“Wouldn’t it be my luck that I’d date a mafia guy,” she sniffles as she sits down next to me.
“Bratva,” I correct her.
“See?! This is why I have the three date rule. Any more than that and they go Bundy on you.”
It’s a bad joke, but it almost makes me smile.
Electra sighs. “I’m sorry, Amara. Like, really, really sorry.”
“I know,” I tell her. “And it’s not your fault. I should have connected the dots.”
“Could you have? Connected the dots, I mean. He didn’t even give me his real name.”
“Yeah, but the fact that he wouldn’t let you take any selfies with him, no social media, and refused to meet me were enough red flags to tell me he was someone I should have dug into,” I tell her.
“I forgot you’re an A-grade stalker,” she says. “And yeah, that would have been helpful.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Why does that seem like forever ago?” she asks. “Why does our previous life literally seem like another lifetime altogether?”
Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “I know.”
“I miss it.”
“I know.”
“Ladies!”
We both jump. It’s Tristan’s voice—because of course it is—echoing through the empty building as he walks back in.
I wince hard at the pain in my abdomen and back. My belly hardens again, but I try to breathe through it.
“It’s time to get the party started,” he says.
“Are you going to kill us?” Electra jumps the gun. “Because if you are, kill me. Not Amara. Not the baby. Just me.”
“Jesus, you are so dramatic,” Tristan says, reaching around to his back, and my heart stops. But it’s just his phone. “Not that I don’t love that idea. Though I’d do it in the other order. Because honestly, I cringe every time I see your belly. Knowing that baby is a Rozanov makes my skin crawl.”
Tristan’s reptilian smirk is back as he couches down in front of me. Our eyes meet and, for a moment, he just stares at me. But he blinks first and then holds his phone up. “But first, we’re going to make a little phone call.”
Suddenly, his phone starts ringing. He looks down at it in surprise before his grin widens. “Speak of the devil,” he says, holding the phone up for me to see.
There’s no contact photo, but there doesn’t need to be. I know that number by heart.
Ransome.
52
RANSOME
“We’ve got a fucking problem,” I bark into my phone.
I’m in the bathroom at my estate, washing blood off my hands, my shirt, my face, and pretty much everywhere else it sprayed after I shot Igor in the face. I always forget just how messy point-blank headshots are.
“Don’t tell me we offend the wrong guy,” Maverick says.
“What’s up, boss?” Baron joins in.
