Chapter 16
Stella
Once I’ve neatly arranged the clothes Kirill bought me on the bed, I take a step back and evaluate each piece like evidence from a crime scene.
My thumb drifts to my lips, teeth grazing the pad as I debate what exactly a ‘family dinner’ at the Petrov estate requires.
Do I show up in the black cocktail dress he bought, or play it safe with jeans and a top?
Ugh.
If Kirill bought me a dress, he probably expects me to wear it, right? He doesn’t do anything without a reason. That’s just not the kind of man he is.
It’s the dress, right? Or is that just too much for a simple meal? And why on earth is this so hard? Why do I even care? Why is it important that his family likes me anyway?
My shoulders sag under the weight of that thought just as a knock sounds at the door.
“Just came to check up on you. Dinner should be ready in ten,” Kirill says, waltzing into the room.
“So is this, like, a casual family meal, or do you guys go fancy?” His forehead creases in confusion, not having the faintest idea what I’m on about. “Jesus, Kill, what should I wear? Jeans or the dress?!”
“Whatever you feel most comfortable in.”
“Well, that’s no help,” I mutter in annoyance, finally settling for the cocktail dress. If I’m overdressed, I can always blame Kirill since he’s the one who bought me the damn thing, anyway.
Careful not to hurt myself, I slip off my sling and place it on the bed so I can start undressing.
“Do you need any help?” he asks from the doorway, hovering like he’s not sure if he should stay or leave.
“Actually… yeah.” I sigh. “I could use an extra pair of hands, seeing as I only have one.”
Kirill comes to my side immediately, lifting the sweater dress off me in one smooth, gentle motion, never once brushing my injured shoulder. But the second he realizes I’m not wearing anything underneath, he spins around so fast it’s almost comical.
“Going modest on me now?” I tease, grabbing the dress. “You’ve seen me naked before. I wouldn’t have been able to bathe without your help, for crying out loud.”
“That was different,” he snaps.
“Why? Because you were playing doctor while I was the helpless invalid?” He whips around to defend himself—only to find me still completely naked. I grin. “Boo! You looked! Gotcha.”
Kirill’s nostrils flare as he snatches the dress from my hands. “Give me that damn thing,” he growls, moving behind me and sweeping my hair over my good shoulder so he can help me into it. “And where the fuck is your bra and underwear?”
“You mean the bra you burned with the rest of my clothes?” I laugh. “If you wanted me to wear one, you should’ve bought me a new one.”
“And the panties?”
“Threw them away. What good are they if they’re no longer a matching set?”
“Hmm.” He groans, clearly unimpressed with my logic.
I press my lips together in a smile as he gently lifts my arms and eases the dress down my body. Then he turns me around by the waist so quickly it makes me gasp. The feel of his smile brushing between my shoulder blades sends goosebumps racing across my skin.
“Are you cold?” he asks, his tone worried, while his knuckles trail softly down my spine.
I’m burning up, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say, though it comes out far too breathless for him to miss how much his touch affects me.
Kirill hums, low and knowing, wreaking havoc on my already frayed nerves. “I wasn’t sure I got your size right, but this dress… it fits you like a glove.”
“Thank you,” I get out, trying to keep my composure and failing miserably when his lips brush the hollow of my neck.
“There. All zipped up,” he murmurs, then gently gathers my hair, running his fingers through it simply because, apparently, he can.
I turn around and steady myself with a hand on his shoulder as I slip on one heel, then the other.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like my shoes?” I ask when a frown starts tugging at his mouth.
“I prefer you in your tailored boots. The ones you wore at my lake house.”
I school my features and try not to look surprised. Not because Kirill liked my other footwear more, but because of the realization that he took me to his home back in Chicago, and I didn’t even know it.
“I liked those boots too, but these Louboutins you bought me aren’t too shabby either.”
“It’s the red soles that cinched the deal for me. They reminded me of you.”
“Shoes reminded you of me? Is there anything less romantic than that?”
“Are you saying you’re open to romance?” he asks, and I definitely don’t miss the way his dark eyes spark back to life.
“Not if I’m going to be compared to shoes, I’m not,” I tease, fighting the butterflies that are threatening to take flight in my stomach.
Kirill settles his hands on my hips again, leaning in so close that the faint, spicy scent of clove still clings to him, probably from the cigarette he must have smoked before coming to see me.
