Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“You okay?” Simona asked, voice low and even.
I twisted the cap, sipped, then nodded. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Though I hadn’t told her what happened to me on my birthday, she’d witnessed another type of evil in Moscow. That experience had heightened her intuition. Besides, being my cousin, she just knew how to read me.
Simona snatched the sunglasses from a hardened scowl. Yeah, she had a tongue sharper than a dagger, too, but she usually reserved that for her annoying twin baby sisters.
I exhaled. “Jamie invited Enzo.”
“Stop calling him that.”
Though she didn’t express many emotions, this was how she said she was Team Lachasha—even if I hadn’t revealed my secret celebrity name for my relationship with Lachlan. I had thought of Lach & Key, but my name didn’t start with a K. Maybe one day I’d get a heart locket and try …
“Okay, Lorenzo,” I muttered. “I’m not attracted to him.”
“You sure?” Jordyn wrapped me in a hug from behind. “Because you have Italian First Person Shooter vs. Scottish Turquoise Eyes … You got choices.”
“Shouldn’t you hype up your brother-in-law?” I smirked.
Simona tucked one side of her hair behind her ear and leaned against the picnic table. “I will not typecast Lorenzo as the villain. But I gauge people by sight. Now.”
Jordyn’s gaze lingered, as if reading my cousin. Something had happened when Simona was fourteen. For over a year, Simona had lived at my house, claiming she’d wanted to attend an American school. It gutted Uncle Sim. And similar to how I hurt Pop’s feelings—and mine in an indirect way—I figured she had fallen away from her family. Didn’t connect.
She’d also gotten into self-harm. I told no one. After a while, she’d become so close. The sister I never had. And she’d clung to my mom, like she was her own. Because Simona had the deep skin tone of my momma, they resembled each other more than me.
That was the beauty of the other half of my heritage. The African roots dug down deep into the blood. All of us younger Resnovs looked different, but the same. Thicker hair, thicker lips, and the most beautiful shades ever came from my momma’s and aunt’s sides of the family.
Now, just stop thinking about your rapist, Tash, and remember why you cherish your Russian roots too.
I glanced around. The blacker-the-berry effect was also beginning to influence the MacKenzies’ Scottish ancestry as well.
When I tuned back in, Jordyn had an arm around Simona. Though she didn’t have the pale skin or blond hair of your typical Russian, Simona took one thing from our paternal side of the family. She hated touches. Except for now, I guess?
Wounded women find each other. I didn’t fit in, though. Jordyn only knew about Adrian Chelomey. I buried the shame and hurt of having my body used for times when I was alone. Couldn’t stomach the pity, and I wasn’t about to live through another of my father’s revenge schemes.
“Okay, Simona,” Jordyn said, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “If he’s always in selfie-mode, it’s Rory.”
Oh. Jordyn was giving my cousin the lay of the land. I hadn’t finished pointing out each brother when Lachlan’s and Enzo’s voices had escalated.
“If he’s a broody Scot in prescription glasses that scream I can see your soul and it’s questionable”—Jordyn nudged her chin to the furthest picnic table—“yeah, that’s Baby Jake.”
The future therapist, and youngest MacKenzie brother, sat by himself. Reading. Would be my kinda guy if the cover wasn’t dark, dramatic. The imagery hinted at a psychological thriller.
Simona said, “Jake, a baby? Pah.” Again, the Russian in her sounded nonchalant, but I could read my people. And she read the same intense, brain screwing thrillers. Ah-ha. Jake intrigued her.
“Calm down.” I snorted. “If my dad hates, yours is the Hater-in-Chief.”
On Monday, I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and glanced at Lachlan’s text.
LACH: We gotta go public.
Was this how he threw his weight around because of Lorenzo’s impromptu appearance? Days ago, I’d have loved the sound of that. Well, if my father’s name weren’t Vassili Karo Resnov.
Considering my threadbare relationship with Pop, how did I respond?
Dang. I sipped my iced coffee. My answer would be … let’s take my parents to dinner first. Buy Pop a gift, sit him down with a bottle of kvass. In the bratva, that was how an opposing faction might make amends.
“Lach hasn’t done anything wrong …”
ME: How about Valentine’s Day?
Lachlan had Dodger spring training the week after. That way, if Pop ordered a hit, my man would be in Glendale. The Dodgers practiced in Arizona. Too many people around. While he was gone, I’d squash the beef by sitting down with my dad. Instinctively, I touched my cross pendant at my neck. It was too big for me, but I’d had my eyes on it ever since I watched old UFC videos with Pop. He was dripping in sweat, blood, and fisting a UFC belt above his head. I missed that. Me and Pop.