“Don’t be so sure.”
Sighing, I slam the perfume bottle down on the bathroom counter. “What is your problem, Vasily?” I demand angrily. “You’re the one who told me this was important. Now you’re acting like a scorned lover.”
Vas scoffs.
“I am sick and tired of your bipolar, shit attitude,” I tell him. “It’s giving me whiplash.”
“Ava…”
I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Stop,” I snarl. “The only time you say my name recently is when you’re about to make up some fucking excuse on why you can’t tell me something or to apologize. I’m done, Vasily. You’re relieved of your duty. My father and Igor can take it from here.”
“You need to understand…”
“I am tired of you telling me that!” Brushing past him, I pick up the small satchel from the couch. Purses of any size aren’t my thing, but I want to be sure I have my phone and money easily accessible in case something goes wrong.
Which, it always does.
“The only thing I need to understand is that you don’t trust me,” I snarl. “And I don’t want asovietnikwho doesn’t trust me. Want to keep your spot? Then man up and tell me what the hell you’ve been hiding. Show me that you think more of me than just Matthias’s widow who’s in over her head.”
Crickets.
Well, that is slightly heartbreaking. Vas is one of the only friends I have. Or thought I had, anyway. It appears I put more stock in that friendship than he ever does. To him I will never be anyone other than a mafia widow. Someone he can’t trust to keep the secrets he is holding onto.
“Okay then.” Turning, I stalk out the door of the hotel room before he can see the tears gathering in my eyes and the broken shards of my soul.
“Moving those assets around was pertinent to keeping the Saudi Prince safe,” the man pontificates. “He was so grateful he gave me one of his diamond encrusted turbans. The Portland Museum was honored to have us add it to their collection of course…”
Jesus. Is this guy for real?
Conrad O’Neill, or Crunchy Jr. as I refer to him in my head, hasn’t shut his useless trap since I sat down for dinner. Vasily doesn’t have to worry about me memorizing facts about ourcompany. This asshat doesn’t care what I know about Arctic Security. He is more interested in telling me how wealthy he is and how many people owe him a debt.
I wonder if it is bad manners to slit his throat before the appetizers come.
“Good evening.” The waiter approaches with a smile. “Have we decided on our orders yet?”
Pushing back a laugh, I smile and nod. The poor man has been trying to take our order for the last ten minutes but each time he is ignored in favor of another boring tale of how Crunchy Jr. saved everything from disaster.
The man should write a book.
If he hasn’t already.
“Yes.” Conrad barely gives the waiter his attention. “I’ll have the sixteen-ounce ribeye, rare, with potatoes and asparagus. Also, a glass of your best red.”
“Very well sir,” the waiter acknowledges before turning to me. “And…”
“She’ll have the house salad with light dressing and a white wine.”
Poor man. The waiter’s gaze shifts nervously between the two of us as he scribbles down our order. Well, Crunchy Jr’s order. It sure as hell isn’t mine.
“I can order for myself, thank you.” I put on my best Kendra smile. Fake and plastic. “I’ll have the Bourbon Chicken and Shrimp with fondant potatoes, please. And your best top shelf whiskey.”
Conrad sneers. I catch the look out of the corner of my eye. If he thinks I am the same level of bimbo as his previous dinner dates, he is sorely mistaken.
It doesn’t take long for the waiter to come back with our order seeing as how the entire restaurant is nearly full of Sulley’s men.
“Don’t you think you should have something lighter?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine as I tuck into my dinner. The man hasn’t shut up about my eating habits for the entire time it took the waiter to bring out our food.