Chapter 48
Maksim
Four Months Later
“Idon’t want to go.”
Ayla’s voice cuts through the bedroom like a thrown knife. I pause mid-cufflink, glance up and stare at her standing by the closet in nothing but blue underwear and a scowl.
Here we go again.
Ever since she’s been made mine, made the Pakhan’s queen, she’s developed an impressive habit of barking orders at me like she runs the fucking Bratva.
I don’t want to do that.
I’m not wearing this.
Tell them no.
Now she’s standing there with her arms folded over her chest, glaring at me like I personally invented Angelo Amato’s wedding celebration just to ruin her life.
Half the time I want to pin her to the wall and remind her who’s in charge. The other half…I like it. Too much.
I exhale through my nose. “It’s Angelo’s wedding, Beda. We have to go.”
“Aren’t they already married?”
“Technically, yes. This is the celebration.”
She narrows her eyes.
“And if I don’t go,” I add, turning to face her, “I’ll have missed yet another major Amato family event, and those Italians are emotional enough without Angelo pouting on top of you pouting.”
“I’m not pouting,” she snaps. “I have cramps. There’s a difference. And you’re going to try to make me wear a dress and heels, and I don’t want to wear that.”
Cramps.
That takes some of the fight out of me.
Ayla throws herself onto the bed with all the grace of a wounded queen and lands dramatically in the middle of the sheets, one arm flung over her face.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
There was a time she never would’ve done this in front of me. Never would’ve let herself be this unguarded. This sharp, pouty, dramatic version of her is something she only lets me see, and the fact that she does, does something dark and possessive to my chest.
I move to the bed and sit beside her, sliding an arm around her waist.
My hand brushes her lower stomach.
She peeks at me from under her arm. “Don’t.”
I rub lightly anyway, feeling the tension there. “I know you’re going through—”
“Don’t say it.”
I huff a laugh. “Fine. I know you’re going through something right now.”
“That is not the problem.”
“Maybe not, but it isn’t helping.”
She grumbles something under her breath that sounds like an insult.
I ignore it.
“If you really don’t feel up to it,” I say, still rubbing slow circles over her stomach, “I guess I’ll just go by myself.”
Her arm drops from her face immediately.
She glares at me. “Wait. Are you trying to pity me?”
“Just a little.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You’re my plus one, you have to fucking go!”
Her mouth falls open. “Damn it. I knew it. I knew you weren’t actually going to let me stay.” She sits up fast, glaring. “I want to stay home.”
“Ayla, no.”
She groans like I’ve told her I’m taking her to execution. “Then I’m not wearing heels.”
“You’re wearing heels.”
“No.”
“Yes. Everyone will be wearing heels.”
She folds her arms again. “Everyone will be wearing heels?”
“The women will be wearing heels, Ayla.”
She looks me up and down. “You should try those stupid, uncomfortable feet manglers.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
Then the corner of her mouth twitches.
I exhale through my nose. “Ayla.”
“Maksim.”
“Put on the fucking heels.”
She flops back dramatically again. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She turns her head to glare at me. “Is your sister going to be there?”
“Katya? No, she’s not close to Adriana.”
“No the other one. The one who looks at me like I’m dirt under her shoe.”
“Yes, Vasilisa will be there.”
“Great,” she mutters. “Wonderful. That sounds like exactly what I want while I’m bleeding and angry.”
“Vasilisa was more angry with me then she was with you that day.”
“She’s still angry at you,” she grumbles.
I stare at her. She glares at me.
Then, with a perfectly straight face, she says, “You know what? Fine. I’ll just drink. I’ll drink away all my problems. I’ll drink away these cramps. I’ll drink away my anger.”
“Or,” I say, dry, “we go in, make an appearance, and leave.”
She squints at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Her suspicion deepens. “You swear?”
“I actually have shit to do, so yes. We make an appearance, stay long enough not to offend anyone, and then we leave.”
She studies me for a second, then props herself up on her elbows. “Why do you care so much anyway?”
