“I had a feeling.” Ransome nods.
“What kind of eyes?” I look around, half-expecting the walls to sprout eyeballs. “What does he mean?”
Ivan gets out, but he doesn’t come to my door like he usually would. Instead, he opens Ransome’s. Ransome stands and immediately his body is illuminated with a dozen flashes. Suddenly, it all makes sense.
Cameras. Paparazzi.
With the door still open and a locked jaw, Ransome looks back at me and holds out a hand.
He wants me to come out his door.
As soon as I get out, the flashes multiply. I’m immediately blinded.
Instinctively, I turn into him. Ransome puts an arm around me. “Just ignore them,” he says. “I got you.”
And for once, I believe him.
38
RANSOME
You are in love with her.
I say the words to myself more than once as we walk inside the restaurant. My hand is around her waist, a more intimate positioning than usual. But the paparazzi are pressing hard, as I knew they would be, and I want her close. If any of these slimy reporters so much as brush a hand on her, they’re going to lose it. And if I had to guess, bloodshed at a high-end place like this would be bad press.
I tell myself these words not because I am trying to convince myself of them. That would be ridiculous. But because it needs to look that way. Now more than ever, people need to be convinced that I am in love with this woman.
We make our way through Firebay and are ushered towards the elevator.
“It’s really busy,” Amara says. I can tell she’s uncomfortable. She’s leaning into me, or leaning away from everyone else.
“Not for us, it won’t be.”
The elevator closes behind us, cutting us off from the commotion. Even in the quiet seclusion, she stays close.
“Where are we going?”
“The rooftop.”
The door opens. Her mouth opens too—at the patio lit with fairy lights and fire pits and the private bar.
“You rented out the rooftop?” she asks as I lead her out.
I lean down to answer her, my mouth brushing her hair. “I own the rooftop.”
We approach the table where my family is already sitting. Everyone is here, from my parents to Baron and Maverick, and a couple others and their significant others.
“Moy rebenok.” My mom stands to envelop me in a hug. She is the only woman—the only person—I will give a real, full hug to. “And this must be Amara.” She smiles over at her. Most of them have met her, or at least seen her before, but this meeting is different. This dinner will determine whether or not she will be welcomed by them. Welcomed into our Bratva.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Mrs. Rozanov.” Amara smiles back. She’s so impeccably charming, I could kiss her. But not yet. “And that dress is stunning.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet? I’ve had this one for ages.”
“It is a nice dress on you, Mom,” I add. “Gucci?”
“Valentino.” She shakes her head, looking over at me. “This boy will never learn his designers, I swear.”
Amara laughs, a light and fluttery noise. Not over the top. Not understated. It’s enough to make my mom smile, truly smile, something I don’t see often. Bratva women aren’t known for being particularly happy. They’ve seen too much.
