3. Dimitri
3
DIMITRI
I ’ve just leaned across the bar to get my third vodka with lime for the night when someone taps me on the arm. I turn, expecting it to be Nicci Armand—the woman I’m here with tonight—and I’m startled to see my right-hand man Vik instead, the head of my security.
“ Ser , I need to talk to you. In private.”
I frown, giving the bartender a quick, grateful nod before breaking away with my drink in hand. Nicci is nowhere to be seen, which is a relief. This is only the third of a number of holiday parties I’m meant to attend this season—which means I’m supposed to be attending them with her —and I’m already exhausted with her company.
Which makes it worse that by the time the new year rolls around, I know I’m expected to have put a ring on her finger. She’s upset that I haven’t done it yet—I know that, too. Just as surely as I know that I’m stalling.
Why, I can’t be sure. I know the arrangements my father has made, and I know the inevitability of the match. But regardless, I keep putting off the moment of no return for as long as possible.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from the party,” Vik says apologetically, as he pulls me into a side room, flipping on the light and giving it a quick, visual once-over for any cameras.
“Don’t be,” I tell him flatly, leaning against the table in the center of the room as I take a sip of my drink. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll be less flippant when you hear.” Vik runs a hand over his short, bristly white-blond hair. “There’s been trouble in the east part of your territory in the city. A few businesses attacked. Looks like the Crows are up to their antics again. Someone reported seeing a few of their guys stopping by businesses, talking up the owners.” He pulls out a folded manila envelope from the inside of his jacket and tosses it onto the table, and I open it up, sliding out several grainy, dark photos.
It’s hard to make out exactly where these were taken, or who the business owners are—or even exact features of the gang members in the photo. But I can see the crude shape of the symbol on their vests, and I frown, irritated.
“How are they continuing to be such a pain in our asses? Put them down. They’re nothing but a jumped-up gang. They have no business in Bratva territory.”
“They have some connection to the Yakuza, I hear. Your father is concerned with making the kumichō angry, if that’s true. You know they have some territory bordering us. And occasionally they have to let our product slip through.”
“Then we need to find out if those rumors of connection are true,” I bite out. “If they’re trying to extort and cause trouble in our territory, then how does it look if we let it slide? Like a wolf with no teeth. Otets should know this.” My jaw tightens, years-long frustrations with my father threatening to rise to the surface. I’m his heir, but he doesn’t give me the authority he should. Meanwhile, he hesitates to act in almost every circumstance, weakening our position and what I stand to inherit.
Nicci is another example of that. If I were going to marry for business rather than desire, I would have chosen to try to make an alliance with one of the other, powerful families. One of the Italian daughters, or the Irish, or even another Bratva daughter from one of the families on the West Coast. But instead, my father has shoehorned me into a marriage with the daughter of one of his wealthy business associates, claiming that the marriage will bring more money into our empire and fund the endeavors that we’ve been trying to branch out into. Her family is Parisian money, highly wealthy, but not what I’d choose for an alliance.
I wouldn’t choose her for anything, frankly. My only consolation is that there’s no real expectation that I’ll be faithful in the marriage, or anything resembling a loving or present husband. Nicci knows as well as I do that the match is for money and status. But that bothers me, too—because deep down, if I did marry, I’d prefer that it be to someone I wanted to come home to every night. I can already charm my way into any bed that I please, I have no desire to add guilt to those exchanges. Secrecy has never added spice to sex for me.
But, as usual, I push that problem away to deal with at a later time. Right now, it appears, I have bigger problems.
“Do you have a list of businesses that were targeted tonight yet?” I ask, and Vik nods, pulling another sheet of paper out of the inner pocket of his jacket and handing it to me.
There’s three—a credit union, a bakery, and a clothing boutique. The moment I see the boutique— Pearls and Lace— and the owner’s name under it, I pause.
I hadn’t known the name of the business, but I would recognize the woman’s name listed next to it anywhere. I haven’t forgotten it since her best friend called it out, just after I’d caught the woman when she nearly fell on an icy sidewalk outside the Met.
Evelyn Ashburn.
I looked for her after that night. All I had was a first name and an occupation, and in a place like New York City, that isn’t actually all that much to go off of. But I also have connections, and I wasn’t above using them to find out who the woman that enchanted me that night at the Met was.
I found out her full name, easily. It was on the guest list for the party that night. But shortly after that, my father announced his machinations to arrange a relationship between myself and Nicci, one that I tried to dodge for months before finally accepting the inevitability. I’d been distracted, and then once the dust settled, I knew there was no point in looking for Evelyn further. From that one meeting, I garnered that she isn’t the type of woman to agree to be a man’s mistress, and I wouldn’t insult her by asking.
Now, the first thing I feel, when I see her name on the slip of paper Vik handed me, is elation. And then I instantly feel guilty, because I’m only seeing this on account of her business having been targeted. Targeted, specifically, by an organization out to hassle me and my family.
I need to find a way to make this right.
Selfishly, I know it’s because it gives me a reason to go and find her—even save her, once again. I’ve barely even glanced at who the other two businesses belong to, and I can’t make myself focus on them long enough to take in more than the cursory information. My mind is filled with thoughts of Evelyn last year—the way her curves felt in my arms when I caught her, the orange and clove scent of her perfume, the softness of her hair when it fell across my arm. The shape of her back under my hand, as I danced with her.
The way she so blatantly refused me, shrugging off my attempts to charm her, and disappearing into the night. I can’t remember any woman ever having done that. Sex and pleasure has always come to me as easily as breathing, to the point that all of the women who have found their way into and out of my bed have begun to blur together.
