“And nothing.”
He flips onto his back and scoops me with him. I rest my cheek on his chest.
“Watch the History channel with me,” he says.
“Why history?”
“Because if I know what happened in the past, I can forecast the future. It tends to repeat itself, just not in the exact same way. You like history?”
“I don’t like or dislike it.”
“You’ll learn to like it.”
I chuckle. “Okay.”
“Are we on the same page for the modeling thing?” he asks.
“We are.” I look up at him, wondering if he’ll note I usedwethe way he wanted me to.
“We’re good, then,” he says. “I can sleep now.”
9
It’s Saturday morning, seven o’clock, and I shit you not, my wife has been gone since four thirty. Her work ethic makes my work ethic look like I’m sitting on the couch all day flipping through her magazine. I mean, I’d rather be sitting on the toilet flipping through it.
Thinking about the magazine makes me reach for it. I rip out the middle and tear off the suit dude, leaving only my hot wife. What do I wanna do with this? It’s a great shot of her, and I’m not gonna waste it. I peel off my bandage and secure the image on the wall next to our shared toilet. There. Nice and a great position, right across from the shower. I can jerk off in the shower to my wife nailed on the wall. Well done, Russian, well done.
Feeling good, I yank on my sweatpants and pad to the dresser, dig up a shirt, any shirt, whatever. Gray, I guess. I put it on and slip into tennis shoes, get my ball cap to cover up some of the facial damage I took, and grab my phone, thinking I don’t feel like making coffee. Gonna get one on the way.
Outside, the grounds look as they should. Calm and crawling with my armed men watching my house. I walk to the garage, getinto my truck, hook up my phone to the car, and drive off for the city.
Chicago never sleeps, it seems, and definitely not this early in the morning, even on a weekend. It’s a little less crowded than on a Monday, which is what I like about getting shit done on a weekend when everyone else is resting. I don’t rest.
I hate rest. I need shit to do and today I know what to do thanks to that asshole suit I pounded in the gym. I’m feeling a bit of a bruise on my ego that he had to remind me to buy my wife a ring, but I’m okay with bruises. They heal.
At the shop, I pull up to the Closed sign and see a suit fixing the display. We lock eyes and he taps his watch, mouthing something I can’t decipher and don’t give shit about because his hours or rules don’t apply to me. I get out of the car and walk up to the glass door, glaring at the Closed sign.
The suit appears on the other side. “Good morning, sir. We open at nine.”
“You don’t have to open to let me in.”
“I’m sorry?—”
I raise my tattooed knuckles and rap on the glass. The tattoos get his attention, and he opens and steps out of my way.
“Thank you very much,” I say politely. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Mr. Boriskov. What can we do for you?”
See? Everyone has theirwe. “Coffee and a… I think it’s called an engagement ring.”
He blinks. “Are you going to propose to someone?”
“We’re already married.” I tap my head. “In here.”
The man stands at five foot eight, and he’s wearing an orange shirt and a blue tie paired with a gray suit. His fear-filled brown eyes tell me I’m scaring the shit out of him, so I find a chair and sit down to watch the pristine marble floor for a bit. “I want a nice ring. Big stone. That’s all I know.”
“What does the lady like?”