I lean back slightly, looking down at her. “Because I wasn’t there for their father passing.”
Her face shifts.
“We were in Russia,” I say. “And I didn’t make an appearance after.”
“You still sent men to help save Adriana.”
“That was more her brother’s doing, thanks to the alliance, but yes.”
“Fucking alliance. Stupid Sovereigns.”
My jaw tightens. “The alliance is necessary.”
Her expression hardens immediately. “I still don’t understand why. Our men are more than capable.”
“The Sovereigns were set in stone long before you, Ayla.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know it landed wrong.
Her face closes.
She sits up fully now and swings her legs off the bed. “Right. Of course. Everything was before me.”
“Not everything.”
She stands, grabs her dress off the chair, and stalks toward the bathroom.
“Ayla.”
She keeps walking.
“Don’t slam the—”
She slams the bathroom door so hard the walls practically shake.
I drag a hand down my face and stare at the wood for a long second.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
When she comes back out, I forget every coherent thought I’ve ever had.
The dress clings in all the right places, backless, dark and sinful against her skin. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, the faded red at the ends catching the light. She stands there looking like trouble carved into silk.
Fuck.
I cross the room before I can stop myself.
My fingers catch the ends of her hair, rubbing the faded strands between them. “We should redo this.”
She eyes me in the mirror. “The red?”
“It’s fading.”
“You picked it last month, told you it would fade quick.”
“I know.” I let the strands slip through my fingers. “When this fades all the way, we should do blue again. You like blue.”
One brow lifts. “You should do pink.”
I bark out a laugh. “Pink.”
“Yes. Pink.”
“I’ve done pink before.”
“I think it would suit you.”
“You don’t even like pink.”
She shrugs. “I like it on you.”
That does something annoyingly warm to my insides. I lean down and kiss her.
Once. Twice.
Then lower, my mouth brushing her jaw, her throat.
She pushes at my chest. “No.”
I kiss the side of her neck again. “No?”
“We do not have time for this.”
“We can make time.”
“I have cramps.”
I lift my head and look at her. “You’re using that as a weapon now.”
She narrows her eyes.
I smirk. “You know I don’t have an issue with blood.”
Her face twists in immediate disgust. “I feel gross.”
“You’re not.”
She grabs her heels and drops onto the edge of the bed to put them on.
I reach for my tie, looping it around my neck.
Her gaze flicks up. “Oh, you’re wearing a tie.”
“For today.”
She smiles, slow and wicked. “I like it. Maybe you should wear that to bed.”
I look at her over the knot. “I thought you had cramps.”
She slaps my shoulder as she passes me. I catch her wrist as she moves by, pull her in just long enough to steal one more kiss, then let her go.
“Come on, Beda,” I murmur. “Let’s go pretend we like people.”
***
I only catch the tail end of whatever Santo’s sister says.
Something quiet. Something soft enough to get a smile out of Vasilisa where she sits on Santo’s lap like she was built to stay there, one of his arms locked around her waist while the other rests over the back of her empty chair.
Santo doesn’t look like he minds carrying the weight of her.
If anything, the bastard looks more settled with her on him than without.
Then Vasilisa turns slightly beside me, her attention shifting past Santo, past the champagne, landing on Ayla.
“I like your dress,” she says gently. “And the red in your hair. It’s pretty.”
That gets my attention.
My gaze cuts sideways instantly.
Ayla goes stiff in the chair next to me, spine a fraction too straight, shoulders tight under my hand where it rests at her back. For a second, I think she might bare her teeth. Instead, she glances at Vasilisa and says, careful, “Thank you.”
Polite.
More than polite, actually.
My thumb shifts slightly against her spine, a quiet, absent motion. Her body eases by a fraction after that, just enough for me to notice. Just enough for me to know she’s trying.
Vasilisa still hasn’t looked at me once. Not when we sat down. Not now. I understand it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I let my gaze drag over the rest of the table instead, taking stock out of habit.
Santo at the head of this side with Vasilisa in his lap.
Elena beside them, elegant and distracted, though not by anyone sitting here.