But Evelyn didn’t come easily. She didn’t come at all. She left me on that dance floor, assured me that we would never see each other again, and disappeared into the night.
Was it really a year ago? I hadn’t realized that time had passed so quickly. But looking down at the paper, I’m seized with an inescapable need to go and find out exactly what has happened to Evelyn’s business. To go and find her .
“Call the car around, Vik,” I tell him abruptly. “We’re going to go look into this.”
“Of course, ser . I recommend we go and see the damage done to the credit union first, I believe we have a few accounts?—”
“I want to go and see the boutique.” My voice is clipped, abrupt, and I can see that I’ve startled Vik.
“The—”
“Just get the car. I need to tell Nicci I’m leaving.” My jaw tightens just at the thought—she’s not going to be happy about it. But right now, all I can think about is seeing what damage the Crows have done to my territory.
And what damage they’ve done to Evelyn.
The minute I emerge from the room, Vik peeling off to one side to go deal with the car, I see Nicci headed in my direction, her honey-blonde hair coming loose from its updo. She’s wearing an emerald green gown made of some sparkly material, sheer sleeves draped off of her shoulders, and she looks monumentally irritated with me.
Which isn’t actually a surprise, given that that’s how she looks at me more often than not.
“Dimitri. Where did you go? I had someone I wanted to introduce you to. One of my father’s associates, here in the States for the holidays. He’s eager to meet you, he came here tonight specifically?—”
“I’m leaving. I have business.” I’m well aware that I could have softened the blow, but just now I’m too impatient to do so. What’s the worst that could happen? She refuses to marry me? The relief I would feel at that would be palpable. But it isn’t going to happen.
Nicci’s face instantly falls, and then the irritation returns full force. “There are guests waiting to talk to you, Dimitri. One in particular. This party is all about connections, for you, for me—” she trails off, clearly seeing the set expression on my face. “Are you going to go see some other woman?” she demands, and for the first time in my life, I feel a flash of guilt about exactly that.
Technically, I’m leaving to deal with business. But I’m well aware that my urgency has a great deal to do with who , exactly, owns that business.
“There’s been an attack in the Bratva territory,” I tell her curtly. “I’m going to deal with it.”
“Oh.” Her demeanor changes, her irritation softening, a slight flush in her pale cheeks. She likes when I play the part of the brutal Bratva heir, I know that—she likes what she’s marrying into. I can see it every time she asks me about my work, about what it takes to control a territory like part of Manhattan. The thought of me going out into the city to handle business turns her on, and if I hadn’t been dodging her bed for months by telling her that it didn’t suit the seriousness of our arrangement to not wait for the wedding night, I’d be in for one hell of a ride when I get back tonight.
But the thought of that does nothing for me. On the other hand, the memory of thick black curls and orange spiced perfume?—
“Give my regrets,” I tell her curtly. “There will be other parties, Nicci.”
She steps forward, clearly expecting a kiss or some kind of farewell, but I’m already pivoting, heading to where I know Vik is waiting with the car. I hear the click of her heels as she starts to walk away, the sharp staccato telling me exactly what her mood is, but I’m already thinking about what I’ll find when we go into the city.
I drum my fingers against my leg with nervous anticipation as we drive, Vik sitting up front with the driver, me in the back. The city is awash with holiday light, meant to bring cheer and joy, but I’ve never felt more Scrooge-like than I do this year. My father has been more difficult than ever, and I know with every day that passes I can’t keep putting off going to look for a ring for Nicci. I’ll need to buy one, because I’m well aware that my late mother’s ring won’t do for her. I’d thought, being French, that she’d have an appreciation for a fine piece of vintage jewelry, passed down through the family, but her style runs modern and sleek, and neither of those describe my mother’s ring.
I still don’t know what will be done with it. I’ll pass it on to my daughter, maybe, if I have one, or to a son to give to his future bride. Not for the first time, I think of my younger brother, Alek, gone without a trace. Even after years of looking, we still haven’t uncovered what happened to him. I doubt he’s alive, and I’ve long since come to terms with it. But I can’t help but think he might have liked to hold onto it for a future bride, if he were still here.
As it is, the ring will stay in the safe deposit box where it’s been locked away for some time, until someone has a use for it.
The car slows, turning down one side street and then another, into a slightly less wealthy part of the city. The buildings are smaller, a lot of preserved historic structures turned into shops and apartments. And halfway down the street, I can see what we’re looking for.
The sign outside is illegible now, half-burned. Smoke is drifting through the broken windows—it’s clear that the fire department has come and gone, and what’s left are the ashes.
“Stop here,” I tell the driver. “On the side street, there.”
The car turns down a small street that’s little more than an alley, and as the driver parks, I motion to Vik. “Come with me. Leave the car running,” I add to the driver. “Just in case there’s trouble.”
I can smell the acrid scent from the fire as we walk briskly down the sidewalk, Vik staying close behind me. The smell makes my eyes water as we get closer, and as I reach the shattered windows and door of the boutique, I see a woman inside, her back to me as she leans down. She picks up what looks like the remnants of a piece of fabric, and I think I hear a soft sob as it falls from her hand, back down to the floor.
The sound tugs at my chest. I step forward, broken glass crunching beneath my shoes, and the woman straightens instantly, whirling to face me with a look of alarm.
Her eyes are red and her cheeks are streaked with soot and tears, but I recognize her instantly. How could I not, when I’ve thought about her at least a hundred times, since I danced with her this time last year?
The woman in front of me is, without a doubt, Evelyn Ashburn.