And just like that, my mind goes places it has no business going. I clear my throat. “Well, Boston's business district isn't exactly known for casual Fridays, so maybe you need another job.”
“True. But there are compensations.” His eyes meet mine. “Good coffee. Better company.”
Is he flirting? He's definitely flirting. And I'm out of practice.
“I should probably get back to work,” I say, knowing this has to come to an end sometime.
“Of course.” He stands, not overstaying his welcome. “Maybe I'll see you around again, Gela Jones.”
“Maybe,” I echo, and for some reason, find myself hoping.
But over the next week, maybe it will turn into a definitely. I spot him at the grocery store near my office and for a second, think I should pretend not to see him, but he looks so damn confused over those avocados that I have to step in and help him make the right buy.
This time? I pay for him. He tries to protest, but when I glower? He lets me.
Two evenings after, I turn the corner at the bookstore and slam into a wall of a chest, only to look up to see …him. Valentin.
“Gela Jones, you stalking me?” He grins at me, and I swear, I nearly panic.
“Well, I could ask the same thing…” I smile back and realize I might just be flirting back.
Then? We run into each other at the park, where I sometimes work when my office space feels too confining for creativity.
And each time? There’s that same current. That same easy conversation that somehow makes me forget I'm supposed to be working. That same lingering goodbye, where I wonder if he's going to ask for my number.
He never does.
Chapter 3 - Valentin
“Just drop me off here.” I lean forward and tap my driver on the shoulder.
“But boss, the bar’s round the corner,” he tries to protest.
“I know, but the traffic’s bad and I’m running late.” I peer through the glass, on edge. My driver quirks an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror as though to say, ‘And you know exactly why.’
And I do. I staked out the Zakharov property for longer than I intended to...yet again. My men were getting pissed because nowadays, I’m not always where I’m supposed to be. I know every minute I spend on Gela is stealing time away from my duties towards my family, but despite that guilt, I find myself faltering when she’s in plain sight.
“Thanks, Yuri,” I say as he pulls up to a stop on the side of the street. I jump out and make my way on foot for the last hundred meters or so until I reach Dmitri’s, a low-key dive bar tucked away in a little alley no one thinks to take. It’s dark, dingy, and dangerous-looking.
It’s just the kind of location men like us need to talk about things away from prying ears. When I step into the smoky bar, my eyes scan the dim room until they find my younger brother Leonid.
When Leonid notices I’m the one who stands at the door, his eyes narrow, and he raises a middle finger at me. I'm late, and Leonid hates waiting, so it’s no surprise he’s annoyed. A couple of Bratva guys at the other tables notice and they snigger.
“Oy, Valentin,” one of them yells. “Reminds us who's the older one again?”
“I swear, Smirnov, talk shit, and I’ll break that fat, useless neck of yours,” I joke back and walk past their table with a wink as I make my way over to Leonid at the corner booth he occupies.
“Why the hell are you late?” Leonid asks the moment I slide into the opposite seat.
“Oh, hello to you, too.” I give him a warning glare, just to remind him who’s boss around here. We might be brothers, but when we meet for work, the hierarchy is a matter of importance.
Leonid sighs and sounds annoyed when he speaks. “I’ve been waiting a while here, brother. You were the one who said we should discuss strategy before the guys we’re to meet arrive.”
I’m forced to look away and motion at the waitress to bring me my usual, just so Leonid can’t see the guilt on my face. He’s right. It had been my idea to finalize our stance before the local weapons distributors who were to negotiate better commission rates with us showed up. But lately, my mind's been elsewhere—on brown eyes and that dimpled, unreal smile.
“Okay.” I try to get back to the topic at hand before I lose myself in thoughts of Gela again.
“Here’s what I propose. The current market rate is 12 percent, but with the volume we supply, we’re going to force their hand down to 8 percent or threaten to set up our supply. What do you think?”
