I rub my temples. “Idiot,” I mutter. “You should never have kissed her. To kiss and then run like a coward is the worst thing you could’ve done. You know it. Ilya, you fucking fool.”
Even my self-lecture doesn’t have the right heft.
Shit. I never even thought that abruptly stopping whenherlights were green may feel like a slap in the face to her.
Maybe I hurt her, and now she feels rejected. Because as I think of it, if she didn’t want it, her running away over a kiss I ended doesn’t make sense.
Maybe what I need is to talk to her, clear the air, find the right way to tell her why I backed off.
Something like a stone sinks inside me.
I have to tell her the truth, not the reasons I make up or try to justify.
Tell her I have feelings for her. Feelings that I’ve had for a long time.
But telling her isn’t just a matter of telling her. She’s not sitting down or making herself available to listen.
Feelings could scare her, so she must understand how I feel is me, not her. She doesn’t need to make up her mind now or ever. She can say no, and we can still be friends.
But how? A grand gesture perhaps. To show her I mean it. That I am, at the core, her friend, there to listen and respect her and her decisions. Respect whatever it is she wants right now.
Including space.
But being on the same page, clearing the air… That’s what we need first.
I feel a little better with that sorted.
The computer is on, so I type in the name on her T-shirt,Sweet Shelter, and the dog rescue place pops up on my screen. It looks nice, clean, a place where dogs would be happy. A place that Alina would find solace.
I grab a scrap of paper and a pen and write down the address and number. Her driver, Gus, would have the address, but getting it from him feels sneaky. This at least is cleaner. I shove the paper into my pocket and hunker down to work.
Three hours later, I remember the sandwich Svetlana brought up to me, and I take a bite, not paying attention to what it is. Ham, I think. Lettuce and cheese. I vaguely remember telling her that combo when I was eyeball deep in book one of the bratva financials.
The job’s tedious, with so many little tangents, and I amass it all. Organizing, going over the numbers on the bank accounts to make sure everything is not just on the up and up, but so I know where we stand.
I need to understand what money flows where. What’slegitimate and what isn’t. Then there’s the liquid versus stocks and bonds my grandfather invested in.
The offshore accounts hold most of the money, spread across a few different places. I also check what IOUs are outstanding and which simply stand as something to be used as a bargaining chip.
I’m almost done when Svetlana knocks on the office door. “Mr. Ilya?”
It’s as close to Ilya as she’s willing to get. I let her choose how formal or informal she wishes to be each day. Sometimes it’s sir; sometimes it’s Mr. Belov.
“Yes, Ms. Svetlana?”
A dark expression crosses her face, but she sees I’m teasing and smiles with a little nod. “You have a visitor.”
Isaak steps up behind Svetlana, his height dwarfing hers, and he thanks her as he moves past her.
“Isaak!” I grin, standing.
Svetlana looks at me then comes in to collect the plate as she glances at Isaak. “Would you like something to eat? Drink?”
“We’re fine. Take the rest of the evening off,” I say to her.
“Oh, I was going to make your dinner, Mr. Ilya.”
“I can make Isaak do it,” I say, sliding him a glance.
