Page 64 of Baby for the Bratva King

The western world lives their life around festivities. Happy Halloween. Merry Christmas. They’re like checkpoints to help you get through the year. Without them, what would you be left with? Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of misery.

My phone rings, an executive member of the company ringing to update me about the new suites. “We go live with the presidential suites tomorrow.”

“Fantastic.”

“We’ll organize a launch party in New York. I’m thinking the Ritz.”

“Sounds good.”

“And bring Saskia. She’s good publicity.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?” says the man down the phone. “She’s beautiful. This event will be Halloween themed, so we can get creative with the costumes, put her in a wench costume or something.”

“Right, because that’s terrifying."

“Perhaps a sexy witch?”

I grind my jaw, on the verge of snapping. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Your name is big, and so is hers.”

“People don’t know her name,” I say. “And I would like it to stay that way.”

“Why?” says my executive. “This story could be huge.”

“The guilty always find a way to destroy themselves. Saskia will remain anonymous online. Let the media figure out the rest.”

“The media have already figured it out. The question is—what do you mean to each other?”

“Nothing.” I grind my jaw, ending the call.

Not two minutes later, Gabriel rings me.

I glance through the windows, seeing how long I have left until we’re in Mayfair. Eager to kill time and with nothing better to do, I answer the call, bringing the device to my ear.

“Yes?”

“Pissing off philanthropists?” says Gabriel. “Really? Taking your maid on a free trip to London was bad enough, but holding hands with her in the foyer? What sort of game are you playing?”

“An entertaining one. Vesper Brouwer should be ashamed.”

“So, it’s true? The stripper from the club was also Saskia Brouwer?”

“Bingo.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“No, I’m playing one very harmless game, messing with Vesper behind the scenes. When he’s not running marathons, he’s exploiting his daughters.” I glance through the rearview mirror, making sure the driver is minding his own business. These guys always do. They overhear the gossip, but for two thousand bucks a ride, they know to keep their mouths shut.

“His daughters don’t even live with him.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Ask yourself why that is.”

“Men like Vesper rarely keep their grievances behind closed doors.”

“Take a look at the bastard,” I say, crossing my phone to the other ear as we arrive. “He’s a family guy. Cheery, positive; doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.”