Chapter 17
ROMAN
I stare glumly at my phone, scowling.
Fuck.
Even though I’ve double checked that I've got all my notifications set to “on”, and even though I haven’t had any notifications in the last two minutes, I still thumb open my texts and tap on his name.
Me: I shouldn’t have come at you like that last night. I was angry.
Me: I’m sorry.
Me: Yes, there was reason to think your brother had something to do with the explosion. But I was wrong to immediately accuse you of anything.
Me: Val, I’m sorry.
Me: Heyyy, me agin. Im fuckn sorry.
Me: sorrrry. Plz anser
I cringe as I re-read the texts from four nights ago, which became progressively sloppier the drunker I got.
I exhale, dropping the phone onto the bed in my room at my father’s house and then collapsing back across it.
Shit. If I was him, I wouldn’t be texting me back either. Or answering the late-night, drunken calls. Or responding to the fucking cringe-worthy blurry photo I sent him later the same night of the text barrage—me, shirtless, in the hot tub out back, making…some kind of face at the camera.
Jesus Christ. Was that me trying to be sexy or something?
Again: cringe. And the total lack of response reinforces that.
I embarrassed myself coming at him like that and accusing him of…whatever. And then I went and embarrassed myself ten times worse with all that followed.
Great fucking job, buddy.
Usually, I’d shake this off. I’ve embarrassed myself in front of girls dozens of times. Puking in front of a girl you’re hoping to take home isn’t exactly a proud moment. Neither is being unable to, uh, rise to the occasion once you get her there, because you're too fucked up.
When that's happened, I’ve shrugged it off, had another drink, and moved on.
But that’s not working with Val. I can’t just “shrug this off”. I can’t “move on”. I don’t even want to drink it away, since I was pretty loaded when I attacked him the other night, and drinking reminds me of that.
I mean, I’m still drinking. But I don’t really want to.
Bottom line: I can’t shake this one off. I can’t shake him off.
I groan, rolling over on the bed and picking my phone up again.
Still no response. But I tap on his name and start typing again anyway.
Like an idiot.
Me: I’m sorry. You've gotten under my skin, and the attraction I feel for you fucks with my head. I’m new to all of this and have no idea what being a man who wants another man is supposed to feel like.
I don’t know how to balance how I was raised with how you make me feel. Please forgive me and help me.
I mean, I don’t fucking send it.
Obviously.
But it feels good to type it out, even if I immediately delete it again.
“Rome?”
Evelina’s voice calls through my door as she knocks on it.
“It’s open.”
My sister comes in, looking gorgeous in the light pink she’s wearing.
“Your tie is crooked,” she frowns, walking over to me. She fusses with it for a bit, her brow furrowed, before she finally grins. “There. All handsome now.”
I smile wryly. Evie sighs.
“Well…” She gives me a weak smile. “They’re uh…here.”
“Time to escape out the window, then?”
She giggles as she grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. “More like time to be charming for your future wife.”
“It’s disgusting.”
Bogdan Lukashov scowls, stuffing a huge piece of steak into his mouth and chewing viciously. He washes it down with a big gulp of vodka, then shakes his head and waves his fork across the table at my father.
“Disgusting, and a declaration of war. You’re sure it was Vaughn Bancroft?”
My father nods, his face dark. “I am. But there’s no concrete evidence.” He shakes his head grimly. “And even if there was…”
“Going after him directly could sour things with Cosimo, yes,” Bogdan grunts. “I understand your predicament, my friend.”
You gotta love the naked honesty of Bratva politics. Nobody is pretending that this marriage is about anything other than consolidating power and establishing a connection to Cosimo Sangrini, not even the father of the bride.
Speaking of…
I pull my attention away from my father to Dasha, sitting across the table from me. She looks stunning: a gorgeous yellow dress that fits her perfectly, contrasts well with her dark hair and blue eyes, and strikes a perfect balance between sexy and elegant.
Arrangements aside, you'd think it would give me some kind of spark, knowing that this gorgeous woman is going to be my wife.
But it doesn’t.
At all.
“You could have died, Pavel!” Bogdan grunts around another huge bite of New York strip.
He almost did, too. Except luckily, my father and Nikolai Antonov, who were meeting at my father’s safe house to discuss the questionable gaming commissioner my father was looking to pressure for a casino license, had just stepped outside to smoke cigars when the firebomb went off.
They both got singed pretty good from burning falling debris, but neither was hurt.
