"Aunt Belly, what was daddy like?"
I'd held him tighter, pressed my lips to his hair, and told him the same story that I’ve told him for five years now about his father. The good parts. The safe parts. The stories that didn't include why he died or who killed him or how he ended up in that position in the first place.
How it was all my fault.
The diamond bites against my hand, and I imagine the headline I'll write when this is over. When I've gathered enough evidence to expose what he really is.BILLIONAIRE CEO EXPOSED AS MURDERING MOB BOSS.
Sure, I could write something cleverer after all these years, but I don’t want that headline to be fancy or clever. I want it to be ugly and to the point.
I imagine his face on the cover of every newspaper, that perfect mask finally gone, those gray eyes no longer mischievous but sullen with the realization that someone beat him at his own game.
I wonder if I’ll be allowed to visit him in prison to gloat. But as soon as I think that, my mind imagines him somehow turning it against me, and I can hear his voice rumbling against my ear.“You might’ve ruined me, but I’m going todestroyyou.”
My eyes suddenly fly open.
Goddamn it!
That’s when Vanessa Ashford-Price catches my eye.
She's standing near the bar, champagne flute dangling from her fingers, watching Slava pose for photographs with a pout on her face. Then, her face lights up a little as Slava’s face turns. She pushes her tongue into her cheek slowly to remind him of what she was doing to him just a few minutes ago, and licks her lips seductively.
Bitch.
The jealousy that flares in my chest is immediate, irrational, and completely unacceptable. I have no right to be jealous. I don'twanthim. I want him brought to his knees in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with justice.
And yet my jaw clenches. And my nails dig into my palms as my hand balls into a fist.
I give Slava another look, and then decide to walk over to Vanessa. She sees me coming, and her smile rearranges into the familiar mocking smile of a trust fund princess who likes looking down on help like me.
“I need to talk to you.”
"Don't worry.” She wipes a single manicured finger at the corner of her mouth and taps it against my chest. “I won't tag you when I post about it."
I look down and see my blouse absorbing what I hope is just condensation from her flute, and then back up at her sneer.
"You're not going to post about it." I keep my voice warm, but there’s no mistaking the dagger in it.
"And who the fuck do you think you are that you can tell me what I can and can’t post?"
“Mr. Romanov’s PR agent?—”
“Oh right,” She interrupts, and the smile turns nasty. “His obedient little mouthpiece who watches him like a lost puppy, forever wondering when it’s her turn.”
Okay, bitch, you wanna play it like that?
“—and as his PR agent, I know all about your father’s indictment, your fights with your three stepmothers for what’s left of your trust fund, and exactly how many of your sad little stories have been outright rejected by the Post, because they’re just so tired and played out.”
Her smile freezes, and her mouth flops like a fish on the hook—opening and closing without sound.
“If you so much asthinkabout posting, I will help Mr. Romanov bring down a defamation lawsuit so fucking big that daddy will have no choice but to cut you off entirely to save his own balls.”
Now it’s my turn to smile.
“And with daddy’s lawyers too busy trying to keep him out of prison, it won’t end with you keeping your apartment on the Upper East Side. No matter how many billionaires’ cocks you put down your throat.”
Her eyes dart away from me, and I know that she’s looking for Slava to signal some kind of protection. Then she looks back and the uncertainty creeps in. Her fingers tighten around the body of the flute. For a second, I think she’s about to smash it on my face. But the moment passes, and she slams it down on the bar.
Nobody, not even the bartender, even looks her way.
