Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
He pushes away from the wall and walks toward me until he’s towering over me. Honestly, I like how I have to crane my head to look up at him. I like how the soft yellow light highlights the dust fluttering in the air, creating a sparkling backdrop. I like the silver in his hair catching the sunlight.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, his voice growing husky.
I shake my head. “No—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says sternly. “You wouldn’t be here if everything was okay at home. What’s happening?”
I stare at him in disbelief. Part of me wants to yell, Why do you care? But he’s my boss, technically, even if he’s about twenty links up the chain of command. As much as cleaning a large office complex has never been my dream job, I still need it.
“It’s loud,” I tell him. “It’s distracting. There’s this couple next door…” I bite down, trying not to think about it. “They fight. It gets bad. Then they make up and fight again. I called the cops on the husband once because he hurt her. She lied and said I was making it up, but I saw it. The argument spilled out into the hallway and…”
I stop, realizing I’m unloading on a total stranger. Maybe that’s one problem with spending so much time alone or with podcasts. When I finally get a chance to speak, I can’t stop.
“You shouldn’t have to live like that.” He moves even closer. I can smell his huskiness, his manliness. Is he wearing cologne, or is that just him? My lips tingle, almost like I’m getting ready for a kiss. “What’s your name?”
“Dahlia,” I tell him. “Or… or Lia.”
Offering the shortened version of my name almost makes me cry. It’s so pathetic, but it makes me think of Mom calling me Lia and that nobody calls me that anymore.
“Lia,” he repeats.
Forcing away the sadness, I weakly smile. “What’s your name?”
He laughs, somehow making that a manly sound, too.
“What if I’m serious, sir?”
He holds out his hand. “Dimitri Sokolov.”
Part of me knows taking his hand is a bad idea. I’ve fought off any of these silly thoughts by convincing myself they’re not there. Yet when I touch his hand, I feel a spark shoot up my arm. My chest feels lighter for a moment as we shake.
He moves even closer and leans down so that we’re almost eye-to-eye. I can faintly feel his warm breath on my face. “Keep painting. I want to see the final product.”
Then he turns and quickly moves toward the door. The sudden change almost causes me to yell, Wait! Again, I force that instinct down, along with countless other things. At least he didn’t tell me I had to leave.
As I return to my work, I think about what he said. He wants to see it when it’s done. I don’t usually paint for an audience. He probably only said it because he’s trying to be nice. He might not even remember asking me for it, but maybe it will help him grieve.
Then I think about how he waved his hand when I gave my condolences. It was like he didn’t even want to think about his dad. Maybe it’s too painful? Yet if that’s the case, why would he want to see the painting?
CHAPTER 3
DIMITRI
“Who the fuck called you?” I snap down the phone.
Angelo, one of our many police allies, sighs. “It was a gunshot, Dimitri. There’s protocol.”
“The press doesn’t know it was suicide.”
“No, we’re blocking the case files.”
“Good,” I tell him. “We can’t let the truth get out. It will make us look like prime pickings for any bastards who want to move in.”
Whether you loved or hated him, my father was good at using fear to keep our illegitimate businesses secret, keep Sokolov Securities running smoothly, and keep other organizations at bay.
“I can’t promise anything,” Angelo says, “but we’ll do our best.”
My father would probably have threatened Angelo at this point, but I don’t see the use of doing that just yet. It’s better to keep the police sweet during whatever comes next. After hanging up, I drum my fingers against the wheel, driving through the desert toward the family home. The compound is the most natural place to stay while we deal with this instability.
As I drive, getting Lia out of my head is difficult. I was standing at my window when I saw her hurrying across the lot toward the office building, which was currently under construction. Something about the swaying in her hips ignited something inside, ignited a piece of me I never thought I’d feel. But, no, this is the time for duty. My body protests, stirring, heating up, but I ignore the hunger. Still, Lia stares at me from my mind’s eye.
With her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it to keep it in place, her black skirt hugging her thick hips, her juicy legs, and her large breasts barely contained within her shirt, the base of my manhood aches. I have to stop. I’m going to drive myself insane.