You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

My knees are trembling.

Fifteen

Noah Abramovich

I notice her engagement ring immediately. It’s a dazzling thing. Big, ostentatious, and fucking ugly. She didn’t wear it last night when she came to me. I fight the urge to rip it off her finger.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ I say.

‘I thought all you had to do today was sleep,’ she taunts, but her voice shakes.

‘I thought all you had to do was boring stuff.’

She bites her bottom lip. ‘Did you know I would be here?’

‘What do you think?’

‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘Let’s just say I’m a friend of Alexander and I knew you were in the committee organizing this event.’

Her eyes widen. ‘You know Alexander Malenkov?’

‘Sure. I used to work for him.’

She can’t imagine how I might be connected to a world famous pianist and her smooth brow knits. ‘Really? As what?’

‘It’s not important. It was a long time ago.’

‘Oh. Why did you bid for my earrings?’

‘Why does anyone do anything?’ I can’t get the image of him kissing her as if he owned her out of my mind.

‘You did it to make my life a little bit more miserable.’

‘No,’ I say harshly. ‘I bought them because you belong to me. Every woman in that room had her jewelry bought back for her by her man. That was my right. I’m your man.’

She looks at me with wide, wretched eyes.

The question slips out before I can stop it. ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

She shakes her head.

‘I want to see you again.’

She swallows hard. ‘I don’t know. That was not part of the plan.’

‘Fuck the plan.’ My voice is harsh.

‘You don’t get it. My father will have you killed if he finds out about us, and the more times I see you, the bigger the risk that somehow he will hear about it.’

‘Come to me tonight.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘I’m not afraid of your father.’

Her eyes widen. ‘You should be. He is a very dangerous man.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘I can’t. I—’

‘There you are, darling. I was wondering where you’d got to,’ Oliver says smoothly. He turns towards me. I feel him sizing me up. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … friend?’ The pause is not lost on me.

‘Lord Oliver Jarsdale, Noah Abramovich. Noah Abramovich, Lord Oliver Jarsdale,’ Tasha says. There is a guilty tremor in her voice and I feel him stiffen with suspicion and anger.

‘Ah, another Russian,’ he says, and there is a wealth of meaning in his words. A deliberate snub, which surprises me because from what I have heard, Jarsdale is one of those slippery men who doesn’t insult you to your face, he’ll do it behind your back anonymously. My manager has a good term for that phenomenon. Twitter balls.

He looks at her, his nose raised as if there is an offensive smell about. ‘A friend of your fathers?’

I feel Tasha’s whole body contract. I know she never wanted me to come to her father’s attention.

‘Actually, he is a friend of Alexander Malenkov,’ she says, her words stumbling over each other.

Something cold flickers in his eyes. ‘And how do the two of you know each other.’

‘We are old friends.’

‘Really?’ he drawls. ‘How interesting.’

I smile as casually as I can. ‘Yes, we Russians all tend to know one another.’

‘It would seem so,’ he says in a tone of someone who is suddenly bored by the conversation. ‘Anyway, we should be going. Enjoy your earrings, Mr. Abramovich.’

I say nothing.

‘Nice seeing you again, Noah,’ Tasha says softly. Then Oliver places a possessive hand on the small of her back and leads her away. My gut burns with jealous fury, but a cold logical voice inside me says, Look around you Noah. This is not the fucking place or time. Let him think he’s won.

I stride out of the venue and go stand outside. I light a cigarette and take a drag on it. What I really want to do is go back inside and choke the fucking breath out of Jarsdale. Someone comes to stand next to me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

‘You’re asking for an all out war,’ he says in Russian.

I take my box of cigarettes and offer it to him. He takes one and I hold the flame of my lighter under his cigarette. He cups his hands around the flame and inhales. The fire illuminates his face and long, elegant fingers. Strange, all those years not once did I see these digits as the fingers of a gifted pianist. He lifts his head and I withdraw my lighter.

I’ve loved this man like a brother for years. We’ve seen each other through thick and thin. Everybody calls him Alexander now, but to me he will always be Zane, my brother in arms.

I take a drag of my own cigarette and exhale it. ‘I’m not afraid of him.’