She blinks. Again.

Jesus.

“Um, yes. I’ll just call him. What’s your name?”

“Katia.”

She nods and picks up the phone. “Yes, Pierre. I have a girl at reception. She says her name is Katia.”

She nods, then hangs up the phone.

“He’s coming. He’s just wrapping up a meeting. He won’t be long.”

Swallowing down my nerves, I take a seat and wait. While I’m waiting, a young group of males come charging into reception. There are three of them, and holy mother, they’re all handsome. One is tall, dark and . . . my mouth drops open. When he turns to look at me, everything in my world stops.

He’s the spitting image of Pierre.

Spitting.

My heart leaps into my throat and I stand suddenly. His eyes, black as my father’s, are trained on me. They widen slightly and I struggle to breathe. I . . . I . . . have a brother? He starts striding towards me and I can’t take it. I turn and rush towards the door when I hear my name being called.

“Katia.”

I stop, clenching my eyes shut. Slowly, I turn to see Pierre standing just beside the reception desk. His eyes are trained on me and he looks . . . almost soft. God dammit. I flick my gaze back to the three men watching me, and I realize they are all dark-haired, brown-eyed, and just like him. I don’t just have one brother—I have three.

“I see,” Pierre mutters, when he sees the looks being passed between the men and me, “you’ve met your sister.”

Now I have three sets of eyes on me, and my cheeks heat as I meet each of them. The first man, the one who was quick to notice me, he looks to be about three or four years older than I am. He’s rugged, he’s handsome as hell, and he looks broody. His dark hair is long like his dad’s, curling around his shoulders. His eyes, so dark brown they’re almost black. From this distance, that’s exactly how they look. Black.

The man next to him looks to be about my age, possibly just a touch younger. He’s got long—I mean, down-past-his-shoulders long—hair. It’s slightly lighter than his father’s, but his eyes are equally as dark. He too is well built, but he looks softer, his face kinder. The last is around about nineteen, I’d guess. He’s got his dark hair cropped short and messy, and his eyes are more milk chocolate than dark brown. He’s smirking at me.

“The fuck?” the older man grunts.

I guess he doesn’t like having a sister. Fine by me.

Okay, that’s a lie.

“Katia,” Pierre says carefully. “Meet my sons, Ford—” He points to the oldest, “—Landon—” he points to the middle, “—and Wyatt.”

I swallow.

“Sons,” he says to the boys. “Meet my daughter, Katia. Remember, I told you about her?”

He told them about me?

I close my eyes, squeezing them together. This is too fucking much.

“This is too fucking much,” I breathe, and then gasp as I realize I said that out loud.

Wyatt snorts and I open my eyes to see his smirk has gotten bigger. “Always wanted a sister. You got any hot friends?”

I stare at him.

“Wyatt!” Pierre growls. “Go easy.”

“She looks like she’s goin’ to chuck,” Landon says. “Anyone fancy gettin’ a bucket?”

I turn to him, scoffing in a pathetic voice, “I’m not going to chuck.”

My eyes flicker to Ford, who still hasn’t said a damned word. He’s glaring at me, seriously glaring. Pierre follows my gaze and stares at his son. “Ford,” he says, low. “Say hello.”

Ford’s eyes slash to his father and in a low, gravelly voice he mutters, “Fuck you, cunt.”

Oh, boy.

Then he storms out.

Pierre closes his eyes, as if searching for patience, before turning back to me. “Katia, I’m sorry about that. Why are you here?”

“I . . .” I swallow. “I need to talk to you.”

He nods, then turns to the remaining two boys. “Go back to work.”

“Do we get to see you again?” Wyatt asks, grinning at me.

“Dude,” I mutter. “We’re related, stop grinning at me like I’m a piece of candy you found in your pocket.”

With that, I follow Pierre down the hall to the sounds of Wyatt and Landon’s laughter. A sound I kind of like.

~*~*~*~

“You want to know about Marcus?” Pierre asks.

“That, and why you have three sons, one that’s older than me,” I mutter.

His eyes flash. “One story at a time. Firstly though, I’m glad you’re here, Katia.”

“I’m not here for you, Pierre. I’m here for answers.”

He looks slightly pained and that pisses me off, but I say nothing.

“First, Marcus,” he begins. “What do you want to know?”

“Does he run dirty money and make it clean for bad...dudes?”

He flinches. “Pardon?”

“Don’t play the fool to me, Pierre. I’m not a stupid girl; my momma raised me better. I know you’re a bad man; she also told me about that. What I want to know, clear and straight, is if my husband is a bad man too.”

He stares at me for a long while, then he sighs and mutters, “Marcus has been helping change dirty money for years now. He’s well known. He’s clever and he’s good at it.”