Page 37 of Hate to Love You
“Maybe you misunderstood me, brother,” I snarl at him sarcastically, grabbing him by the shirt collar and twisting it in my fist, squeezing his neck fat so hard it bulges out the top. “I told your bitch ass to look again.”
“Shit!” I hear Cal shout behind me, feeling the suspended floor beneath my feet shaking as my men come scrambling over to us. But I ignore them.
“You know, lately it seems you’ve been forgetting what your function is around here, so let me remind you,” I growl, holding a struggling Igor in place. “You aren’t here to think. You are here to obey. You are not my brother, you are nothing. Nothing but a fucking shit stain, and I’m growing awfully tired of making excuses for your incompetence and inability to follow simple fucking instructions.”
Beads of sweat now form on Igor’s brow, as I suddenly yank my switchblade from my pocket and hold it to his scruffy peppered five o’clock shadow.
“But if you can’t follow simple, basic instructions to use your fucking eyes,” I say, moving the blade to his cheek, just below his eye. “Then perhaps I should just take them.”
Knowing that fighting against me can only result in a death sentence either from my men shooting him, or me letting go of his shirt, Igor throws his hands in the air.
“Y…yes…Boss!” He pleads, trying desperately to keep his footing from slipping, knowing the fall backwards would certainly kill him. “You’re right! I fucked up! I will look for her! I promise! I’ll look all night if you want me to!”
“Boss,” Cal says, firmly. “Not to question your methods, but people are starting to stare.”
Part of me wants to tell Cal to fuck off, but I know he’s right. Especially when I look down and see a couple of astonished girls pointing while staring wide-eyed at me practically dangling Igor over the balcony.
However, as I glance down at my sniveling brother-in-law, who’s begging and pleading with me for forgiveness, I’m reminded that it’s because of him I’m not already at my penthouse with The Brunette. My lip curls, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to just let go and send him crashing down to the club floor below.
But the mess I’d have on my hands…
So instead, I yank his collar forward, bringing him back over the railing and causing him to crash instantly to his knees.
“Oh, God!” he wails, trying to kiss my feet, muttering in Russian. “Thank you, Roman! Thank you!”
But I don’t want his weeping snot-filled apologies. I kick him hard in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs before leaning down low and hissing in his ear.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
“Yes! Of course, Boss!” He says, climbing to his feet and practically bolting down the VIP steps.
“Jesus Christ, Roman,” my cousin Stetson, who is visiting New York for a couple of days as a stopover on his way home to Moscow, chuckles loudly. “You’re a cold motherfucker, doing that to your own brother-in-law!”
“Fuck that asshole,” I hiss through gritted teeth, still glaring after him.
“Look, tonight was supposed to be fun,” Stetson says, placing his hand against my chest. “Let’s not let that twat ruin it, eh? Let’s do some shots and get back into it!”
He heads off to find some sort of alcohol, as I slowly head back to my chair at the poker table.
But what Stetson doesn’t understand is that Igor isn’t what is ruining my night.
The Brunette was here. I saw her.
Yes, the dream with her this morning felt nearly as real, and yes, she stalks my thoughts and sleep like some vengeful ghost…But this wasn’t a hallucination. I know I saw her.
I’d know that face and body anywhere. After all, I spent nearly two years staring at it from a distance.
And after obsessing about her for years and kicking myself for every missed opportunity…I just missed another one.
“Hey Ro, I’ve got some good news,” Stetson says excitedly as he reappears beside me. “There’s a girl here to see you. And she’s hot.”
“A girl?” I ask, instantly, whirling around, thinking for a second that my gorgeous ghost might be standing there.
But it’s not her.
It’s Heather Jenson. Or “AccounTits” as I call her.
“Hey Ro,” Heather says, walking around the staring men in a very low-cut black dress. “What a…coincidence.”