Chapter 2
Two
LUKA
F or someone who didn’t want to be a bride, my sister looked gorgeous on her wedding day. I downed champagned from the side of the dancefloor while my father spun Katya in the center of the polished floor while the band played. She was a replica of the ballerina that twirled inside her jewelry box. She had one when she was a little girl that would spin to the music.
Only tonight she was being spun by every man at the wedding. I hoped for her sake there was something that made her happy. I waited to cut in so I could ask.
My mother slinked along the opposite side of the floor from where I stood like a panther, greeting guests with an icy peck on the cheek. I hadn’t seen her so enthralled since the engagement party.
The family photos had lasted nearly two hours. I wondered if we had set a wedding record. Between Andrey’s mother and mine the list of poses and requirements for the photographer was fucking absurd. At one point I heard Babushka tell everyone she needed copies to mail to Russia. The wedding was another occasion Aunt Sasha and the Russian cousins had missed.
“Beautiful party,” a guest chimed as she passed by me.
“Yes.” I couldn’t take credit for a damn thing that happened tonight.
The Petrovs had offered to host the meal and the liquor for the reception. My father had been insulted, but considering they owned a steak franchise, he relinquished. Two traditional Russian families, sparring over non-traditional roles for the wedding had come at a cost. Andrey seemed to keep his distance from my father tonight.
Mikhail strolled next to me and handed me a shot in a chilled glass.
“For the brother of the bride.”
I nodded and slung the vodka back, swallowing as it slid down my throat. I was already drunk. At least the Petrovs were experts in selecting good vodka.
“She looks happy,” he noticed.
He didn’t know what I did. She was fucking miserable. I was certain she loathed her new husband.
“New Orleans misses you, Luka,” Mikhail added. “How is France?”
I dropped the empty shot glass on a tray when a server walked past. “Keeps me occupied,” I answered. I had been on edge since I started packing for the wedding.
Training the recruits forced my body and mind to focus. Rebuilding the vineyards gave me purpose. Preparing the castle for immediate expansion challenged my strategy. Every second of every day was occupied by the Bratva mission. By strengthening the Novikov organization. I worked and pushed myself each day so that when I collapsed into bed, I was nearly asleep. I left no room. No time. No empty, wasted seconds where I could let her in.
Until I traveled for Katya’s wedding. Now, I was surrounded by nothing but endless time and flooded with memories of Amara.
“When do you think you’ll come back?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know that I will.”
The end of the dance saved me from having to explain my position. Papa deposited Katy in front of me.
“May I?” I bowed.
Katya laughed and took my hand. I led her on the dance floor.
“You do look beautiful.”
“Maybe it’s worth it for one night.”
“What is?” I pried.
“To be the center of attention for once.”
I spun her away from the clump of dancers who had gathered on the floor.
“Katya, you’re always the center of attention with your friends,” I reminded her.
“Not with the family. I’m the youngest. Out of all the cousins. You’re the next Pakhan. We all know it. All I have is this, big brother. This one night when everyone sees me and only me.”
I pulled her a little closer, wishing her words weren’t true, yet knowing if I tried to argue with her, I would only lie. She would see right through it.
“Are you having a good time?” I asked.
She nodded. “I am. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I surveyed our surroundings. My parents had spared no expense. We danced beneath white silk tents, dotted with lights. Fountains had been brought in and placed throughout the gardens. If the band stopped playing for even a second, the babbling rush of water carried throughout the party. It was magical.
“It couldn’t be more perfect for you.”
I led her under my arm and back into place. I thought I saw the wedding photographer snap a few photos of us dancing.
“Have you called her?” Katya’s big blue eyes looked up at me.
“Who?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m neither Mother nor Papa. You don’t have to pretend. Have you seen her? The Italian girl who stole Papa’s hotel.”
“Why would I see her?” I tried to be heartless. I wanted to feel nothing at the mention of her, but my heart began to beat out of rhythm. My chest contracted, assaulted with pain.
