Her grip faltered, but she didn’t let go. After a moment, she nodded. “I love you so very much.”
I smiled through the tightness in my throat. “I love you more.”
“I love you most.”
Chapter 10
Ryder
My back was screaming at me in protest.
Probably had something to do with first being crammed into the boot of a fucking car and then forcing myself under a bed. Oh, and then spending a few hours lurking in a wardrobe like some deranged stalker, waiting for the perfect moment to slip out unnoticed.
Not that this was my first rodeo.
The hiding under the bed part, I mean. Not the whole wardrobe creep or being shoved into a car thing.
Let’s just say I’ve been caught in beds I had no business being in more than once, and sometimes the only way out was to wedge my six-foot-three-and-a-half—yes, the half was important—arse beneath the frame and hope for the best.
“Ty vyglyadish' der'movo,”Maxim muttered, staring at me as he cleaned a glass with a cloth behind the bar.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you just say I look like shit?”
Maxim tilted his head slightly to the side, confirming my translation.
I clicked my tongue, tapping my empty glass on the bar. “See, this is why this place has terrible reviews onTripAdvisor.Have you thought that maybe you’re the problem? You oldkozel.”
?????was one of the first things I’d learnt in Russian. It was still a strange insult to call someone a goat, but it was apparently a classic according to Roman. It had the desired effect, Maxim’s brows tightening just a little. Which was almost a full-blown expression for him.
“Roman’s asking for you,” he said with a painfully thick accent.
“Yeah, he’s clingy like that.”
“Ya skazal yemu, chto tebe nuzhno povzroslet’.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, mate.”
With a shake of his head, Maxim turned his back and continued to clean his already clean glass. Rude fucker.
Returning my attention to my phone, I leaned forward on the bar, watching Violet’s little picture flash on my screen. Okay, so the camera hasn’t been the most reliable. It seems to have a mind of its own, keeps glitching, and not reporting any movement. I guess that’s what I get for buying surveillance equipment from some dodgy bloke on the dark web. Lesson learned, and all that. But that means I’ve had to rely on Violet’s whereabout through her phone, which hasn’t left her bloody flat in two days.
“Who’s the blonde?” asked a familiar voice, and I immediately slammed my phone face-down on the wood in what was in no way a guilty gesture.
“None of your business,” I commented, turning with a grin to find none other than Roman Antonov.
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.” He crossed his arms, using his whole half an inch height advantage to its full potential.
“Have I?” I itched to check my phone, but that would only give Roman ammunition. “Anyone else would’ve taken the hint,” I muttered.
Roman pursed his lips, his tousled dark brown hair coming over to partially block his narrowed eyes. “What have you gotten yourself into?” he asked. Unlike the disgruntled bartender, Roman’s accent passed as a born and bred Brit just with a slight inflection, despite being from Russian royalty.
Mafia royalty, that was. Probably because his cunt of a father thought it would be character building to drop his only son in a foreign city to live off the streets at age twelve.
Strange way to tell your kid you love him.
But in return, the streets were where I’d met him, and while I became a world-class thief, Roman specialised in the art of the con. He was still one of the best con artists I’ve ever met, when he wasn’t running his branch of the Russian Bratva, that was.
“What do you mean?” “There’s been some German throwing around your name.”
