Chapter 7
ROMAN
The problem with power and wealth is that it’s never enough.
That sounds awful, but as someone who’s been born and rigorously raised to be a king of both… It’s the ugly truth.
Those with money always want more. Power is even worse. They're like drugs—two proverbial dragons that addicts are forever chasing.
Wanting.
Consuming.
Needing, until everything else falls by the wayside.
My father—unsurprisingly—is a prime example of this. Our family is ludicrously wealthy. Not rich. Not well-off. I mean wealthy, in the royal sense of the word. Evie and I could quit everything today—never work, lift a finger, or even invest—and our great-grandchildren would be able to do the same.
The same goes for power. Paval Nikitin helms one of the most far-reaching, entrenched Bratva empires in the world.
Other hugely powerful Bratva families bow to the Nikitin name.
We even sit at the Iron Table, one of the two presiding bodies in the Bratva world.
It's kind of like being a country on the United Nations security council.
And yet, even with all that power and grotesque wealth, is my father satisfied?
Nope.
And his drive for “more” isn’t ambition, either.
It’s fucking greed. It’s a sickness.
Which is how we arrived at tonight.
Around me, the crowd of allies, sycophants, and hangers-on smile, drink and glad-hand my father. They’re congratulating me, too, with clinked glasses, heavy claps on the back, and firm embraces.
I’m barely aware of any of it.
Partly, it’s because I’ve been drinking like it’s my sole mission in life for the last several hours.
I mean, obviously I have. It’s the only possible way I’m going to get through this shitshow.
The other reason is that this fucking “event” is making this whole damn marriage thing much more real, and I’m suddenly realizing exactly how unprepared for it I am.
But there’s also a third reason for my dazed, automaton dance through the crowd of well-wishers, one that’s got me on edge even more than the prospect of an arranged marriage I have no interest in.
You have a sickness inside you.
A corruption.
A darkness that I keep firmly locked up behind walls and bars.
Or, should I say, kept. Past tense.
Because a few nights ago, in the woods, with strong, veined hands pinning me down and a deep, masculine voice growling in my ear and sending electricity zapping down my spine, I failed to keep that corruption at bay.
Horribly. Spectacularly.
And it’s been fucking haunting me ever since, day and night.
I want to hate myself for the way I gave in. The way all my strength and power and control just fucking vanished when that voice growled into my ear.
And then bit it.
You smell fucking delicious.
A heated shudder ripples through me, sparking a tingle in the lobe of my ear where his teeth sank into me.
I hate how fucking weak I was. That I didn’t fight him.
But I know even that is a shitty attempt at trying to paint myself as a victim of an unwanted situation. It wasn’t that I “didn’t fight back” or “let it happen”.
Cold, hard truth: I need that to be the case because it absolves me.
…Of wanting it. Of feeling my blood turn to liquid fire when he touched me and held me down, taking away all my carefully laid out and painstakingly arranged power. Of needing—fucking needing—more when he ground his hot, hard thickness against mine…
“There you are.”
I blink, faltering as the feminine voice pulls me back to reality. I clear my throat, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat.
Dasha Lukashova, AKA my fiancée, smiles at me, her brows cocked in amusement.
“There’s my lovely husband-to-be,” she beams as she presses against my chest, looks up at me with stars in her eyes, and stretches up as if to kiss my cheek.
Instead, she hisses in my ear.
“For fuck’s sake, Roman, get it together. You look like you’re at an execution—your own, at that. Fix yourself. Now.”
She pulls back, and she’s all pleasant smiles and doting looks again.
Fuck, she’s good at this. Really, really fucking good at it. But it’s also not her first arranged marriage engagement party.
It’s her fourth.
Before me, it was Vaughn Bancroft, which is cartoonishly, disturbingly ironic given that it’s his fucking brother I can’t shake from my goddamn subconscious. Before Vaughn, it was another Bratva heir from a St. Petersburg family I don’t know, and before that, it was some Italian mafia kid.
Honestly, I feel bad for her. She’s obviously a pawn in her father's political games. Worse, she’s painfully aware of it.
The real problem is, Dasha Lukashova isn’t the ditzy, shopping-spree Bratva bimbo you might assume. It would be a lot easier for her if she were. But she’s the opposite—intelligent, calculating, and politically savvy.
She might not be happy about marrying yours truly, but she understands how mafia politics work and knows how to play her part to a T—much better than I do, to be honest.
It would be so much simpler if I could force myself to want to marry her. I mean, the woman is gorgeous, with stunning Eastern European looks, long, runway-model legs, big blue eyes, and plush, feminine lips.
