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“You’ll see it in a week, dorogoy.” His voice lowers to something darker, more intimate. “I have plans to take you home for our wedding night. I thought I would surprise you, but I can see you’re a little disappointed, sladkiy. Instead of an impersonal hotel, I thought you would like our first night to be in our own bed. Where we’ll spend every night after that.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “That’s very romantic,” I murmur softly, squeezing his hand. “You’re right. There’s no reason I’ll be anything but happy, so long as I have you.”
The look he gives me makes my heart flutter wildly in my chest. I spent so much of my early teenage years worrying that I’d be given to some old man, or married to a stuck-up, uptight mafia son, one of the many irritating boys I encountered over the course of growing up, at dinner parties and events that I was allowed to attend. But instead, I’m being given to the Bratva heir—a rebellious, handsome man who fits every sexy bad-boy fantasy I’ve ever had. A husband who will encourage my wildness, my stubborn streak, my willfulness, rather than try to break and mold me into what he wants. A man who will desire me all the more for it because we’re the same.
Marriage is the end of happiness for so many mafia daughters. But for me, it’s the beginning of everything I’ve wanted—a fantasy I was afraid to believe in until my father gave me the choice of marrying Pyotr.
A little while later, one of my godfather’s guards approaches, clearing his throat. “It’s getting late, Miss D’Amelio,” he says, glancing between the two of us. “Don Morelli will want you to be ready to join him for dinner, soon.”
I’m not ready for Pyotr to leave. But he’s right, of course—I need to change for dinner…the floaty blush pink sundress and white denim jacket that I wore for my “date” with Pyotr won’t be acceptable.
“Alright.” I look at Pyotr, who is already standing up, tugging me up from the bench with his hand still firmly entwined in mine. “I’ll see you in six days?”
“On our wedding day, moya nevesta.” He smiles at me, that dark, heated gleam still in his eyes. I feel a quiver of anticipation—and a flicker of disappointment, mixed with longing, as I look at his full, smiling mouth. I wanted that kiss, but we lost our chance. I didn’t push the issue, and Pyotr seemed inclined to wait, testing the boundaries in other ways.
He lets go of my hand as we walk back into the house, giving me one final nod before he follows his entourage to the foyer, and out of the front door. I’m left with Salvatore’s guards, who are standing awkwardly nearby, watching the Bratva leave.
“You can go now,” I snap, feeling irritable as the door closes behind Pyotr. A week feels too long, and I’m filled with anxiety; the moment of our marriage is so close but still so far away. The last six months have felt strange, uncertain—getting used to my father being gone and someone new watching over me all at the same time. I’m ready to move forward with my life, and what was planned for me. “Unless my godfather ordered you to come upstairs with me while I get ready, too?”
“Of course not, Miss D’Amelio.” Josef, the one in charge of Salvatore’s personal security, motions to the others. “Let’s go.”
I let out a sigh as they walk away, turning to head upstairs. I have an hour to get ready for dinner, and I want nothing more than to lie down for at least half of that.
Salvatore is tense and silent at dinner. We’re served formally, something that my father often eschewed, feeling that a typical four-course dinner brought in course-by-course for two people was a little ridiculous. He saved the formalities for dinner parties. But Salvatore seems to like the structure of it—or at least, believes it’s important that I get used to it.
“Is this how the Bratva structure their days?” I ask, a little testily over the first course of lemon and crab soup. “Formal meals? Dressing in business casual at the table?”
Salvatore glances up at me, tearing a corner of his bread off and dipping it in the saucer of herbed olive oil in front of us. “I don’t pretend to know what Pyotr Lasilov does at home. You’ll be living alone with him, his staff, and his guards at his penthouse. Has he told you that?”
“He mentioned it today, yes.” I drag my spoon through my soup, feeling my appetite beginning to fade. I wish I could simply fast-forward through the next six days, and wake up on the morning of my wedding.
Salvatore’s expression remains neutral. He’s a difficult man to read, and after so many years of closeness between me and the only other person I lived with—my father—I often find it frustrating. “And how do you feel about that, Gia?”
I shrug, taking a small bite of my soup. “Fine. I’m sure it’s beautiful. It probably has a gorgeous view of the city—maybe even a spa in the building. A rooftop pool. A concierge. Whatever I could possibly ask for.”
Salvatore nods. “Well. You’ll be expected to attend family dinners with the Lasilov heir’s family, I assume. I gather even the Bratva have events, from time to time, dinner parties. You will be expected to behave in a way that befits the future pakhan’s bride, and in a way that suggests you’ve been raised as a don’s daughter, not a feral child. So you should know how to dress and act formally at the table.”
“My father didn’t completely neglect my education.” I narrow my eyes at him, feeling the sudden and almost undeniable urge to take my frustration out on him. “Anyway, who are you to be lecturing me about manners? You were rude to Pyotr earlier. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”
“I was firm.” He finishes his soup, pushing the china bowl back slightly as we wait for the next course. “I made certain he understood you would be supervised, and that attempts to harm you or take liberties with your person would not be permitted. I won’t allow that boy to take an inch with you, until he’s said his vows and made good on his father’s promises.”
“He wouldn’t.” I lift my chin, a little defiantly. “Pyotr is a gentleman.”
Salvatore’s eyes darken. “You have no understanding of the Bratva, Gia. Your father sheltered you, even if he did spoil you?—”
“I’m not spoiled,” I mutter, and Salvatore chuckles.
“You are a mafia princess, Gia.” There’s a hint of tenderness as he says my name, and I look up at him, seeing his expression soften slightly. “You were always going to be spoiled, one way or another. Your father allowed you to run a bit wild, and that was his prerogative. But it’s mine, now, to ensure you’re protected. That means letting me concern myself with your future, and how it’s handled. My interactions with the Bratva are not for you to worry about.”
“I’m the reason for the treaty.” I know I sound petulant, but I’m not entirely sure I care. “My choice to agree to this marriage is why there will be peace. And you’re meant to honor my father’s wishes, too,” I add, leveling my gaze at him. “He arranged this, and you know it. So you shouldn’t endanger it by being rude to my future husband.”
“Your future husband, indeed,” Salvatore muses. His gaze flicks to my right hand, holding the silver spoon still trailing through my soup. “Pyotr didn’t give you an engagement ring, did he?”
“You were there for the betrothal ceremony.” I shrug. “You saw the whole thing. It’s not their custom.”
“But it is ours.” Salvatore’s voice is even and cool. “It would have been a gesture of goodwill, for him to respect our customs and give his future bride a ring. But then again, I suppose the Bratva would see it as poor taste to give away a gem when they could profit off of it.”
I’m vaguely aware of what my godfather is getting at—the Lasilov family owns a number of foreign mines, not all of them operating strictly legally, most likely. But it’s not as if our family operates with any concern for the law, either. “Or I could respect theirs, and not expect one.”
