Chapter 10 #2
“Such a sacrifice.” Kirill cast me a brief glance before making a turn onto the street where the Marriage Ink building was. “But you’re marrying me to save your own skin. Who's the selfish one now?”
“It’s mutually assured destruction, so can we just circle back to that clause in the prenup about my work?”
“So you agree not to pick up any work that would conflict with bratva business?”
“Yes.” That would mean I couldn’t accept any fixer jobs from the bratva’s political or business adversaries.
Blackmail was a popular MO in organized crime.
For example, sending a sex worker to seduce a politician to catch them in compromising situations.
Deep fakes. Faked audio. I frequently butted heads with criminal organizations when rescuing a client’s reputation.
Frequently, I negotiated a payoff, but sometimes I dug up counter-information that could expose the blackmailer.
Yes. It could be dangerous, and yes there were instances when Dom had to step in so I wouldn’t get whacked.
But hey, I loved living on the edge, and becoming one of my brother’s intermittent headaches if only to prove my disdain for organized crime.
“Then we’re good. I’ll get on your calendar with enough heads-up,” Kirill deadpanned.
“That will be appreciated,” I responded dryly.
It was tempting to crack a joke about putting sex on the calendar, but I was hesitant because I wasn’t sure what kind of marriage we were going to have. My reaction to him this morning clearly showed we could have chemistry, and he did so without effort!
Mamma’s words about seduction made me smile.
I’d always been a bookworm, and I always presented myself with polished professionalism to be taken seriously, but sometimes I leaned into my looks to catch a person’s attention.
I never went the sultry diva route, but more of the subtle elegance of the well-bred elite.
The right clothes, the right language, even the right hairstyle.
I had a feeling that it was the reason Kirill had selected me for this marriage.
We reached Margo Winthrop’s building. An old Georgian revival with a massive wedding cake in the display window. I heard rumors that the print shop wasn’t only for printing wedding paraphernalia but counterfeit money as well.
Kirill parked the Porsche by the main entrance and helped me out of the vehicle. Sato was Kirill’s own personal valet, actually, and drove off to find parking.
Like earlier, he laced our fingers together.
My reaction to him still unnerved me, but I also drew relief from the fact that I wouldn’t recoil in horror when consummation was brought up.
Consummation in the prenup referred to staying married for a year before the Amalfi Coast properties would be transferred in my name.
The reference to joint custody of offspring clearly signified that this marriage wasn’t in name only.
Suddenly, I was steaming in my summer-friendly suit.
Kirill glanced down at me while we waited at the reception area. “You okay? You’re sweating and flushed.”
I glared at his cool-as-a-cucumber appearance. Not a bead of sweat graced his forehead, and he was wearing a suit. Maybe ice ran in his veins.
“Maybe I’m suffering from early menopause,” I said sweetly. But my hypoglycemia also did this. I longed for the protein bar in my purse.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’re twenty-seven.”
“So? It’s been known to happen.”
His eyes broke their iciness and gleamed with predatory vibes. “That won’t do, Lucy. I intend to put many babies inside you.”
“Oh my God,” I said with a burst of nervous laughter. “You did not just say that.”
The back of his hand caressed my cheek. “That’s why you’re flushed. You’re attracted to me.”
“If you’re implying I’m in heat…” I seethed.
And then something unexpected happened.
Kirill grinned. His eyes reflected humor, and a chuckle escaped his lips.
It was brief, but it was the most genuine reaction that hinted of any warmth I’d seen from him.
A clearing of the throat broke our moment and a blonde woman in a pink sleeveless sheath greeted us. Her hair was puffed up in a shaggy bob.
“Mr. Zahkarov, Miss De Lucci.”
We acknowledged her with brief nods, but I had to pinch Kirill’s side because he was still grinning like a fool.
“I’m Carol, and I will be your hostess today. This way, please.”
Carol led us down a few steps into a brightly lit room with ivory paint and gold trim.
A curved window gave us a view of the sidewalk that was slightly above us.
I imagined that when it rained, it would be so peaceful to sit in here, sip tea, and eat pastries while watching the rain slide over the glass and pedestrians walk by with different colored umbrellas.
Kirill held out a chair. His face was more relaxed after our banter earlier. Maybe he wouldn’t be intolerable to be married to, and all we needed was to get used to the other’s moods.
Carol handed us menus. “May I start you with cocktails?”
It was eleven a.m. after all.
“I’ll have the passion fruit mimosa,” I said.
“Sir?”
“Just water.”
When Carol left, Kirill turned to me. “My apologies if I was crude earlier.”
“I’m sorry too. I was just as crude,” I sighed. “You just…I don’t know.”
“Clashing personalities. It certainly won’t be a boring marriage.”
I made a humming assent but didn’t exactly agree.
He frowned. “I frightened you with the babies comment?”
I looked around us and leaned in. “That’s the thing, Kirill, we never talked about the physical side of marriage.”
“But we did. The night of the formal engagement dinner. And I stand by it. I would never force myself on a woman. We’ll have sex when you’re ready. And if a year passes and you’re not ready…” He shrugged. “Then we’re not meant to be.”
“Okay.” I exhaled a ragged breath of relief.
“But…” he added.
I caught my breath on the next inhale.
“It doesn’t mean I won’t seduce you.” His voice was husky.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“You think you can resist me forever? You come alive beneath my touch, Lusenka, and that’s with a bare minimum...”
“Why, you arrogant…”
But Kirill was saved from my wrath…or indignation because Carol swept back into the room with our drinks. Well, mine. Kirill seemed content with fancy bottled water.
“Won’t the passion fruit interfere with the tasting?” I asked.
“All the drinks on the menu pair well with our offerings. We’ll start you with a vanilla mousse cake and end with a rich dark chocolate.”
“I hope you have a sweet tooth, Kirill.” I was still fuming from his egotistical claim. He wasn’t wrong, but did he have to point it out? I knew when I was at a disadvantage, so I pretended to dismiss that moment by clapping my hands in anticipation of the sugar coma.
Kirill eyed me speculatively while I sipped my mimosa. I gave him the side-eye, but he disguised his smirk by taking a sip of his water too. Ugh, I hoped he'd choke on it.
The air conditioner of the tasting room was on full blast at least and chilled my fevered skin. We didn’t resume our sexually charged banter because Carol was in the room preparing the cakes.
They came in the following order: Madagascar vanilla bean cake, New York cheesecake, summer berry cake, red velvet, matcha, black forest.
Kirill was mostly neutral and barely said anything while sampling the cakes. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. Probably with Anya and her blasted will reading. He was covert in checking his phone. He did it when Carol switched plates, but I noticed.
Whatever. He was a boring cake-tasting partner.
My girl cousins would have enjoyed the hell out of this event, especially Bianca.
But she was weeks from giving birth, and Sandro, according to Dom, was like a feral wolf protecting his pregnant mate.
I wasn’t surprised when they RSVP’d “no” to the wedding.
I wasn’t even disappointed. The fewer of my family there, the less I was going to worry in case something cataclysmic happened, like a gunfight or a bomb.
There were going to be metal detectors, of course, and tight security.
The last cake was a rich chocolate ganache. I already knew from the looks of it, this was going to be one of the flavors I was choosing.
The piece was unusually big, and as I cut it with a fork, I hit something hard. “What the?”
I dragged the thing out with the tines of my fork.
It was a ring.