Chapter 9
DIMA
K arina texts me twice, asking to meet. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I think about the long game.
I can’t deal with her right now or pretend to care about flower arrangements, or whatever the fuck she’ll use to waste my time.
I’m already buried; the impending merger has every minute spoken for.
I need a way to tell her I don’t have time for this without insulting her. I buzz my secretary.
“May I ask your advice as a woman?”
She nods and folds her hands, waiting while I gather my thoughts. With her sensible orthopedic shoes and hair scraped back into a bun, she could be my mother, which is one reason I’m asking. I’ve got no other guidance.
“My fiancée wants to meet, probably about wedding plans. I’m slammed here. You know I don’t leave before ten most nights. How do I put her off without making her mad?”
“You don’t,” Olga says frankly. “This will be your wife, and you will raise a family together, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you give her an hour whenever she asks. You don’t check the clock or huff and puff like you’re eager for her to leave. This is the one person you do not put off. Do you hear me?” She fixes me with a gimlet eye that would have shriveled me as a child. I almost laugh at her severity.
“I really don’t have time for this. She grew up in the business; she has to understand that her whims won’t take priority. If I give her an hour now, won’t she expect me to drop everything whenever she wants attention?”
“Yes. Which is exactly why you should do it. Start as you mean to go on in this marriage. Don’t cave on every little thing, but never refuse her your time.
A woman doesn’t like to exist only for your convenience.
She is a person, and a very beautiful one, judging by the photos from the party. She has the look of?—”
“Irina Shayk? I thought so at first, but her eyes are?—”
“A killer. I was going to say she has the look of a killer.” Olga’s tone is flat, but amusement sparks in her eyes.
I shove my hands into my pockets and let it sink in: I’ve been babbling about how Karina outshines Irina Shayk while Olga was trying to warn me that, if I piss her off, Karina could shank me without blinking. I laugh in spite of myself.
“Well, you asked me,” she says with an expressive shrug.
“Fine. Give her a time slot tomorrow, only for one hour. But if she shows up with a bunch of stupid flower arrangements, you’d better have an emergency ready to pull me away.”
“You consider this an investment in your future. You want an heir? You want him to grow up in a happy home, not with a mother who hates you.”
“You have a point,” I say.
I text Karina that I’ll carve out time for her tomorrow. Then I stay even later, catching up on the work I missed while I was out in the country and making sure everything is lined up for a smooth merger.
She arrives early, sleeker and more professional than I’ve ever seen her, though, to be fair, I’ve only seen her socially.
A black suit offers a tantalizing glimpse of a lacy bra beneath the tailored jacket; the short skirt skims mid-thigh, and the spike heels make my mouth go dry.
She steps close and kisses my cheek as stiffly as if I were her aging grandfather.
“I’m happy you could make it,” I say, nearly choking on the lie. “I’ve missed you.” She doesn’t quite roll her eyes, but the look she shoots me says she’s not here for my bullshit.
“I’ve got something to show you,” she says, tapping her tablet.
Please be proofs from a boudoir photographer, I think. Instead, she hands me the tablet, and on-screen is a graph projecting security improvements if her software is installed on every device in the bratva. I lift my brows at her, presumptuous, to say the least.
“I want a partnership, Dima,” she begins, and the firm set of her mouth tells me I’m in for the fight of my life.
“I’m not looking for a partner. If your dad wanted you to have the bratva, you’d already have it,” I say shortly.
“Look at the next slide,” she says impatiently.
“I did a deep dive, or as much as I could without access to your records, and mapped out the needs of your network. You can see here that efficiency is an issue for your primary leadership and you have a redundancy in your operating software that’s costing you money and manhours. ”
I sit back, take Olga’s advice, and let my clever fiancée present her findings. Her work is impressive, and the way she has tailored the plan to the specific needs of my organization is nothing short of brilliant. But I’m holding the line. No partnership.
When she pauses, I look her up and down lazily. She’s sharp and well prepared, armed with charts, graphs, data, and a track record that proves she can revolutionize my organization’s cybersecurity. But it won’t get her what she wants.
