And he thinks I don’t know it, but I feel him slide into bed in the midnight hours to stroke my hair for a little while when he assumes I’m fast asleep.
It’s complicated, loving a man like Vincent Akopov.
Because I do love him. Despite everything, I love him.
I’m almost to the first floor when I hear voices from Vince’s study—harsh, guttural Russian punctuated by occasional bursts of English.
That can only mean one thing: a Bratva meeting.
I should turn around, respect his privacy. But like I said, I’ve never been good at following rules. And peeking through doors has only ever brought me good fortune, right?
So instead, I move closer, drawn by curiosity. The door is cracked open, just enough for me to peer inside without being seen.
What I see freezes me in place.
Vince stands beh
