Page 26 of Brutal Vows

She blinks at me, lips pursed.

Oh, I hit the bull’s eye with that one. “Which is it going to be, princess?”

13

MILANA

I’ve married the family clown. The jester.

I swear to God, Luca takes nothing seriously. He’s sidestepped my question about money and hinted—through two stupid romcom movies—that he knows exactly what’s behind my money question. And then, to seal the deal, told me I’ll be hunted, fugitive-style, if I actually manage to get away.

Ivan. I curse under my breath. My brother must have said something to Luca about keeping me stateside at all costs. There’s a whole prologue to this marriage that I didn’t get to read, the quiet deals men make over whiskey or vodka as they discuss women, shifting us around on their little chessboard.

Luca isn’t giving me a direct answer and I can’t stomach it. I’ve come full circle and am back in the same position with him as I was with Ivan—and that after I married the guy.

I stare out at the black ink of the ocean, a beautiful and inviting velvet death if I could just take the plunge. Fuck them all with a nice little plot twist. When you’re dead, you don’t need money. I bet my husband would fish me out like a bedraggled, half-drowned rat, pat me dry, and prop me up for a happy photoshoot to prove that I’m alive and well. Safe, Gabriella’s status chained to mine. For a fleeting second, my thoughts flood with Gabi and what Ivan’s expectations are for her. Gosh, how is their wedding night going? I bet my brother has knocked her up already.

The tension between me and Luca grows as we just glare at each other, my phone clenched in my hand. All I want is to call Masha. After days of hearing nothing from her, she finally let me know she’s back in Saint Petersburg. I desperately want to check in with her, even if it’s two o’clock in the morning on that side.

She was awake, sending me that message. She said she’s safely back home, but I don’t trust messages. Ever since a drone dropped that envelope with the photos of her into Ivan’s hands days ago, my anxiety has spiked to new levels. I need to hear her voice to be sure she’s okay.

Instead, I’m going to have dinner and engage in a battle of witty banter with my husband, who talks in concise circles.

“Think about the movie you want to watch over dinner, princess, and we’ll take it from there,” he says when I don’t respond.

His words are a clear warning, but he steps closer and brushes a hand over my hip to my lower back, nudging me in the direction of the main cabin where dinner is waiting. It’s the first time he’s touched me since I met him on the deck, and the gesture is quietly sensual, contradicting the implication of his words. It’s also somewhat possessive, just as I craved, and a tingle rides down my spine as the heat of his hand spreads over my skin. At this rate, I won’t be able to resist him long-term.

Everything about him has been the opposite of my expectations, and I’m floundering, not knowing how to play him. Not yet. Every man has his weakness, and I’ll find Luca Scalera’s soon enough. Patience is something I have in spades, and with the need to reach out to Masha foremost in my mind, it’s easy to shrug off my husband’s evergreen allure.

In the main cabin, one side of the twelve-seater table is romantically set for two with a white tablecloth, sparkling silverware, and crystal goblets. The steward is on standby and the chef hovers, eager to serve his dishes before they spoil.

Hurry up and wait. It’s freaking exhausting, but there’s no point in resisting any of this, even if frustration simmers in me. I need to go with the flow for now. Once we’re in Boston, I’ll take up my mission again.

Luca pulls out my chair, the perfect gentleman. As he sits next to me, there’s a sparkle in his eye.

“So, you’re a professional pianist,” he says, opening the blind-date conversation.

“Supposedly,” I say, watching as the steward presents the wine for Luca to taste, then pours two glasses.

Fuck my life. This is going to be Michelin-star level of service with a fucking wine pairing and six courses that’s going to drag on until my soul is spread on this table like roadkill. Give me ramen in my cabin right now and I’ll be as happy as a pig in the mud.

“Supposedly? What does that mean?”

I stare at him. “Let’s just say being born into a crime ring, being a Bratva princess,” I say in a mocking tone, “limits what a woman can do. I don’t really perform and have only been able to do a few recordings.” Even though everybody thought I would be the next Fryderyk Chopin Piano Competition or Van Cliburn International Piano Competition winner, but I couldn’t enter either. I wouldn’t dare.

“That could change, if you want. You’re a Scalera now.”

“I don’t see how anything has changed for me.” His non-committal answer to my financial situation is the obvious case in point. “This”—I wave at the opulence of his yacht—“was built, from my understanding, with the exact same bricks as the Bratva heritage I’m from.”

He shifts in his seat. “We’ve phased out a lot of the businesses our Don was involved in. We have several very profitable and legal businesses now.”

“I see.” And yet, his security has been as intense as Ivan’s, spelling out they have enemies. I’m not buying into anything being above board, but we’re making small talk now. I need to keep it going, if only for my own sanity. So, for the sake of the conversation, I try to be pleasant and push Masha and my whole world in Russia to the side. “What type of businesses?”

The waiter presents two plates of delicate salad with shrimp and a frothy foam dressing and Luca waits for him to move away from the table.

“You really want to know?”

“If I’m allowed to know.”