Dasha breaks the uncomfortable silence that follows. “So, Evelina…”
“Please, Evie is fine,” my sister says brightly, smiling across the table at my future bride.
“Your name is Evelina,” Papa growls, shooting my sister a stern look as he drinks from his glass.
Dasha just smiles. “Well, Evelina, how’s the Zakharova? I adore ballet.”
“Ahh, yes,” Bogdan beams. “Dasha was quite the ballerina herself when she was younger!”
Dasha rolls her eyes and waves him off, turning back to Evie.
“Nothing close to you, obviously,” she laughs. “But I did love to dance.”
“You could always get back into it,” Evelina shrugs. “There are a ton of places in New York that teach people like you…former dancers who loved it but haven’t done it for a while. You’d have a blast.”
Dasha smiles brightly. “Yeah? That sounds super fun! I also have to see a performance at the Mercury while we’re in town.”
It would be so much easier to be pissed about this fucking marriage if the woman I’m supposed to be marrying wasn’t so damn nice. And cool.
I glance at my sister, gritting my teeth when I see the way she beams at Dasha with stars in her eyes.
Evelina has always wanted a sister. When we were little, she’d say it to me as payback after I was an asshole or stole one of her stuffies or something: “I wish I had a sister instead.”
When she got a little older, but still a kid, she’d see Papa with one of his dozen or so girlfriends and get all giddy, wondering if Papa was getting married again and her dreams of a sister might finally come to fruition.
Well, she might actually get her wish now. Sister, sister-in-law…I don’t think it makes much difference to Evie. She beams at the glamorous, pretty, cool older girl who’ll be a sister to her sooner rather than later.
“So…” Dasha grins at Evie. “Any boyfriends?”
My sister turns fuchsia. “Oh…no,” she stammers. “No, I—”
“No boys for my little princess,” Pavel grunts. “The only boys I let near her are the fairies she dances with.” He laughs loudly, and Bogdan joins in.
Evie frowns deeply, turning to glance at me. I shake my head subtly as if to say, “not the time”. But inside, I’m seething in a way that shocks me.
“That one always hanging around you…” Papa snorts. “The little fruity one.”
“Papa!” Evelina says quietly. “You can’t say that.”
He chuckles. “Pfft, I just did. The little prancing one. Valerie. Valencia.”
“Val.”
The fury in my chest twists fiercely as his name rolls off my tongue. “His name is Val,” I bark coldly.
My father gives me a look and then shrugs, shoving more food into his mouth. “Whatever. You know who I mean. The gay one.”
“He’s bi.”
Papa looks up sharply, his gaze boring into me.
Fuck.
Why the hell did I just say that? What the fuck possessed me to—
“Excuse me?” he rumbles.
I clear my throat. “He’s bi, Papa.”
He scowls. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It… It means he likes men and women,” Evie murmurs.
Our father snorts, grinning widely as he knocks back more vodka.
“Both!” He roars with laughter, turning to grin at Bogdan. “Horny little fucker wants to have his cake and eat it too, eh!”
He and Bogdan crack up, while Evie, Dasha, and I say nothing, exchanging uncomfortable looks across the table.
“Can you imagine having a son like that?” Papa sighs, looking at Dasha’s father. “The shame it would bring you?”
My hand closes to a fist on my lap. I feel a soft tap on my forearm, and when I turn, I see Evie looking at me curiously. I immediately open my fist and roll my shoulder.
“Pinched neck,” I mumble.
A phone suddenly pings. Evie blushes, scrambling to snatch it off the chair next to her as it chimes again.
“Sorry!” she blurts.
“Not at the table, princess, you know that,” Papa grunts.
Evie’s eyes go wide.
“Oh my God!” she chokes, her hand flying to her mouth. She leaps to her feat, her face pale and horrified. “Papa! I’m sorry, but I have to go!!”
“Like hell you do,” Papa growls. “Sit down and—”
“A friend’s been in an accident!”
Dasha gasps, her hand also flying to her mouth as my pulse jumps.
“Who?” I croak. “Who was—”
“Val.”
It feels like the ground literally falls away beneath me. Like the floor just…collapses under my feet, sending me tumbling down into an abyss.
No.
“What?” I choke out, lurching awkwardly to my feet. “What…what hap—”
“Motorcycle!” she blurts. “Someone hit him! He’s at Mt. Sinai!” She turns to our father again, her face anguished. “Please, Papa!”
He rolls his eyes, then exhales, waving a hand. “Okay, okay. Fine.”
My hand lands on her arm. “I’ll drive you.”