Luca
I’m fucked.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Be cooped up with her for months—years—and pretend I want nothing more than something platonic.
I could be an asshole and walk back into her cabin and tease her toward a taste of the pleasure we could have together, but for the first time in my fucking miserable life, I’m pressing the brakes.
It’s more than me not feeling worthy of her.
It’s more than my jaded past. It’s her, and the way she looked around skittishly, clocking that we were leaving the harbor, looking into corners for cameras and other surveillance.
I haven’t been trained for nothing. After Ariana, an undercover cop who breached our sacred sanctum like a Trojan horse, I’m even more alert.
I know when people are searching for the nearest exit, wondering who’s watching, listening.
Milana’s more than a flight risk. She’s more than a liability in my care as my little sister’s safety is tied to hers. No, Milana is a potential threat. One we can’t eliminate.
How the fuck did we get into this situation? Manipulated, that’s how.
We have a potential spy with Gabriella in Petrov’s household, but Gabi isn’t spy material.
Matteo is convinced everything is as above-board as it could be in our worlds, but for all we know, Milana is infiltrating our inner circle to steal data, figure out our weak spots, and eliminate us when the time is right.
For now, I’m standing in the passage, waiting to see if she’s going to come out and check if it’s clear. I’m not putting anything beyond my sweet Bratva princess. The dumbest thing I can do in this marriage is to underestimate my bride.
After a couple of minutes, I head up the stairs, knowing she can’t leave and jump ship unnoticed. Still, I call the steward closer and instruct him to guard the stairs while I go change.
A hot shower later, now dressed in my usual casual jeans and a T-shirt, I head out to the deck.
We’re on open waters now and I breathe easy.
It will be a long, cold swim, and Milana won’t do anything stupid.
Well, that totally depends on her level of desperation.
Petrov’s stipulation, forbidding her from ever returning to Russia, now seems like the tip of an iceberg.
I have so many questions and she’s going to have to talk, sooner rather than later.
I’ll bet they’ll want to keep their secrets.
This might be an alliance, but nobody is going to give up information that makes them weaker to the other party.
Husband. Diplomat. Interrogator. My new exalted position in Il Consiglio’s organizational chart comes with few charms and zero benefits. Who do they need me to be now? Dominic’s alter ego?
It’s sunset by the time Milana seeks me out on the deck, her phone in hand. It feels like I’ve waited forever for her to show her face, and annoyance is creeping in. I haven’t touched my phone since the ceremony; it’s somewhere in my cabin.
She’s plaited her hair and has dressed in jeans and a light pink sweater, but with the ocean breeze, she isn’t going to be warm enough.
I force my mind to shift, trying to live in the moment, or rather, imagining this is me after I left the Mafia—sailing into the sunset, with, ironically, my dream wife.
I hold my hand out to pull her down next to me, because I generate heat for free, but she ignores it, and right on cue, the steward comes over with a glass of champagne for her and two blankets.
“Dinner is ready when you are, sir,” he says.
I take the blankets from him and spread one over Milana’s legs once she’s seated. She’s managed to keep her distance. It’s for the best.
“This is lovely,” she says, taking a small sip of champagne.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Winter is coming.”
“So threatening,” she teases. “You’re a Game of Thrones fan?”
“I might have watched the series. You?”
Her phone pings, and she immediately reaches for it. She swipes it open, and within seconds of reading the message, she’s biting her bottom lip.
“Bad news?”
The shift in her is palpable.
She puts her glass on the coffee table. “No.” But there’s a quiver in her voice. “Can I make a call?”
“Sure.”
She glances around, tracking where the staff are, who is listening, who is watching.
I sink deeper in my seat, quietly adding spy to my current job description.
I might, at some point, have to hack into my lovely wife’s phone.
Channel Benedict this time. I’m going through all my brothers, it appears.
When she finally meets my gaze, her bottom lip seems swollen with the way she’s put it through the wringer. “I’ll just message her.”
“Who is it?” I ask, casually. She’s too nervous to make a call, even here, out at sea. Interesting.
“Just a friend in Russia. I let her know about the wedding and so on…” She trails off, typing at speed with her thumbs.
This is so much more than a sweet just got married to a fucking stranger message. I groan inwardly. Sure, my wife is allowed to have friends and a life, as much as I can give her, but she’s in my custody now. To gain her freedom, she’ll have to first earn my trust.
How long until she actually tries to run? Escaping the Mafia—or the Bratva—isn’t easy, and anybody who tries needs a helping hand. For all I know, this friend in Russia is the other half of the escape plan. I lean back, staring at the odd star making an appearance. I’m so fucked.
Eventually, she puts the phone aside and reaches for her champagne.
The constant need I have, my go-to since I was a kid, to joke around and defuse a strained atmosphere, has run dry.
I waited too long for her to come out on deck.
Now, I’m going to hold my tongue and let her put in some effort, and then we’ll see where this goes.
I want to cut to the chase of this situation and have it out with her so I can move on with my life.
For a long moment, she just sits and twists the glass stem between her fingers. She shoots me nervous glances, but I don’t cave in. It’s dark by the time she says, “I wanted to ask you about money.”
“What about money, princess?”
“How does this work?”
“You need some?” I ask, testing the waters. I don’t need to see the Petrov Bratva’s compound, read their annual financial statements, or infiltrate their operations to make a guess. The Petrovs are worth hundreds of millions. Wouldn’t be surprised if they crossed over into the billions.
She audibly swallows. “Ever since I came back from Russia, things have been difficult.”
“Go on.” I’m being a dick by not making it easy for her, but I’m not going for a walk in the park here with her either.
“I’ll sum it up by saying my brother is a real asshole. He cut me off financially, and I don’t have access to any money.”
Nice. I bet he had his reasons, the most logical one being to protect her from her own idiocy, but I don’t have the full picture. “Why did he cut you off?”
Silence stretches, the only sounds the yacht’s engine and the splashing of water as the hull cuts through the waves.
“I—” She breaks off and physically draws away from me. “It’s not that deep, okay? If I need to buy tampons, I really don’t want to ask for money.”
“Tampons are petty cash and an easy online order.”
She widens her eyes at me as if using the word tampon without breaking out in an awkward male sweat is unheard of.
There’s an angry glint in her eyes, and if she had fangs, she’d flash them at me.
I see how this is going to go. The signs were there earlier already: my little witch has a temper.
I resist smiling at her. This could potentially be a lot of fun.
“Tell me what you really need money for?”
She shoves the blanket from her legs, stands, and in one swig downs the rest of her champagne. “Can we have dinner? I really want to go to bed.”
“Sure,” I say, following suit. I’d like nothing more than to go to bed early on my wedding night.
“I was thinking we could watch a movie afterwards. Which do you prefer: Runaway Bride or How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days? I can also recommend The Fugitive if you’re looking for something with chase scenes and action. ”
She blinks at me, lips pursed.
Oh, I hit the bull’s eye with that one. “Which is it going to be, princess?”