Milana
I’ve married the family clown. The jester.
I swear to God, Luca takes nothing seriously. He’s sidestepped my question about money and hinted—through two stupid romcom movies—that he knows exactly what’s behind my money question. And then, to seal the deal, told me I’ll be hunted, fugitive-style, if I actually manage to get away.
Ivan. I curse under my breath. My brother must have said something to Luca about keeping me stateside at all costs.
There’s a whole prologue to this marriage that I didn’t get to read, the quiet deals men make over whiskey or vodka as they discuss women, shifting us around on their little chessboard.
Luca isn’t giving me a direct answer and I can’t stomach it. I’ve come full circle and am back in the same position with him as I was with Ivan—and that after I married the guy.
I stare out at the black ink of the ocean, a beautiful and inviting velvet death if I could just take the plunge.
Fuck them all with a nice little plot twist. When you’re dead, you don’t need money.
I bet my husband would fish me out like a bedraggled, half-drowned rat, pat me dry, and prop me up for a happy photoshoot to prove that I’m alive and well.
Safe, Gabriella’s status chained to mine.
For a fleeting second, my thoughts flood with Gabi and what Ivan’s expectations are for her.
Gosh, how is their wedding night going? I bet my brother has knocked her up already.
The tension between me and Luca grows as we just glare at each other, my phone clenched in my hand.
All I want is to call Masha. After days of hearing nothing from her, she finally let me know she’s back in Saint Petersburg.
I desperately want to check in with her, even if it’s two o’clock in the morning on that side.
She was awake, sending me that message. She said she’s safely back home, but I don’t trust messages. Ever since a drone dropped that envelope with the photos of her into Ivan’s hands days ago, my anxiety has spiked to new levels. I need to hear her voice to be sure she’s okay.
Instead, I’m going to have dinner and engage in a battle of witty banter with my husband, who talks in concise circles.
“Think about the movie you want to watch over dinner, princess, and we’ll take it from there,” he says when I don’t respond.
His words are a clear warning, but he steps closer and brushes a hand over my hip to my lower back, nudging me in the direction of the main cabin where dinner is waiting.
It’s the first time he’s touched me since I met him on the deck, and the gesture is quietly sensual, contradicting the implication of his words.
It’s also somewhat possessive, just as I craved, and a tingle rides down my spine as the heat of his hand spreads over my skin.
At this rate, I won’t be able to resist him long-term.
Everything about him has been the opposite of my expectations, and I’m floundering, not knowing how to play him.
Not yet. Every man has his weakness, and I’ll find Luca Scalera’s soon enough.
Patience is something I have in spades, and with the need to reach out to Masha foremost in my mind, it’s easy to shrug off my husband’s evergreen allure.
In the main cabin, one side of the twelve-seater table is romantically set for two with a white tablecloth, sparkling silverware, and crystal goblets. The steward is on standby and the chef hovers, eager to serve his dishes before they spoil.
Hurry up and wait. It’s freaking exhausting, but there’s no point in resisting any of this, even if frustration simmers in me. I need to go with the flow for now. Once we’re in Boston, I’ll take up my mission again.
Luca pulls out my chair, the perfect gentleman. As he sits next to me, there’s a sparkle in his eye.
“So, you’re a professional pianist,” he says, opening the blind-date conversation.
“Supposedly,” I say, watching as the steward presents the wine for Luca to taste, then pours two glasses.
Fuck my life. This is going to be Michelin-star level of service with a fucking wine pairing and six courses that’s going to drag on until my soul is spread on this table like roadkill. Give me ramen in my cabin right now and I’ll be as happy as a pig in the mud.
“Supposedly? What does that mean?”
I stare at him. “Let’s just say being born into a crime ring, being a Bratva princess,” I say in a mocking tone, “limits what a woman can do. I don’t really perform and have only been able to do a few recordings.
” Even though everybody thought I would be the next Fryderyk Chopin Piano Competition or Van Cliburn International Piano Competition winner, but I couldn’t enter either. I wouldn’t dare.
“That could change, if you want. You’re a Scalera now.”
“I don’t see how anything has changed for me.” His non-committal answer to my financial situation is the obvious case in point. “This”—I wave at the opulence of his yacht—“was built, from my understanding, with the exact same bricks as the Bratva heritage I’m from.”
He shifts in his seat. “We’ve phased out a lot of the businesses our Don was involved in. We have several very profitable and legal businesses now.”
“I see.” And yet, his security has been as intense as Ivan’s, spelling out they have enemies.
I’m not buying into anything being above board, but we’re making small talk now.
I need to keep it going, if only for my own sanity.
So, for the sake of the conversation, I try to be pleasant and push Masha and my whole world in Russia to the side. “What type of businesses?”
