Page 2 of The Wrong Brother

Moreno offered me money to look the other way here and there.

Either way, by the end of it I was in too deep and staring down criminal charges that should have ruined my life.

The Bratva saved me.

Which is still such an insane sentence that sometimes I laugh when I think about it.

“God. I really am an idiot,” I mutter, pausing to stare at some trinkets in a shop window.

It looks more like a shack tucked up against the very edge of the pier, but in an endearing way. Little animals made out of shells, Christmas ornaments that say “Santa Barbara,” glass bottles with rolled-up wishes inside.

Andrei, my ex, made me feel chosen. That’s the humiliating part. Not the breakup itself; people break up all the time. It’s the fact that I let myself believe him when he looked at me like I wasspecial. I let myself believe a man likehimwould be interested in committing to a woman likeme.

The shop window reflects someone curvy, in comfy shorts and a top that ripples with the wind off the sea.

The ex-FBI girlfriend looked great during election season, but I guess I wasn’t useful beyond that.

Tourists move around me in loud clusters as I get closer to the main street. It smells like sunscreen, and the air is full of happy chatter, seagulls screeching for scraps, and a jet ski taking off somewhere nearby.

I feel strangely detached from all of it, like I’m watching life through glass.

Maybe Matty is right. Maybe I should stop pretending and finally start “acting like an adult” and admit that I made a mistake.

The thought settles heavily into my chest as I drift farther into downtown Santa Barbara. Palm trees sway overhead. Storefronts glow in the afternoon sunlight, white stone and polished windows.

Everything here looks expensive. Beautiful and untouchable.

I slow near a café patio, eyeing a HELP WANTED sign taped crookedly in the window.

The logical thing would be to walk in, apply, and hope I can find an apartment that’s the perfect mix of affordable and livable. Minimal mold, a ceiling fan on the fritz, and an extra bolt on the door.

Instead, I keep walking. If I stop moving, I might have to admit I have absolutely no idea who I am anymore.

The fashion district sneaks up on me slowly—a group of women passes carrying sleek black shopping bags with elegant gold lettering:LORD&LION.

One of them laughs. “Apparently Russ Smith is actually in town.”

“I heard he hand-picks models himself,” another whispers dramatically.

I snort quietly and keep walking.

Rich people are so weird. That’s one thing I learned in Miami, from Moreno himself. Money can’t account for taste, and scandal only triples when the bank account does.

But a few steps later I find myself slowing in front of an enormous window display.

Lord&Lion.

The dresses are stunning; dangerously so. The kind of dresses you wear when you want to become someone else for a night.

The last two days at the motel are paid for, and then I have to return to where? My parent’s house? The lease on the Colorado apartment is long up. Embarrassment immediately heats my cheeks, and I duck into the store so no one on the street will see it.

The second I walk in, I know I can’t afford a single thing.

Everything smells expensive. There’s a table just inside the entrance with a bottle of champagne chilling and several glassesset around it. The lighting is low and golden, making every rack gleam like art instead of clothing.

I immediately want to leave.

A woman in an immaculate cream suit smiles at me. “Welcome to Lord&Lion.”