Deceitful Lies by Brook Wilder

 

Chapter 32

Andrei

 

I reach for the vodka bottle on the table—no need for a glass—and make my way toward a private room. Alone. The atmosphere grows even tenser as I walk by. Not a single soul looks in my direction. They pretend I’m not there. I can just imagine the expression on my face. I must resemble the devil on a shit day in hell. I slam the door behind me and collapse onto a leather couch. The tacky mirrored room is barely larger than my closet at home, but what usually goes on in here doesn’t require much space. I take a few gulps from the bottle and savor the way quality liquor caresses my throat like silk.

 

Should I reward Viktor’s courage for speaking up with a bullet? No. Instead, I congratulate myself with another swig for not shooting the boy. My wedding had a purpose. But everything changed after knocking up my fake wife. And now, I look like a weak man.

 

I take another gulp from the bottle, which is almost empty, and I think of the choice I would’ve made if Vasily had asked me the same question. No, I can’t shoot the boy, or I’ll be a hypocrite. I’d rather look weak by not acting than conceal failure with a lie.

 

Is falling in love such a terrible sin in our world?

 

I tilt my head back, finish the last drops, and fling the bottle across the room. It shatters against the wall, and glass fragments fly. I should be home with my woman, and she should do as I say.

 

Instead, I’m digging into my soul and questioning who I am. Paige has achieved something no other woman has been able to do to me. She has smashed through my defenses and made me care about her. It’s not a good thing. Paige is a distraction, and love is a dangerous thing. It makes you care about someone else, and having a heart can be deadly.

 

I pick up a landline with a direct extension to the bar.

 

“Yes, Andrei Vasilyevich?” a man’s voice asks.

 

“Another bottle.”

 

“Would you like one of the girls to serve you?”

 

“No.” I slam the phone down.

 

I must look like the biggest pussy-whipped ass in the club. A man who can’t cheat on his fake wife. But I can’t tear my thoughts away from Paige, no matter how hard I try. I can’t allow myself to be in love with her, even if she’s pregnant with my child.

 

I’m in control, not her. And I will remain in control of everything, no matter what it costs me. Sighing, I pull my hand over my forehead, wiping the sweat away. My thoughts are dragging me down. I’ve fallen in love with a good person I never thought I would want or who would want me. And I can’t be what Paige wants. It will destroy me.

 

I can fight my feelings for her if I’m vigilant. My heart has to turn to stone, wrapped tight in barbed wire. I can’t let love defeat me, not when I have what I need in my grasp. Gerald Reyes is dying, and I can’t let my feelings for Paige stop me from obtaining the money he stole. I can’t care that he is Paige’s father. I know—I’ll just pretend he’s mine.

 

There’s a quick knock before the door opens. An attractive redhead enters, dressed in a bartender’s uniform—a black shirt and matching pants. She’s not one of the whores, but I’m sure she wouldn’t say no if I asked. I don’t intend to.

 

She ignores the broken glass on the floor and places the chilled bottle of Grey Goose on the low table in front of me.

 

“Shall I pour, Mr. Barinov?” Her soft gaze meets my stern glare.

 

I shake my head, and I’m about to tell her to get the fuck out when we both freeze in place. We turn toward the open door and hold still, listening for the sound again.

 

“What is …” she begins to ask.

 

I shush her. The loud crack of gunshots repeats as I pull my gun out of its holster.

 

“Hide,” I tell her as I rush into hell.