Page 71 of Toxic Attraction
Beautiful people doing ugly things in beautiful spaces.
And Lev is leading me right into the heart of it.
We head toward an elevated VIP section—glass walls, plush seating, perfect view of everything below. Like a throne overlooking chaos.
As we approach, I see familiar faces.
An older man at the center—gray hair, sharp eyes, commanding presence even while sitting. Tash's father, Dmitri. I recognize him from photos she's shown me, though she's always been careful about how much she reveals about her family.
Some men I remember from the dinner are scattered around.
And Tash.
She's perched on the arm of a leather couch, red dress that probably costs a fortune, drink in hand. Looking every inch the Bratva princess.
When she sees me, her eyes go wide.
"Oh my GOD!" She jumps up, nearly spilling her drink. "Babe! What are you—"
Then her hand flies to her mouth. Eyes darting to her father. Back to me. To Lev.
"I mean—" She tries to recover. "You look like—you remind me of someone I—" She's turning red. "Can we just pretend I didn't just—"
"Natasha." Dmitri's voice is amused. "You know this girl?"
"I—she—we—" Tash looks at me helplessly.
I decide to save her. "We went to Columbia together. Same literature class freshman year."
"Right! Yes!" Tash latches onto it. "Literature. We studied... books. Together."
Lev's looking between us, one eyebrow raised. "You studied books?"
"So many books," Tash says, completely straight-faced now. "That’s why it’s called literature."
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Even Dmitri looks amused.
Sometimes I wonder how this lady is mafia-born.
"Well then." Lev guides me to the couch and sits, pulling me down beside him. His hand stays on my thigh—high enough to be possessive, not quite inappropriate. "Small world."
"Tiny," Tash agrees, taking a long drink. "Microscopic, really."
Dmitri shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Lev, I see you've brought interesting company."
"I have." Lev's hand tightens on my thigh. Claiming. "Everyone, this is Valerie Novak. She's under my protection."
The words ripple through the space. Men who were engaged in other conversations turn to look. Trying to assess what it means that Lev Volkov brought a woman here.
I try not to squirm under the attention.
The next hour is surreal.
Men approach our section constantly. Some to pay respects, some to report, some to ask permission for things I don't fully understand.
"The shipment from the coast?" A younger man, nervous, hands clasped.
"Arrived. No issues." Lev's voice is calm. Measured.
