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“No shellfish,” my father replies evenly. “Where did you meet this woman?”
“Randomly.”
“At?”
“A bakery.”
“You hate sweets.”
“But I love coffee.”
He hums. “I can’t wait to meet her. See you then.” I pull the phone from my face as I hear him add, “Benedikt… if this is some fake relationship to get to the Volkov Bratva… I’ll kill her and make you watch.”
Then he hangs up.
I lower the phone slowly, exhaling through my nose, forcing my pulse to steady.
Nikolai is getting out. My father’s favorite son. A wild card with no impulse control. A man who kills because he likes it, not because he needs to. No matter how much I’ve built, I know what this means.
If my father decides to hand the Bratva back to him, there won’t be a conversation.
This is why I already have a backup plan, but I’d like to stay with what I built over something that will take time to roll out.
My thumb taps against the back of my phone as I think about what I have to do next.
What I have to tell Artem we’re doing.
Sienna Graves is my answer. My leverage.
And my soon-to-be wife.
6
Sienna
The restaurant is too quiet.
It’s the kind of quiet that makes my skin itch, because there’s no way in hell a place this nice is this empty during lunch hour.
I guess things work differently when you’re Benedikt Volkov.
It’s my fault for allowing him to choose the place because I couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t make him stick out like a sore thumb.
Sitting across from him, I try not to fidget as I stir my water with the straw.
He looks perfectly at ease, leaning back in his seat like he owns the place. He’s in a perfectly pressed black suit, a black undershirt, and black everything else.
Not one pop of color.
“This is nice,” I say to break the silence. “Did you reserve the entire place, or does everyone just conveniently disappear when you show up?”
“I prefer privacy.”
“Right.” I glance around while he plucks his glass of vodka. “Very private. Totally normal.”
He’s watching me with an unreadable expression. It’s infuriating how calm he is while I am seconds away from unraveling.
“You bake every morning,” he states.