Katy pushed up on her tiptoes in her satin ballet flats to whisper in my ear. “Go see her. Go get her. Take her back to France with you. You could if you really wanted to, Luka.”
I closed my eyes. I had to force myself not to sway under the influence of too many vodka shots and my sister’s impulsive suggestion.
“Katya, stop,” I snapped.
Her blue eyes blinked. I had rattled her. “I only…”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I spun her around as the song began to wind down. I didn’t want to argue with her on the one night she was having a good time. “I’m sure Andrey would love to dance with his wife. You don’t want to spend your entire reception apart.” I led her to where the groom was having drinks with the groomsmen. He hadn’t noticed I’d brought the bride toward him.
I kissed my sister on the cheek and placed her hand on his arm. “You two enjoy the rest of your reception.” I nodded at Andrey.
I pushed my way through the crowd, exiting the main party and wandered through a row of hedges that created a maze. I exhaled, balling my fists at my side.
Tomorrow morning I would be on the first flight back to Paris. I couldn’t be in this city when Amara was only miles away. I couldn’t be under the same stars or sky. I couldn’t breathe air she breathed. Fuck. I couldn’t see her.
Not after what I had done to her.
“My Luka, sit.”
I turned, surprised to see Babushka on a concrete bench near one of the temporary fountains brought in for the wedding.
“Babushka.” I kissed her on each cheek.
“Terrible wedding, isn’t it?” she spoke in Russian.
“I guess that depends on if you ask the men who made the deal or the couple who must suffer through it.” Babushka thought every gathering was terrible. She had a grim outlook on life.
“You have always been my favorite because you see exactly the way things are.”
“I didn’t think grandmothers were supposed to choose favorites. What about my cousins in Russia?” I teased.
She swatted the air. The diamonds on her hands caught the glow from the dangling lights overhead. She had been collecting diamonds since she was old enough to marry at eighteen.
“I choose wisely. Just like you.” The music from the band floated over the hedges. “It is why I’m proud of you for staying away from the Italian girl.”
Fuck. Was no one in this family going to let me forget Amara tonight?
“Babushka, that is in the past. Only a contract offer?—”
“Nyet,” she snapped. “I know who she is to you. Don’t pretend. I know you chose the family over her. Do not try to tell me you didn’t love her. Or that you do love her.”
My grandmother was not someone to garner sympathy from, not that I was looking for any tonight. I only wanted to survive the wedding, probably as much as Katya did.
“And if I did?” I stared at her. “There is no point. It’s done.”
She nodded. “It’s done.”
I exhaled and pushed on my legs, ready to stand and head back to the bar.
“You are Bratva, Luka. Don’t forget what that means.”
I towered over my small grandmother. Her stature was a disguise. Beneath the surface, she was as lethal and brutal as any man I had trained. Her weapons were only more deceptive than a fist or a loaded gun.
I didn’t know what version of the story she knew. Did she realize I had only chosen the family to protect Amara? That my vow to keep her safe wouldn’t end just because I couldn’t see her or be with her? How much of the truth did she have access to?
“Should I walk you back to join the family?” I offered.
She grimaced. “Nyet. I prefer it here.”
“Suit yourself.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. I had wandered here looking for quiet away from the crowds, instead Babushka had pushed my buttons. There was a restlessness tugging on my ribs. A need building in my fingertips. Stay away from Amara. Forget Amara. She’s not the one. The words pounded in my head. The more I heard her name, the more I wanted to see her. To touch her. To pull her toward me. To confess every fucking sin I had committed against her.
I turned the corner.
“Luka, do not forget what I said. You are smart to stay away from that girl.”
“Goodnight, Babushka.” I ducked into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of my grandmother.
I had just enough vodka running through my veins to do something stupid. I texted my driver to meet me on the opposite side of the gardens. He met me within five minutes. I slid into the back seat.
“Where are we going, sir?”
“The Amato compound.”