. I can smell the beer on his breath. I’ve never been much of a beer drinker, but suddenly, I have this deep-seated craving to taste it. To taste it off his lips, specifically.
“You want to see the antithesis to freedom?” Dmitri growls. “Just look at Vittorio Zanetti.”
The image of Bee’s destroyed back jumps into my head and I flinch like I’m taking those same whiplashes myself. That old man is no joke. If he’s capable of doing that to his own daughter, who knows what kind of pain he’s willing to rain down on everyone else?
I bite my bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Especially at the office.”
He seems taken back by the sudden apology. “There’s no room for weakness in a Bratva,” he says in a soft voice that still manages to be urgent. “I can’t be seen to be lenient on you. Especially not in Vittorio’s eyes.”
I gulp back my disappointment and peer down at my feet. “I need to find another job then.”
His finger tucks under my chin and I freeze. He forces my face up with only the littlest bit of pressure. “There will be no need. I fired you from Egorov Industries, but you’re still head of my Personal Management?—”
“Which is still not a thing.”
He ignores me. “Your salary will be significantly higher than what you made before.”
I want to be excited. That would be great news if it didn’t feel like a pity buyout. “It’s not a real job.”
He glowers at me and picks up his beer again, rolling it back and forth between his fingers. “Of course it is. The job description is simple—cater to whatever Bee wants from you; cater to whatever I ask of you.”
I roll my eyes. “How convenient for you both. Except that you and Bee are barely at home. How is it a legitimate job if I’m expected to just sit here and twiddle my thumbs, waiting for you and Bee to throw me a bone and give me a task for the day?”
“You want real responsibilities—is that what you’re saying?”
I grit my teeth and try to stay calm. “I’m saying I want to earn my salary. I’m not a charity case and I can’t be bought.”
He sighs noisily before turning and dumping the bottle into the recycling bin. “You want some real work to justify your salary? Fine. You are officially Bee’s event coordinator.”
“Hm. Okay. I can do that. What event does she have coming up that she needs my help with?”
