Page 2 of Marrying the Savage

“You’ll stand to my left during the family portraits,” he says. “It’s better for my profile.”

I stare at him. “Your profile.”

“Yes.”

“At our wedding.”

“Our wedding will be viewed by many important people, Sofia. Appearances matter.”

“Of course. I would hate for peace between two Bratva families to collapse because your jawline had a bad angle.”

My uncle exhales through his nose. It’s the closest he ever comes to begging God for help.

Dmitri only gives me that tolerant look again, the one that makes my fingers itch to throw something expensive. “You make jokes because you’re nervous,” he says.

I raise a brow. I’m surprised he can even make an observation.

A waiter appears at exactly the wrong moment. Poor man. His hand trembles slightly as he pours more wine into my glass. I want to tell him not to worry, that if anyone dies at this table today, it will probably be me from boredom.

Instead, I give him a sympathetic smile.

He vanishes almost immediately. Smart man.

Very smart man.

My uncle finally speaks. “Dmitri is trying to include you in the planning.”

I turn to him. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

His eyes harden. “Careful.”

I know that look. I have grown up under that look.

After my parents died, my uncle became my guardian. My protector. My keeper. Eventually, he became my jailer too, though everyone prefers prettier words.

Family.

Duty.

Honor.

Legacy.

Men like my uncle can dress a cage in silk and still act offended when the bird notices the bars.

Dmitri rests one arm along the back of his chair. “You’ll understand after the wedding. Women often resist structure before they learn to appreciate it.”

I stare at him. Really stare at him.

For a moment, all the clever things I could say gather at the back of my tongue, each one fighting for the honor of being the comment that finally gets me removed from the restaurant. But the astonishing thing about Dmitri is that sometimes his arrogance is so pure, so untouched by self-awareness, that mockery feels unnecessary. He’s already doing a perfect job humiliating himself.

“Dmitri,” I say gently, “has anyone ever told you that you speak like a motivational poster in a dictatorship?”

My uncle closes his eyes.

Dmitri frowns. “You think disrespect makes you interesting,” he says.

“I don’t think I’m being disrespectful at all,” I say. “I was making an observation, just like you.”