Bonds of Betrayal (Destructive Ties #2)

Prologue

ANIKA

One Year Ago

“Pyotr!” Warmth overflows from Anthony Burwick, billionaire business tycoon and host of the evening, as he spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture, parting the crowd of finely dressed guests to approach my husband.

The businessman’s brilliant, white-toothed smile splits his tanned face, which looks like he’s just returned from a month’s vacation on some remote Caribbean island.

The touch of gray at his temples is so perfectly placed that I almost wonder if he left it intentionally to make himself look more distinguished. The rest of his dark hair is most definitely colored.

Burwick’s striking, young model of the month approaches wordlessly beside him, her thick head of dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders to brush across the plunging neckline of her black sequin mermaid cocktail dress.

“Quite the party you’ve put on for a charity event, Anthony,” Pyotr says, the edge to his voice almost imperceptible as he turns on the charm.

But I sense the way he tenses beside me—something I’ve gotten much quicker at identifying over the past month as his wife—and my stomach knots as cold perspiration breaks out across the nape of my neck.

The heat of Pyotr’s irritation at being addressed so informally rolls off him in waves, intensifying my anxiety.

In public, my husband might be genial—gregarious even.

But I know from experience that his mood can shift in the blink of an eye, and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep a smile on my face now, despite the tremble that starts in my stomach.

But that’s what he expects me to do, and if I make Pyotr look bad at tonight’s gala, I know I’ll regret it later, so I do my best to mask the instinctual fear that surges through my veins.

“And this must be your beautiful new bride,” Harwick says, his eyes shifting to look me up and down with blatant appreciation. “I’m happy to see you’ve managed to find love again after Silvia’s passing. Her replacement certainly is a stunner.”

Don’t mind me. It’s not like Silvia’s replacement has a name or anything, I snipe internally, because even if Pyotr’s silenced my tongue, he hasn’t crushed my personality.

Still, I bite back the scathing retort because, in my world—the world that men like Pyotr Novikov dominate—this is just how men talk about women.

I’ve learned it’s better to keep my mouth shut and let my husband handle the conversation.

“It didn’t take you long to find a newer model, now did it?” Burwick’s business partner, John Hampton, asks, stepping into the conversation uninvited and grabbing Pyotr’s hand to shake it as soon as Burwick is done.

Pyotr gives a low chuckle that his clients might not realize borders on sinister—but I do.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife, Anika Novikov.” Pyotr places his hand on the small of my back, pushing me forward a step as he ignores Hampton’s slight.

The intimacy of my husband’s touch unleashes goosebumps along my spine, and I force my smile a shade brighter to hide the way my skin crawls. “It’s a privilege to meet two of Pyotr’s best customers,” I say, my cheeks warming as Hampton bends over my hand to press his lips to my knuckles.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Pyotr’s look of disapproval, and I snatch my hand away as quickly as I can without offending the businessman.

“You have some big shoes to fill,” Hampton says, his eyes glinting with unspoken amusement as they meet mine.

He’s saying it as much to provoke Pyotr as he is to undermine my place by his side—and it’s working.

I can feel Pyotr’s temper escalating, the air around him electric with the potential for violence.

After all, everyone knows the rumors surrounding Pyotr’s previous marriage.

Burwick tsks, shaking his head sadly. “Silvia was such a gem. What a tragic accident.”

By now, I’m quite familiar with the gossip as well—and the fact that Silvia wasn’t the first of Pyotr’s wives to meet a tragic and rather unexpected end.

A month ago, I would have fallen for my husband’s heartbreaking claim to be unlucky in love.

Twice.

Now, I’m more inclined to believe the tea behind his first two wives’ fates—the stories no one dares to tell in front of Pyotr.

Now, I know what really happens behind closed doors at the Novikov household.

“Anika, why don’t you get us another round?” Pyotr suggests, pressing his empty rocks glass into my palm with a pointed look.

“Yes, of course,” I agree, grateful to be excused from the volatile conversation.

Few men are brazen—or stupid—enough to tread on such dangerous territory with Pyotr, and I wonder if tonight might not end in a violent confrontation after all.

I sincerely hope not—for my sake as much as Hampton’s.

Not to mention the mortification that would cause at a charity gala.

Weaving my way through the crowd, I take what feels like my first full breath since I slipped into my cocktail dress at the start of the evening.

“Another chilled vodka, top shelf,” I order from the bartender, leaning against the edge of the bar as I set Pyotr’s cut-crystal tumbler before him. “And a glass of prosecco, please.” I need something to settle my nerves if I’m going to make it through the rest of this evening.

As the bartender chills the vodka, I turn back to watch the convention center ballroom full of guests.

The dance floor is alive with movement, decadently dressed women twirling in the arms of black-tie-attired men.

The live orchestra on the stage off to the side is playing a beautiful rendition of Tchaikovsky.

And across the room from them is a buffet spread fit for royalty.

Everything about this evening matches the life my parents promised me when they sold me to Pyotr.

Everything except the man I belong to.

A cold ball settles in the pit of my stomach as I wonder for the hundredth time if they knew.

Did they know the rumors before they sat down with the Novikovs? Did my father understand the man he was delivering me to as he walked me down the aisle?

I would like to think they didn’t.

But it’s hard to believe my parents could have been as naive as I was back then—and I haven’t spoken to them since.

“Your drinks, ma’am?” the bartender says, pushing them farther across the bartop to capture my attention.

“Thank you,” I murmur, pulling a bill from my pearl-beaded clutch and tucking it into his tip jar.

Then I collect the drinks and quickly turn to head back to Pyotr.

Only a towering wall of black-velvet muscle just so happens to be passing through the same place I stepped.

