Lost in Moscow's Secret
When he finally left, she waited with an impatient tap of her cheetah-print stilettos until he was far enough down the hall he wouldn’t notice, then she shut it.
“I’mGianna, by the way.” She walked toward me. “I’msure you don’t go by Mikhailov?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to expect from her considering her husband was terrifying, and her brother-in-law should be committed. Finally, I answered, “Mila.”
“Nice to meet you, Mila.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you from?” “Miami.”
“Oh, I adore Miami. I’ve never eaten better Cuban food anywhere else,” she said, adding with amusement, “but, then again, I haven’t exactly been to Cuba.”