“The reason they made me think of you,” he begins, his voice dropping an octave into something deep and sinful, “is because they looked sleek and sexy without trying too hard. Because they screamed confidence and class. And the red soles… Well, they were the cherry on top. Anything that can summon images of your hair is a win to me. Is that better?”
Kirill’s chest brushes against mine, and I know he can feel how my heartbeat just spiked at his words.
“Oh… so sorry. I didn’t mean to… um… interrupt. I thought you might need help finding the dining room,” Frankie says suddenly, announcing her presence.
Kirill steps back immediately, his expression softening as he turns to his niece. “That’s very thoughtful of you, plemyannitsa, but I think I’ve got this covered.”
Frankie looks at us, her blue eyes sparkling with far too much amusement for my liking.
“Okay then. I’ll see you downstairs.” She waves and dashes off, probably straight into Lucky’s arms to tell him exactly what she just walked in on.
No. Frankie’s a girl’s girl. She won’t rat me out.
“Is there anything you need before we go down?” Kirill asks once he’s sure Frankie won’t come back.
“I don’t think so,” I mumble, looking at the large mirror inside the wardrobe door. “Do you think anything is missing?”
Kirill licks his lips before shaking his head. “Shall we then?” he asks, offering me his arm.
With no further word from me, I loop my arm through his and take a steadying breath.
Not just because Kirill is testing my resolve, but because I’m finally about to meet the rest of the Petrov family.
Considering I’m my father’s daughter and inherited my mother’s stubborn temper, I’m not entirely sure how this dinner is going to go.
But hey… Lucky hasn’t been killed yet, and he’s been to a few of these dinners, so how bad could it possibly be?
Bad. It can go really, fucking, extraordinarily bad.
From the moment I sat down at the dinner table, I’ve gotten nothing but penetrating glances thrown my way, and not always the good kind.
Aleksandr—or Sasha, as his brothers call him—has been giving me the evil eye all night.
If looks could kill, that man would’ve flayed the skin off my bones and hung it to dry before dessert.
Kostya keeps throwing little conspiring winks my way, as if he knows something I don’t, while Mikhail is too captivated by the conversation he’s having with Frankie at his side to pay attention to anyone else.
Anyone except his wife, that is. Mikhail’s hand never leaves Elena’s, thumb brushing gently over her wrist as they both listen to Frankie talk about her foster brother, Darius.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Elena says excitedly, in her heavy Russian accent. “Any family of yours is our family too.” Mikhail looks at his wife with nothing but tender affection in his eyes.
“That’s going to be pretty hard,” Lucky cuts in, sounding like a jealous boyfriend. “Darius lives in Chicago. So does Frankie. I don’t see how he’d be able to come here for a visit.”
“Lucky,” Frankie scolds, already annoyed with his rudeness.
“It’s quite alright, Kira. Young Romano isn’t wrong in his assessment,” Mikhail says calmly, not one bit flustered with my brother’s input on the matter. “It will be challenging for Darius to come to Russia, but I think I might be able to pull a string or two to make it happen.”
Mikhail winks at his niece, and Lucky fumes even harder when Frankie practically jumps out of her seat in excitement.
I swear, if I could crawl across this table and slap some sense into my brother, I would.
This is Frankie’s family. He shouldn’t be jealous of people who love and cherish her just as much as he does.
And from the little I’ve seen tonight, it’s obvious every last Petrov in this room loves Frankie.
Or Kira. Or whatever name she’s going by these days.
Actually, why not find out now what she wants us to call her? No time like the present, I always say.
“Frankie, have you given any thought to keeping your name? I mean… Frankie O’Malley doesn’t exactly scream Bratva princess.”
Her cheeks turn pink, but the shine in her eyes tells me she’s proud of this newfound family.
“Actually, Uncle Misha and I were talking about that earlier today. I’d like to be called Kira by my family, in honor of my mother, but once I go home… I mean, if I ever go home—”
“What do you mean ever?” Lucky cuts in, immediately tense. He doesn’t like where her head is going.
“What Kira is trying to say,” Mikhail interjects smoothly, “is that it will be safer if the outside world continues to know her as Frankie O’Malley, and nothing else.”
I’m not at all surprised when no one asks any follow-up questions to his statement.
Everyone seated at the table understands why the Pakhan would prefer his niece never legally take the Petrov name.
Keeping her identity as it is gives her anonymity and protects her from his enemies.
It’s smart. Even if Frankie doesn’t yet grasp the real danger that comes with being a Petrov.