The waiter presents two plates of delicate salad with shrimp and a frothy foam dressing and Luca waits for him to move away from the table.
“You really want to know?”
“If I’m allowed to know.”
I’ve never been privy to the Petrov businesses and the men in the family made sure to keep my nose out of it.
What I know, I’ve read between the lines over the years, but for the rest, I’m powerless.
Hands tied, always at some man’s mercy. They’ll say it’s because they want to protect you, but in a way, I’ve become a human shield, just like Gabi has. I’m so sick and tired of it.
“We have several web-based operations, some brick-and-mortar night clubs, trading, many things. You know the saying, don’t keep all your eggs in one basket.”
“You sell things online?” I say, trying to keep my mind in the game and not let my emotions get the better of me. “Like fake investments? Scams?”
Luca scoffs. “No, princess. Something a bit more legit, but I don’t really want to talk shop right now.”
He’s backing off from the discussion and now I’m doubly intrigued, triply annoyed. It’s the same in all crime rings: I’m not being let in.
“I bet it’s porn,” I say as I spear a shrimp with my fork, wanting to mess with Luca. Draw him out. Get a reaction.
He puts his fork down and reaches for his wine, then takes a calculated sip. “And what if it is?” he says softly, but with a chip of ice in his tone.
I should know better, but the conversation is a wiggly tooth I can’t stop fiddling with, relishing the pain. “Is it? Do you feature or do you just fuck on the side, off camera? Once the girls are done, but you’ve been watching, waiting your turn?”
My words drop like bricks. Every insult contained in those few sentences rings in my ears as if I’ve been slapped by my own hand, but it’s too late to back off now.
Luca lolls his head back and laughs, but when he looks at me again, his eyes are starkly cold. I’ve hit a nerve.
“Men like me don’t wait, princess.”
“No. You never do.” I’m in it now. Might as well go all in, wrench the tooth out and bleed. “I bet you pay enough to be first in line.”
I don’t know where this is coming from. Taunting him for a reaction, being reckless with a man I hardly know, on a yacht where anything could happen, the crew on his payroll turning a blind eye.
I can almost imagine the iron taste as blood seeps into my mouth from the slap coming my way, but like alcohol, physical pain is just another way of numbing the emptiness in me.
He leans back in his seat, studying me, the silence weighing heavier and heavier with each passing second.
Chills spread over me at his lack of response.
It’s even worse than him retaliating. I should apologize.
I should backtrack. I should ask him to tie me up and whip me for being such a horrible, terrible person.
“And this is what you think of me?”
“I—”
He stands, his height menacing from where I’m seated.
“I bet you think I’ll give you money for the right to fuck you, mia bellissima streghetta, desperate as you are.
” He leans in, and I have to lean back to look up at him, trapped.
“Pay you for intimacy, as if you’re a whore.
An annual performance bonus when you spice things up, keeping me engaged. How much do you have in mind, Milana?”
“I—” I blink, refusing to tear up, but knowing every one of those words is deserved. “I—”
“No more, my darling wife. Let’s stop here before we fuck this up to the point of no return.”
He closes in, and I flinch back, turning my head to avoid the slap heading my way.
But then comes the startling warmth of his touch as he cups my cheek and gently guides me to look at him.
My eyes flutter open, but I brace myself.
He is leaning toward me, anger flashing in his eyes, but he is in control of every last cell in his body as his fingers slip to my jaw to trace a gentle line over my lips with his thumb.
I close my eyes when another slow, sensual sweep over my bottom lip ignites every memory of our wedding kiss.
When his thumb parts my lips, I gasp. Pleasure tingles to my breasts, down my spine, hardening my nipples.
That he could be this soft, this gentle with me after what I said…
“Look at me, Milana,” he says, his warm breath ghosting along my hairline, his thumb tracing and tugging at my bottom lip, adding fuel to the simmering heat in my belly.
I meet his gaze. He’s studying me, his fingertips caressing me as if I’m the most delicate, precious thing in the world, and I feel the touch echo between my legs.
“This marriage…” he murmurs close, for my ears only, “…might be a transaction, but I’ll say this once, and only once, so listen carefully.
Sex between us will never be a transaction.
In fact, I rather look forward to you begging for it, wet, wanting, and at my mercy.
” He brushes his lips over my temple and presses the tenderest of kisses to my forehead. “Enjoy your dinner. Sleep tight.”
He pulls away and straightens, all warmth gone. I watch how he disappears down the stairs, leaving me rooted in my seat, flustered. Dumbstruck. Taken aback by his control and behavior so contrary to my expectations.
He left me with only the burning echoes of his touch.
Hot. Wet.
Aroused.