“Karina,” I say, and I try to sound dispassionate. This is nothing personal after all. Just a statement that I expect her to back off the business and bear my children instead.
“Yes?” she says. I pause, caught by the unfamiliar sound of her agreeing to anything. A smirk tugs at my mouth.
“You’ve obviously done your homework, and I appreciate your professionalism. It’s a strong presentation.”
“I’m not asking for a good grade,” she says. “I’m offering you my security services.”
“Your numbers are intriguing, but I don’t see a need to shift from our current contract right now. Thanks, though.”
“Thanks? I spent three days assembling the perfect proposal and proving the value of my contribution to the bratva. I’ve got testimonials from other industry leaders attesting to the quality of my product. What more do you want?” She’s insulted. I heave a sigh.
“If I’ve upset you, I’m sorry,” I say lamely, “but I’m not in the market to upgrade our software right now. I’ve got plenty to handle with the merger. I made time to meet with you.”
“You’re not doing me a favor,” she says hotly.
“I’m offering you one. Do you know what I charge to do a custom software package?
Just to do the research and make my recommendation is ten thousand.
Because I’m invested in our joint bratva, I waived my fee to offer you the opportunity to integrate my software and streamline your operations as well. ”
“So you’re doing me a favor?” I ask.
“Exactly,” she says without irony. “I want to make the best of this, and I certainly deserve half ownership of the entire organization. I’m bringing you access to my family business as a gift upon our marriage, and?—”
“You’re not giving me a gift; your father is. And, as you graciously pointed out at our first dinner, you are, in a manner of speaking, the side dish to that order.”
“You said you didn’t see me that way!” Karina exclaims, her voice ragged. The whole conversation is appalling, and from her expression she wants to bolt from the room and never look back. I remind myself I have to marry this woman, even if she thinks I’m a dick.
“I did say that, back when I thought it might be possible to charm you.” I let myself smirk. She’s getting so worked up and wants her own way so badly that it’s almost funny to watch. Almost, if I didn’t think there was a chance she’d lose control.
“How dare you! You spewed lies and groped me at the engagement party, and again at the boathouse. I don’t know why I expected more. Maybe because I’d heard for years about the great Dmitri Petrov, but now I find out you’re as disappointing as every other man.”
“You’re becoming my wife. That role is demanding. It’s unlikely you’d have time to be more than an honorary board member at the software company, much less hold any real capacity in my business.”
“Oh, my role? Do you have a job description printed out, or should I check your website?” she asks waspishly.
“The duties should be obvious. You’ll accompany me to social events, play hostess at dinners and charity functions in my home. Keep up appearances and behave in a manner befitting the wife of the pakhan . Maintain cordial relations with the wives of my brigadiers.”
“Is that all?” She rolls her eyes. “It sounds like you’re marrying a Barbie doll. I have a master’s degree, and I designed the best cybersecurity on the market. Pakhans as far away as Los Angeles have contracted with me.”
Infuriated, I grab her arm in sudden heat. “ I am pakhan,” I growl. It sickens me that she refers to some California crime boss with Russian origins as pakhan when I, her husband, am the only man she will ever call by that title.
She doesn’t seem daunted by my rough handling of her, my insistence.
It looks to me like there’s amusement in her eyes.
She’s playing a dangerous game and I’ll be damned if I let her laugh at me.
I haul her against me, with nothing gentle or respectful in my grip.
I hold her so close she has to bend her neck to look up at me. I like that. I can’t help it.
“Say it,” I grind out from between gritted teeth. She seems to consider for a moment before relenting.
“You are pakhan ,” Karina says, and if her voice weren’t a little breathy I’d still know she’s turned on by the flush on her cheeks, the darkness in her eyes.
What I don’t expect is how it affects me when she calls me pakhan. A razor-sharp blade of satisfaction buries itself in my gut, a delicious burn, because that word on her lips makes me feel more powerful than anything ever has in all my years as head of the bratva.