Page 80 of Hate to Love You
“Pasha,” I say firmly, feeling a slight tension rising in my stomach at the way my brother is smiling at her and the way she giggles at his shameless flirting.
“I don’t know how much you heard or anything,” he continues, ignoring me. “But like, just so you know, I don’t actually have any erectile dysfunction. I was just trying to—”
“Alright you,” I say, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and walking him toward the elevators. “I think your Romeo hero duties are done for today.”
Abigail giggles behind me.
“Well, I don’t have any plans for lunch if you—”
“I have work to do,” I grumble, hitting the elevator button. “Besides, I’m sure you have imaginary bikini models to woo and seduce.”
“Oh, she wasn’t imaginary, Big Ro,” Pasha grins as he steps on to the elevator, clicking his tongue. “I have a date with her tomorrow night. And I’m definitely gonna smash.”
Pasha. Pasha. Pasha.
As the doors close behind him, all I can do is shake my head and walk back to my office.
“Well, he seems very nice,” Abigail says to me as I pass by without looking up from whatever she’s typing. “Not sure about your sister though.”
“Polina is just—”
“Or you.”
Slowly her brown eyes find mine.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll learn quite quickly, Miss Wayne,” I say, a wicked grin spreading across my face. “I’m definitely not nice.”
Chapter Fourteen
ABBY
Oleg “Ollie” Mikhailov was easier to find than the others.
The beautiful man had every single social media account you could think of, as well as a handful of backup accounts.
He had the jawline of a model, and the body of a fuckboy, so naturally his face was splashed in dozens of tabloids and internet blogs, as well as making a regular appearance at the most up-and-coming clubs in New York City.
In one blog I found, the author, presumably a disgruntled ex-lover, referred to him as a “twenty-nine-year-old playboy, with a blonde fetish.” She went on to detail that the only women who made their way onto Oleg’s radar were girls who are under five-feet, platinum blonde and no bigger than a size zero.
Otherwise, good ol’ Ollie didn’t even notice them.
But, if Oleg wasn’t with a long-legged bottle blonde, he was with Igor. They were practically attached at the hip, they spent most of their time attending events, mingling with other well-dressed men, shaking hands, and smiling for cameras.
However, for a man he had publicly referred to as his “brother from another mother,” in a news article that I read online, he didn’t seem too distraught when talking about Igor’s sudden death to me.
The best thing about Oleg? He likes to location tag himself everywhere he goes. Maybe the man thinks of himself as an undiscovered celebrity, but he ‘checks-in’ to every restaurant, club, or gym he steps into. And often his food, his date or his well-toned abs end up on the social media page for that particular establishment.
It means that at least I won’t have to waste money on a tracker, as the man was practically tracking himself for me.
It wouldn’t be hard to kill him, it might actually be the easiest one yet.
I could always use Roman as an excuse and make up a reason to go downstairs to Oleg’s floor.
Lucy informed me that my ID badge would get me into any door, on any floor, in any building that Roman owns in the city. I’ve also learned that people are so scared of my boss, that all I have to do is drop his name, and they will do whatever I ask, afraid that resisting could result in Roman’s wrath.
So, in some ways, it feels as if the power and fear they have for Roman…has now transferred to me.
However, despite my concerns, my stomach churns at the thought of killing him. Because unlike Igor, there was absolutely nothing to indicate he’d done anything dark and wicked. Despite a few jilted exes, there were still no reports of him being anything other than a gentleman with whatever woman he’s currently fucking.