Her eyes keep drifting across the room, toward Adriana’s brother. Luciano. Head of the Cartel.
That won’t end well if her brothers notice.
Nothing ever does where sisters are concerned.
A chair scrapes against the floor.
I look up just as Angelo drops into the seat across from us like this is any other dinner and not a room full of overdressed people wasting an entire night on flowers, speeches, and champagne.
Adriana sits beside him in a sweep of silk and diamonds, beautiful enough to make half the room stare and stupid enough to pretend not to notice.
Vasilisa blinks at them. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the bride and groom’s table?”
Angelo reaches for a drink. “We go where we want. It’s our day.”
Adriana smacks his shoulder lightly, and the bastard actually grins.
“You’re insufferable,” she mutters.
“And yet you married me anyway.”
Santo snorts under his breath like he’s heard that line too many times to be impressed.
“Tragic,” he says dryly.
Adriana rolls her eyes, but there’s something softer in her face when she looks at Angelo. Content. Settled. The kind of look people get when they’ve already made peace with the rest of their life.
Vasilisa notices it too. Of course she does.
Her mouth curves as she looks between them. “You look happy.”
Adriana’s expression warms. “I am.”
Vasilisa shifts slightly on Santo’s lap, one hand settling over his chest. “It suits you.”
I’m about to tune out the girl talk when Vasilisa continues.
“Maybe soon we’ll both have even more to celebrate.”
Adriana goes still for half a second, then glances at Angelo before looking back at Vasilisa. “We’ve been trying.”
Vasilisa’s whole face lights up. “Really?”
Adriana laughs softly. “Really.”
“Us too,” Vasilisa says, like the words can’t stay inside her.
Santo’s hand tightens at her waist, not stopping her, not correcting her, just holding on while she says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world to want something soft in the middle of blood and business.
I look between the Amatos.
At both of them.
Children.
In the middle of a war.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Angelo must see it cross my face, because he takes a slow sip of his drink and says, “Don’t start.”
“Start?” I look at him flatly. “You’re trying for a child while Sarkisian is out for our blood. Your blood.”
Adriana’s smile fades. Vasilisa’s fingers still slightly where they rest against Santo’s chest.
Angelo sets his glass down. “I’m not letting this war dictate every part of my future, Maksim.”
“That’s because you don’t think strategically.”
“No,” he says evenly. “That’s because I’m not building my life around fear.”
My jaw ticks. “A child isn’t a fucking statement. It’s a liability.”
Beside me, Ayla’s hand closes around mine under the table.
Tight. Quiet.
Enough to make me stop before this turns into something louder than it should.
Angelo leans back in his chair, gaze steady on mine. “Unlike you, we still have heirs to create and empires to run.”
I almost laugh. There’s nothing funny in it.
The Amatos.
Always charging ahead like love makes them untouchable.
Like blood doesn’t spill the same once you put a ring on someone’s finger and call it legacy.
I let the silence sit for a second longer than it should.
Long enough for the weight of it to settle over the table. Long enough for it to be clear I’m done entertaining this conversation.
Then I push my chair back. It scrapes just slightly against the floor.
“Congratulations, Amato,” I say, voice even.
Angelo watches me, unreadable. I don’t give him anything else.
My gaze shifts, brief.
“Kisa.”
Vasilisa finally looks at me then.
I nod once, then glance at Adriana. “You look beautiful.”
She dips her chin slightly in acknowledgment, still quiet from a moment ago.
Good.
Let it sit with them.
My hand tugs Ayla’s, already pulling her up with me before anyone can say anything else.
“Come on,” I murmur low enough for only her to hear.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hesitate.
Just rises with me like she already knew this was coming.
I don’t look back as we step away from the table, guiding her through the crowd with my hand in hers.
Music. Laughter. Glasses clinking. All of it feels distant. Irrelevant.
Children.
Fucking insanity.
My grip tightens slightly as we move toward the exit.
I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to.
I’m already thinking ten steps ahead.
And none of them include bringing something soft into a world that eats it alive.