I gasp as we collide so unexpectedly that champagne sloshes from the tall flute, spattering the velvet suit jacket and splashing across my chest.

Miraculously, the vodka makes it through the crash intact, and I hold it up and away from us, sure Pyotr would be irritated if I spilled his drink as well.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, heat climbing into my cheeks as cold bubbly trickles between my breasts.

“It was entirely my fault,” the stranger says, his deep, rumbling baritone unleashing nervous butterflies in my stomach.

There’s something oddly familiar about his voice, though I don’t know any Italians well enough to claim I know this man.

It feels like my gaze takes days to travel up the length of his chest to find his face, and when I do, my heart skips a beat.

The man I ran into is massive in every sense of the word—tall, muscular, and looming with broad shoulders, a thick neck that his collar and tie seem barely able to contain, and a strong jaw colored by dark stubble that’s nearly crimson at the roots.

A thick head of black curls falls across his prominent brow and into his icy-blue eyes as he stares down at me, a slow smirk spreading across his lips.

I know Michelangelo Chiaroscuro by sight, though I’ve never met him.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have needed to lay eyes on him before to be confident that’s who this behemoth of a man is.

The eldest Chiaroscuro brother’s reputation precedes him—not just the fact that he’s the brutal, violent personal bodyguard to Chicago’s future Italian Don, but that he strikes fear in anyone who meets him.

He’s as intimidating as he is lethal.

And I just spilled prosecco all over his dinner jacket.

“Let me get you something for that,” I stammer, setting my drinks back on the bar with unnecessary force to grab a handful of cocktail napkins.

Heart in my throat, I press the paper squares to his lapels, trying to dab up my champagne.

“It’s fine, really,” he insists, his bear-paw-sized hands wrapping around mine to stop my pathetic attempt to fix the situation. “You’re the one wearing most of your drink.”

My heartbeat bursts into a sprint as he redirects my hands to my chest, his fingertips brushing the swells of my breasts as he uses the napkins I’m holding to dry me.

Something electric surges through my body, igniting a fire deep in my core.

A sharp breath rushes between my teeth as I freeze, my eyes jumping back to his face, and his amusement seems to grow as he releases me.

“Apologies,” he says, though the heat of his gaze would say he’s anything but sorry for the contact. “Are you okay?”

The question catches me off guard, maybe because it’s so far from how things would have ended if I’d spilled a drink on Pyotr, and my stomach flip-flops nervously.

“Yes, fine,” I say, dropping my gaze and mopping at my chest to hide my embarrassment—and my intense, inexplicable attraction to this man. I shouldn’t even be thinking of him like that.

I’m married, for God’s sake. Not to mention he’s part of a family that is notoriously hostile toward the Novikovs—a family to which I now belong.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Pyotr’s voice is like a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head, and if I thought the situation couldn’t get any more uncomfortable, it just did.

“It was an accident, Pyotr,” I insist. Setting the fistful of wet napkins on the bar, I snatch his drink and press it into his palm to occupy his hands.

Pyotr’s cold blue eyes flash as he huffs in disgust. “You pretty little idiot. You really think Michelangelo Chiaroscuro would accidentally grope my wife?” he asks, turning his scowl toward the man who somehow manages to supersede even my husband in size.

“No, I spilled—”

“Well, if it isn’t Signor Novikov.” The oily-smooth voice that cuts me off belongs to none other than Don Augusta himself—head of the Mafia family that rules Chicago’s criminal underbelly and Michelangelo’s father.

“And this must be your blushing young bride. I have to say, you’ve outdone yourself this time, Pyotr. She’s positively stunning.”

My pulse flutters as the Don’s dark gaze settles on me like a winter storm, his smile failing to meet his eyes.

“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, my dear,” he says as four more looming shadows come to stand behind Michelangelo and his father.

They form a daunting united front—Don Augusta and his five sons, all rippling with muscles beneath their fine Italian suits, contempt seeping from them like a thick fog.

“Such a pity we weren’t invited to the wedding,” the Don says. “I could easily take offense.”

His tone is light, playful even, but the underlying tension is palpable, and when I sneak a glance at the oldest Chiaroscuro brother, Michelangelo is no longer smiling.

Instead, a deep scowl darkens his features, making my stomach quiver with dread.

“After everything your family has done, you’re fortunate that anyone invites you to events like these,” Pyotr growls, his voice flat and deadly despite how low it is. “Come, Anika,” he commands, his fingers closing around my upper arm with bruising force. “We’re leaving.”

Swigging his drink in one gulp, he slams the glass down onto the bartop, then pulls me from the ballroom, his pace near impossible to keep up with in my four-inch strappy gold Louboutins.

I catch people watching us from the corner of my eye, aware that they’re curious about our quick departure, but no one steps in.

Why would they?

No one knows the man behind Pyotr’s saccharine smile.

And if they do, they know better than to risk their own skin trying to protect mine.

The limo pulls up as we make it down the convention center steps, and our driver gets out to open the door for us.

Pyotr pushes me ahead of him, and I scramble into the car, my heart pounding as I sense the storm brewing behind me.

The door shuts as the car rocks beneath Pyotr’s weight, and he glares at me as soon as he settles onto the seat beside me.

“What gives you the right to humiliate me like that?” he growls. “Flirting with one of the Chiaroscuro brothers…”

“I wasn’t,” I insist, my pulse thundering now. “It was an accident—”

Pyotr’s hand comes out of nowhere, his palm connecting with my cheek with stinging force, and my head snaps sideways as ringing fills my ears.

“Don’t lie to me again, Anika,” he warns, shoving a thick finger in my face as I cup my smarting cheek with my hand.

Tears burn my eyes as I cringe back against the fine leather of the bench seat. This is going to be a long, painful night.