Elena: He says a few men will be over to help you move . . .
Me: Will I get out of this alive?
Elena: He just smiled to himself.
Me: Pray for me.
I spent the next week packing my precious possessions into boxes, though, admittedly, grew distracted more than once while blowing the dust off my old books and magazines. I’d often end up on my divan, burying my face in some long-forgotten fashion journal or a novel with enough drama to put Jersey Shore to shame.
On Saturday, my laundry had gotten so out of hand, I decided to bite the bull and head to the laundromat. I was watching my reds whirl around in soap bubbles when my phone dinged.
Valentina: You know how I have this obsession for anything Aleksandra Popova?
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Me: Indeed.
Whatever the Russian fashion model wore one week, Val was wearing the next.
Valentina: Well, I think it’s turned into jealousy.
She’d attached an article captioned: Can we talk about what Aleksandra was wearing last night? And we don’t mean her Polka Siena evening dress . . .
Probably a real muskrat shawl with the head still attached. Russians were so rustic two thousand two.
I had zero interest in the model and was in the middle of plucking a piece of lint from my maxi dress as I opened the article. I stilled.
The photo showed the gorgeous blonde at last night’s Broadway debut, and on her arm was no one other than a dirty blue-eyed fed.
My chest tightened.
He had a hand on her hip, and she had a hand on his arm—the one I’d run my nails down just last week. They looked comfortable together—perfect, really—like two connecting puzzle pieces.
He wasn’t looking at the camera but at some point in the distance. He appeared handsome and elusive, like some carnal fantasy you could only dream about but never touch. She wore her usual smolder—slightly pursed lips and cat eyes—and, with skyscraper-long legs and stilettos, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. They probably had all kinds of crazy positions to try out without such a large height difference.
I rarely lost a bet, and I would put a lot of money down on the fact this woman was the one he would finally marry.
My pulse missed its next beat.
I was sure Aleksandra didn’t have mental breakdowns after sex. Something bitter spread through me as the thoughts kept whirling in my head. They probably had romantic conversations in Russian. Probably fed each other sips of vodka.
My heart was beating so hard and erratically it hurt. I put a hand over it, growing seriously concerned about a potential heart murmur.
A woman in a pink sweat suit smacking her gum pulled me back to reality. “You going to sit there all day or what, honey? We all got clothes to wash here.”
I sent Valentina a quick text before swapping out my laundry.
Me: Twenty grand says he marries her.
Valentina: Lol . . . you’re on.
“HEY, BE CAREFUL WITH THAT! It’s an antique!”
After gouging a small hole in the wall while bringing an armchair into my new apartment, two of Ace’s men dropped it none-too-gently on the hardwood floor. They then dusted off their hands, like a good deed done, and stepped out to create more damage from the lobby to here.
The apartment was cool and modern, with a beautiful view of the Manhattan cityscape. There seemed to be nothing wrong with it—I’d even gone so far as to check for leaky faucets—and that made me even more suspicious. Ace rarely concerned himself with my affairs. The club incident must have annoyed him enough there was some punishment involved with this place. I was just waiting to find out what it was.
I wore a pair of faded overalls, and a red bandana kept my hair back from my face as I sat on the floor amidst an overwhelming number of boxes. There’d been no rhyme or reason to what I’d unpacked so far, and the place was beginning to look like a hoarder’s wet dream.