She swallowed. “I’m a single woman now.”
“Are you?” I didn’t know why that question came out like a threat.
She flicked a hesitant gaze to me. “Yes. He probably wants to remedy it.”
I knew at that moment she’d never marry another goddamn man but me. And she wouldn’t marry me. “And if he does?”
“I told you, I won’t ever marry again.”
She would leave. The life, the city, me.
The irrational thought that I wouldn’t be able to find her sent an icy rush of panic through me. And I could find fucking anyone.
I’d never let her leave.
I didn’t care if I had to handcuff the little fugitive to my headboard.
The vow seared itself through my body, settling itself deep, and calmed the rush of blood in my veins.
She sat on the chair opposite me and flipped open a fashion magazine. “How are you going to explain why you’re with me?”
You’re mine. And I go where you go.
“No one will question me.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out.
Aleksandra: Father wants to have dinner soon.
Frustration ran through me. Sergei would only talk to me through his daughter. I was surprised he hadn’t paraded her naked in front of me and offered to let me fuck her yet, as motivated as he seemed about this alliance. He wanted to dip his hands in the American underworld while still maintaining his traditional Russian values, and, apparently, a tie with me was the way to do it.
The Russian government had upped regulations on border security, and Sergei just happened to have most of that security in his pocket. I didn’t give a shit about Russian politics anymore, but unfortunately, the only relative I had left did.
After being released from the overcrowded cells of Butyrka at nineteen, I’d come to the States, while Ronan chose to stay in Moscow as a measly enforcer in the Bratva. Fifteen years later, he owned his own empire. But he still had a more hands-on approach to getting what he wanted, while delegation—and a bit of manipulation—was a better fit to win over Sergei Popov.
I texted Aleksandra back to tell her I was free on Friday and then slid my phone in my pocket. When I drew my attention back to Gianna, it was to see her chewing her lip, her olive complexion a shade paler.
She was scared of her papà.
It sent a rush of anger through me.
The only one she should be nervous of was me.
“Voy kak volk, malyshka.” Howl like a wolf.
Her soft eyes flicked to me. They burned a small hole in my chest.
“Voy kak volk,” she whispered.
She’d said it right.
And I suddenly knew I was going to keep her.
I hadn’t set foot in a church in years. And not even because I thought I’d be smote down where I stood, but because they were either too hot, too dusty, or too pretentious. The magnanimous atmosphere practically swallowed you whole when you entered, yet not a single church had ever fed me a scrap of food when I was thirteen, starving, and humbling myself enough to beg.
Gianna’s family nearly knocked her over with hugs and a ridiculous number of kisses as soon as we stepped into the church. She was flushed, wearing a genuine smile I never got from her. One of her aunts glanced at me, fanned herself vigorously with her wedding program, and then looked at Gianna and mouthed, “Madonna.”
Gianna sighed and glanced at me. “This is . . . ah—”