And legit stacked. But, I really haven’t ever been a boob guy.
Dasha smiles a perfectly white, dazzling smile as one of the hired photographers homes in on us to get a few shots of her in her shimmering silver Dolce gown as she presses against my side and laces her fingers through mine.
The cameraman nods his thanks and keeps moving through the party. Dasha turns back to me and leans in for another “kiss”—by which I mean, mutters in my ear.
“Roman, whatever is putting that pissy look on your face, you need to get rid of it. Our fathers are walking over. Find your balls, give them a little tug, and match my efforts.”
I do feel bad for her. She’s actually—well, I won’t say “nice”. She’s mostly been frosty to me. But I attribute that to the fact that she’s being forced to marry me and bear my children, like it or not.
In another situation, though, I think I’d really enjoy getting drunk with her.
I bring my glass to my lips as our fathers approach. Dasha calmly reaches up and pulls my hand back down. “And slow the fuck down,” she mutters through a stunning smile. “Papa!”
Bogdan Lukashov smiles broadly at his daughter as he scoops her into a big hug. My father nods his chin at me, then turns to level an obvious look at Dasha’s cleavage.
“Look at us, Pavel,” Bogdan chuckles, flashing a vodka-fueled grin at my father. “From the young ruffians we were back in Moscow to this: two old men watching their children marry.”
My father claps Bogdan heavily on the back. “We’ll be grandfathers in no time, my old friend.” He turns to shake his vodka glass at Dasha and me. “Just as soon as these two consummate this thing and have some babies!”
I swear I can feel the sourness radiating off Dasha as I bite back a grimace and a scowl ripples behind my face.
Same, lady. Fucking same.
And that sentiment has nothing to do with whatever the fuck happened the other night in the woods.
Because I’m fucking straight.
“Miss?” A tall, handsome but surly man with an earpiece, wearing a dark suit and with his long hair pulled back, suddenly materializes beside Dasha. “You wanted me to alert you when your friend Ilana arrived?”
Dasha’s eyes light up, and I can feel her sourness abating as she turns to smile cordially at the man.
“Indeed. Thank you, Lev.”
“Right this way, miss.”
He gives me a perfunctory nod, then bows stiffly to Bogdan and my father before he escorts Dasha away, weaving through the crowded ballroom.
“Lev is my Dasha’s personal bodyguard,” Bogdan explains as he knocks back his drink. “Extremely loyal.”
He and my father start talking about “the good old days” in Moscow. I finish my drink, lift the empty glass to them by way of explanation, and then start threading my way through the crowd toward the bar.
“Having fun yet?”
I smirk, rolling my eyes and turning when I hear my sister’s voice.
“Loads, obviously,” I say dryly.
“Ooo, that was good,” she giggles. “I almost didn’t completely not believe you that time. You’ve been practicing!”
I level a withering look at her but then allow myself to smile. “You look beautiful.”
She grins. “Why thank you, brother of mine.” She does a little twirl, letting her—of course—pink dress fan around her like—again, of course—a fairytale princess. “It’s not too much?”
“It’s perfect.”
She beams. “Thanks, Roman. You clean up pretty good yourself, you know.”
I lift a shoulder.
“What does your fiancée think about how handsome you look?” she giggles.
I glare at her. “You’re enjoying this far too much for someone who’s going to be shoehorned into an arranged marriage with some creepy mouth-breathing heir within the next two years, my friend.”
She makes a face. “Not happening.”
I laugh. “Sure.”
She sticks out her tongue and brings a flute of champagne to her lips. Before she can take a sip, I pluck it from her grasp.
“Hey!”
“What number is this?”
She sighs dramatically. “Seriously?”
“Evie, you get shitfaced on half a beer,” I grin.
“That’s only my second glass,” she huffs. “And I’ve barely touched it.”
“How about a little moderation.”
She bursts out laughing. “Pot, meet kettle. Rome, are you serious right now?”
“Ha-ha,” I mutter darkly, keeping her flute and taking a big gulp from it.
Evie gives me a pouty look. “Fine. Be a jerk. I’ll just get my date to grab me another glass. Some of us actually want to have fun at this—”
“I’m sorry, what?” I growl, my eyes narrowing. “Date?”
“Me, date. You, Roman. Where Tarzan?”
It's deliberately extra gruff and cartoony, but there’s no mistaking the voice behind me.
…Because that fucking voice has taken up permanent residence in my head since it growled filth into my ear the other night.
In the woods.
As the owner of the voice held me down and rolled his hips against mine.