Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I blink, stunned by this little glimpse into his world. His loyalty. A code for living. Would he kill or die for me? Remembering his actions at the convenience store, I’m suddenly quite certain he would. And like that night, it turns me on, even as it scares me.
“You two are friends, though, right?”
Pavel shrugs again, like friend isn’t a word he would use with Sasha. “Why are you asking?”
I laugh a little at myself then confess, “I’ve been so jealous of what she has with you.”
He scoffs again. “She has nothing with me. She is my annoying housemate. Nothing more.” His gaze on me is bemused. “You were jealous? Of Sasha?” He can’t seem to believe it.
“She knows you better than I do.”
“Ah.” He sobers. “I understand.” Then he shakes his head. “She knows nothing. You see more of me than I show to anyone else. Don’t ever be jealous of another woman.”
“Why don’t you ever invite me to come to Chicago?”
He gives me a long look. “Because I’m a bastard, and I don’t want to share you. But if you want to come, you’re invited. Any time, Kayla.”
“Okay,” I say softly.
“You don’t need to be like Sasha for this audition,” he says, and I catch a little heat in his gaze. “You’re you.”
Wings flap in my chest.
“I’m just scared because I don’t feel like myself. I still feel … raw from our scene.”
“I see.” He picks up my fingers and brings them to his mouth, kissing the backs of them. “Use it. I called you blossom the night we met because I thought you would be easily crushed, but I was wrong. You are a flower—one that blooms under duress. You open wide. That’s your superpower, malysh. So use it. When you’re in that audition, don’t try to hide that openness. There’s no person on this planet who won’t connect with you when you’re like that, period. And if you don’t get this part, then it’s because it wasn’t the right one for you, not because you weren’t absolutely perfect.”
I blink back the wetness in my eyes, my chest warm and glowy from his words. I’ve been told before to believe it’s not me, it’s just about the part—we actors tell ourselves this all the time to soothe the sting of rejection. But this time, when Pavel says it, I actually believe it.
He pulls up in front of the building, and I take a deep breath.
“Knock them dead, blossom. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”
“Thank you.” I lean over for a kiss. It’s awkward because he didn’t lean my way or try to touch me, but he cradles my face and kisses me back lightly.
“You’ve got this.”
I step out of the car. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know up from down. Maybe that’s why I believe Pavel implicitly. My defenses are down, and Pavel thinks I’m perfect. All I can do is show up and be me.
Pavel
I don’t know how long it will take Kayla, but I figure there’s time to take her car to a carwash and get an exterior and interior clean. She hasn’t texted by the time it’s finished, so I take a chance and bring it to the Jiffy Lube for an oil change and tune up, sliding a hundred dollar bill into the guy in charge’s hand to get it done quickly.
Afterward, I drive around L.A., looking at it for the first time. I realize I don’t even know where Kayla lives. I was playing fantasy dom—meeting her at Black Light and then bringing her to a hotel room for the weekend.
Now, though, things have shifted.
I see a commercial real estate sign in front of a large apartment complex and some wild and ridiculous notion pops in my head. I pull over to call the number on the sign.
“This is Larry,” a guy practically yells over the phone. Sounds like he’s driving a convertible.
“Yeah, just wondering the selling price for the property on Wilmont.”
“Are you an agent?” he demands.
“No. This is Pavel Pushkin. I’m a real estate investor from Chicago.”
“It’s five million, eight. I won’t show it until you’ve proven you have funding.”
I ignore his last statement. “How many units?”
“Six one-bedroom units and six two. The top floor is a penthouse suite, and there’s a pool on the roof.”
“How big are the units?”
“Eight hundred square feet and one thousand.”
“I’ll be in touch,” I say and end the call without a thank you. Groveling isn’t my thing.
I stare at the building and run the numbers in my head.
Real estate is the true secret to Ravil’s wealth. He may run smuggling and gambling and loan shark operations—staples of the bratva business—but he invested his money wisely. Somehow, he made enough—or maybe he killed the right people to inherit enough—to buy the Kremlin—lakefront property in Chicago. Definitely worth multiple millions. And now, with his beautiful new crime-intolerant wife, Ravil has steered the organization in a relatively legit direction. He can because he’s now a real estate mogul, not a crime lord.