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“Can I have a look at those clothes?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course,” Ania says.
I don’t tell her I’ll be looking for something that will hopefully make me more attractive than the competition. Then that thought pisses me off. Who am I competing with? Who am I competingfor?
I’m supposed to be happy on my own and able to handle anything that comes my way. Ultimately, I choose a simple shirt and a pair of jeans.
CHAPTER 11
DIMITRI
“Your father collapsed in his office,” Angelo, our primary police contact, says over the phone. “His illness caught up with him, and he collapsed. That’s what the official records show.”
I remember the video call and the spatters of blood on the ceiling. “Thank you,” I tell him.
“The last thing we need is the Sokolovs losing control.”
I don’t mention the marriage pact or the fact Nikolai Petrov is sniffing around. If the cops knew Nikolai was trying to make inroads into Vegas through me, they’d probably be less willing to help. At least now we don’t have to worry about the wider world knowing.
After the phone call, I step into the large dining room. Mikhail is already sitting at the table, typing quickly on his phone. He glances up when he hears me enter.
“I don’t know how you can see past all that hair.”
He smirks and brushes his floppy hair aside. “It’s called style, brother.”
“Clean and efficient, that’s enough style for me.”
“Yeah, true, you are the GI Joe of the family.”
I laugh grimly, then sit down. “Where are the others?”
“Mila’s getting ready, I think,” Mikhail says. “Ania said she’s bringing Lia over soon.”
“Thanks, Mikhail,” I say out of the blue.
“Huh?”
“For giving Mila something to do.”
“It’s not charity,” Mikhail says. “She’s really helping us.”
Before I can reply, Yuri knocks on the door. “Sirs, dinner will be ready in roughly thirteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Yuri,” I say.
“Roughlythirteen minutes? Make that make sense.”
Less than a minute later, Mila walks into the room wearing a dress that looks fairly expensive. She stands awkwardly at the table’s edge, and Mikhail stares at me. I get it. They want to know where my so-called bride-to-be is going to sit.
I don’t want Lia to see us sitting beside each other, so I gesture across the table to Mikhail’s side. “You can choose your own seat, Mila,” I say.
She walks around the table and sits down, leaving one chair between her and Mikhail.
“Does my brother stink?” I say, laughing.
“I thought it might look bad,” Mila mutters. “If our guest sees your future wife sitting beside your brother…”
“We can trust our guest,” I say. “She already knows this marriage is a sham.”
