“No,” I say. “I just wanted to try it.”
“I can make more. I can make you more if you’d prefer it plain, which is disgusting.”
There’s a pot on the stove, and I lift the lid, handing him back his bowl. “I think I want plain, and I’ll have the leftovers.”
I start to eat it from the wooden spoon, and he just rolls his eyes.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks. “Is Demyan demanding you home at a certain time?”
I blow out a breath. I snuck a look at my phone and saw the messages from him. My bodyguard is waiting, apparently.
He can do that, but he can’t let me have my money.
I clench the spoon tight. “I’m going to try and come up with a solution for the shelter. I’m not sure what, since Demyan won’t let me access my trust fund.”
He frowns. “It’s yours. He can’t cut off the money paid to you each month.”
“I want to access a sizable chunk, and for that, I need his signature.”
“I’ll give you what I can. We have money. It’s just tied up.”
I put the spoon and the pan down and touch his arm. “I know how it works.”
“It’s not just the bratva, but the inheritance isn’t released until the twelve months are up, so it’s just the money the bratva brings in.”
Most of that ends up not being liquid. I know. I grew up with this. Personal finances are one thing. The illegal coffers are carefully handled and hidden, and like most rich people, accessing disposable funds of size takes time.
Or in my case, a stubborn brother.
“I know,” I say. “Believe me, I know.”
“I just…” He sighs, sets his bowl down, and pushes his hand through his hair. “I can help you finance a loan. I have enough of my own money for that.”
“No.”
“We are married, Alina. What’s mine is yours.”
“Maybe,” I say, snuggling up to him. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I should be able to get my money, some of it, early. I’m only asking for a portion, and there’ll still be so much money left that I won’t know what to do with.”
All that money, carefully hidden and handled, like my ridiculous trust fund.
It’s bigger than what Dad set up, because Demyan, who’s unbelievably rich in his own right, gave me his for my eighteenth birthday.
At least he didn’t claim I owed him.
Ilya laughs.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
“The club.”
I stare at him. “Demyan’s baby? The nightclub and exclusive club that half the rich across the US are members of? And the other half want that membership to his club?”
“Yep. You could sell that to really piss him off.” He laughs again.
I join in, but inside, I’m not laughing.
I am an owner in the club. It’s name only, really. A security measure in case Demyan ever got into trouble, or when Dad was alive andhegot into trouble. Money’s laundered through there, and it rakes in millions a month. The girls who work the joint are the kind made from fantasies, and if they choose to take a client to the next level, then it’s even more money for them and us.
