Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance - Page 70

He chuckles and grabs my hand. He holds it tight and bites my thumb. “You can tell me what you think, princess. From now on, just be straight.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Now. I have to punish you for trying to trick me into agreeing with you.”

“Oh, really? You have to?”

“No other choice.”

“Ah, truly a sacrifice you’re willing to make.”

“You’ve been bad.” He grins and kisses my wrist. “Extremely bad.”

“Sounds like you’re really reaching for an excuse to spank me.”

“I don’t need excuses when I have your eager and willing consent.”

“I never said—” But I don’t finish that sentence, because he rolls me over and slaps my ass hard.

I gasp in surprise and he smothers me with his mouth, and he’s right, he has me, all of me.

Chapter 21

Maxim

Mother smiles at me over her cup of tea. “When was the last time we did this, Maxim?”

The cafe proprietor lingers nearby, watching like a hawk ready to swoop in and offer whatever we might like—small cookies, more drinks, an assortment of fine vodkas from his personal stash. He’s a bratva man, one of the many businesses we help support through semi-legal means. We’re affiliated with a string of shops like this all over the city in a myriad of different industries, from car repair to carpet cleaning, each of them beholden to our network in some particular way. My father likes to act as though our muscle is the backbone of the bratva—but I know it’s these businesses.

The room’s comfortable, filled with tchotchkes on shelves, little reminders of Russia like nesting dolls and small silver trays and painted eggs. The tables are a dark lacquered walnut and the chairs are draped in red velvet. It’s the most exclusive cafe in the whole city, with elaborate tea service and intricate pastries piles high atop sterling silver plates, and normally, appointments are booked out for weeks. We were able to walk in and be seated immediately.

“It’s been too long, Mother,” I admit. My voice is almost swallowed in the heavy carpet and curtains. Other groups sit nearby, but we’re tucked away in a back corner at my favorite table beneath a large oil portrait of Lenin with his ruddy cheeks and revolutionary eyes. I despise the man, but he’s Russia.

“Remember when we did this once a week? Your father said I was spoiling you, bringing you here. But you loved all the different teas.”

“That’s because Jasha would spike the pot with vodka.”

Mother clucked her tongue and shook her head. “He would never.”

“He would, but he didn’t.”

“Jasha’s a good boy. So is Feliks, and so are you.” She smiles at me over her cup. “But I suppose a good boy can also love vodka.”

I laugh gently and shift in my chair. I wave at the proprietor and ask him for some more cookies, the special ones with the dark chocolate my mother likes. She gives me a slight frown—those cookies don’t actually exist as far as either of us knows—but the man simply nods and walks off like he’s sure of what I’m talking about.

“That’ll keep him busy for a bit,” I say softly, looking back at her.

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re becoming a true bratva man, Maxim.”

“I’ve had to.” Which is true. My life’s been one long trial by fire. “But while we have a few minutes of privacy, I need to ask you about something.”

“Anything,” she says and tilts her head quizzically.

I have a strange knot in my stomach. I don’t remember the last time I was nervous to speak with my mother this way. I love my family, even if I am an outsider living among them, and my mother’s always been the closest thing to a true parent I’ve ever had. She loves me, truly loves me, and I cherish that very much.

“It’s been four weeks since Siena came to live with us.”

“It’s been that long already?” She frowns slightly. “I hadn’t even noticed. She’s like a regular fixture at dinner already.”

I nod and take a long sip. Siena has fit right into our evening meal. She jokes with Galina and Emiliya, teases Jasha, and even verbally spars with Feliks. His intense dislike of her has abated somewhat. Even Father seems charmed by her—sometimes.

Things are good. Extremely good. I don’t want to change them, but there’s a timer hanging over my head and I can’t wait much longer. Not after Siena’s brother visited.

“There’s something I haven’t told you. I brought Siena home as my mistress, but I also made a deal with her father.” I clear my throat and sip the tea. The heat bolsters some of my confidence and I push forward. “I promised that I would marry her.”

Mother’s eyes go wide. She slowly places her cup down. The proprietor appears, hurrying over with cookies dripped in dark chocolate on a plate—where the hell did he get those from?—and Mother waves him off.

Tags: B.B. Hamel Dark
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