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Tonight, he wears a suit like it was sewn onto him. He carries himself with relaxed confidence, a strange quality for someone supposedly among enemies. Perhaps his two men—who stand guard at the door behind him—have him covered.
Enzo greets him with a warmth so carefully measured that it could be weighed on a gram scale. Then Viktor’s eyes find me and narrow. When Enzo identifies me as Marco’s fidanzata, Viktor bares all his teeth.
“I heard that Marco was keeping company with a doctor.” The faintest trace of a Russian accent curls around his words. “How charming that a man in Marco’s line of work would choose someone who heals for a living.”
The entire table settles into silence. Everyone has turned my way, but my attention stays locked on Viktor. Though he doesn’t say the words aloud, I can almost read his mind.
I know who you are, Doctor. I know what you saw. And I’m reminding you that I know.
Marco lifts his hand from my thigh to rest it over mine on the table.
“Thank you, Viktor.” Marco offers a pristine smile. “Variety is the spice of life, no?”
Viktor nods, his grin widening again as he raises his glass. “To variety and love.”
Once the whole table responds to his toast, he takes his seat.
For the rest of the evening, Viktor talks business with Enzo as though we’re at a corporate retreat, and the rest of the table chatters on.
I catalogue Viktor’s tells like I do symptoms. His left hand, which stays flat against the table, never fully settles. I detect a fractional pause in his speech before statements that come out too smooth, as though he carefully selects which version to serve with the wine.
Under the table, Marco’s fingers lace through mine. When Viktor’s gaze slides toward us, Marco’s thumb presses against my knuckles, the gesture timed perfectly.
When a set of flutters buzz in my belly, I give myself another reminder.
He’s doing this for the scrutinizing audience. It’s all a protective, possessive performance.
When I squeeze his hand back, I add a mental note that I did it only because the role demands it, but I can’t ignore how much steadier I feel with my hand in his.
Toward the end of dinner, Viktor pivots in his seat and fixes his eyes on me, staying conversational and pleasant. “Have you been enjoying your new accommodations? Found anything interesting to keep yourself busy with? I presume that you’re on leave from the hospital.”
The room stills, and I don’t need to turn my head to know that ten pairs of eyes are locked on me.
I meet his gaze over a sea of candlelight and crystal. “I’ve been taking the time to catch up on some reading I’ve been putting off.”
It’s technically true. I was researching organized crime mortality rates and the average life expectancy of seemingly invincible mafia men all afternoon.
“Amazing.” Viktor chuckles. “How industrious.” He lifts his glass and tilts his head in my direction. “To the doctor. May she stay safe and happy in her new home.”
If Viktor’s plan is delivering the most threatening toast in a warm tone, then the chill crawling down my spine is proof he’s succeeded.
No one says anything more, and everyone drinks. So do I, because the alternative would be letting him see that his threat landed.
Back in Marco’s quarters, the silence is different and less performative. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the pillow boundary I established earlier while imagining a geopolitical border rather than a decorative cushion on a mattress.
Somehow, I’ve found myself fake-engaged to a mafia enforcer. I now live in a compound that hosted a Russian crime boss for dinner. My life might be in danger. And yet, my brain keeps circling around how Marco’s hand felt in mine.
The bathroom door opens, and he steps out with damp hair and a towel slung low on his hips. His arrogance should infuriate me, and to a degree, it does. I refuse to acknowledge how irritatingly handsome he looks fresh from the shower.
He doesn’t ask about my concerns, but he studies my face for a long time. Then he nods toward the bed where my pillow barrier still holds the center line. “Get some rest. Whatever your worries, they’ll keep until morning.”
With that, he switches off the overhead light. Only the lamp on his side of the bed stays illuminated. He lies on top of the covers with his hands folded over his chest, his gaze fixed above him.
I want to ask him why he didn’t warn me about Viktor Volkov joining us for dinner—and ask how he personally knows the man—but a part of me understands that it was all done to show the Bratva I’m under Benedetti protection.
Instead of arguing, I slip into his gray t-shirt in the bathroom, keeping both my bra and panties on. The fabric carries Marco’s scent, clean soap with cedar woven underneath, and it wraps around me like an embrace.
Wordlessly, I climb into bed. As I’m drifting off, Marco’s voice cuts through the stillness.
