Page 32 of The Bratva Betrayal

For about thirty seconds.

Long enough to grab the lightest bags and feel good about himself. He’s a step ahead of me, with one hand holding a couple of the lighter bags and the other occupied with his phone.

I take in the easy confidence in the way he walks, like everything around him is already handled because it usually is. Men like him don’t worry about consequences. They inherit protection, step into power that was built for them, and spend the rest of their lives assuming it will hold.

But I’m not his bitch. I’m just someone passing through his orbit just long enough to get what I need.

Then I’m done.

“Do you want to grab the rest of these?” I shift the weight in my hands. “Or are we pretending this is equal effort?”

He glances back long enough to smirk, like I said something cute. “You’ve got it, babe.”

I consider throwing the smallest bag at the back of his head, just to see if I can knock that expression off his face.

Instead, I stop near the curb, waiting for the valet, adjusting my grip before setting one of the heavier bags down so I don’t drop everything.

“Babe, did you grab my Gucci loafers?”

I stare at him.

“No.” An edge slips into my voice.

“Will you grab them for me?”

A quiet breath leaves me before I can stop it. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You are unbelievable.”

He grins like this is part of the dynamic instead of a glaring example of who he is.

I would not date Misha Makarov if someone paid me.

“I make up for it in other ways,” he says easily, already half gone again, attention back on his phone. “I bought you that Prada dress. You owe me.”

It comes out naturally, like everything has a price.

Like I do.

There’s no point in responding.

He isn’t forever. He isn’t even close.

“Miss Gallagher.”

Paul’s voice cuts in from my left as I open the car door, and I glance over to find him stepping toward us.

Mid-sixties, maybe a little older, but sharper than most men I deal with daily.

My favorite valet.

The only one who asks how my day was and actually listens to the answer.

He takes one look at the situation—at me juggling a load, and Misha barely paying attention—and springs to action. “I’ll take these up for you. No reason for you to carry all that alone.”

I open my mouth to tell him I can help, that he doesn’t have to, but stop short.