Chapter 11
DIMA
“ M aybe I should’ve taken her to dinner,” I say to Piotr, shaking my head.
It’s been two days since Karina came to my office for a meeting. She hasn’t contacted me again.
“Have you heard from her at all?”
“She answers my texts, but that’s it.” I rub a hand over my jaw. “I’m too old for this shit, Petrushka.”
He laughs. “You’d better buckle up. You’re getting married. Think she’ll be less trouble once she’s your wife? She’s hot, but she’s a pain in the ass.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”
“Tell me I’m wrong. I saw her dress at the engagement party. If my woman showed up like that, she might as well have walked in naked.”
Part of me wants to punch Piotr, my best friend and most trusted brigadier.
The other part of me agrees with him. It was disrespect, intended to provoke me.
I’m uneasy about the balance of power between us.
She doesn’t know her place. The whole arrangement seems like more trouble than it’s worth except for getting an heir, which is the part I have to keep in mind.
“Is she what’s got you distracted?” he asks.
“No.I keep going over the fuckups that keep popping up.”
“You got shot at a delivery point. That’s gonna stick with you for a while,” he says. “Last time I got shot?—”
“You were fucking someone else’s wife,” I point out.
He smirks. “Yeah, but still. I got shot. It counts.”
“Not exactly in the line of duty,” I say.
“Hey, if her husband don’t satisfy her, I’m doing my civic duty. Can’t have unrest in the population because the wives can’t get off.”
I laugh. “That’s a patriotic service?”
“It is.” He grins.
“So you’re saying getting shot for fucking somebody’s wife should have earned you a trophy?”
He gives a modest bow. “Not at all. More like a medal, some kind of wartime award. It took great courage to stand up for unsatisfied wives everywhere despite the risk to myself. I was wounded but, through my own bravery and quick thinking, I managed to escape with my life.”
I look at his solemn face and try not to laugh. “You jumped out the window,” I point out.
“He who fucks and runs away lives to fuck another day,” he says smugly and I roll my eyes at him. “Survival of the fittest, my brother.”
“Now, before we got sidetracked on your heroic duty to the nation, what were you telling me about getting shot?” I say.
“Just that it messed me up in the head for a while. I kept thinking somebody was gonna come out of nowhere and try to finish the job. I was jumpy, didn’t sleep much. You’ll get over it.”
“That was… surprisingly sympathetic. Thanks.” I say, “But it’s not that I can’t sleep or that I’m spooked now.
It’s the pattern. First there was the shipment that came in short on product, then we had the fight at a drop point.
That’s what made me want to check in at the next delivery.
Since then it quieted down a little, but there’s small things that hint at a bigger problem.
A supplier showing up twenty minutes late last week, a mix up at the docks supposedly. ”
“Yesterday one of the girls took off from the tochka in Dybenko. The report said she probably ran off with a boyfriend.”
“That’s a matter for the house manager.”
“They asked what lengths we want to go to get her back.”
“To get her back? She didn’t escape, Petrushka. If she left her job there, then she quit.”
“I guess she’s been there almost a year and she’s popular, gets lots of clients,” he says.
I wave the concern away. “So? If she tries to set up her own brothel as competition, she won’t get the permits or afford the protection money. This isn’t a matter worth bringing to me, unless there’s more to it.”
“Nah, it was just weird to get a report on it; that’s why I mentioned it.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You got everything you need for the wedding?” He looks anything but comfortable asking.
“The planner’s taking care of everything,” I say. “End of the month.”
“I’ll be there in a stupid suit,” he mutters.
After he leaves, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.
Not just with my business where small problems have cropped up and put me on alert.
But with my future bride. I can’t get a read on her without seeing her, and I don’t have time for that today.
I text her to see if she wants to have a drink with me tomorrow.
“Can’t. Vogue.” She replies. That’s this week, I’d forgotten. I want to know if she’s excited about it, where the shoot is and what designers she gets to pick from, but it’s a conversation to be had in person, not through quick abbreviations on a messaging app interrupted by work.
Instead of following up with her, I message one of the guards I put on her detail and tell them to send me a couple pics from the photo shoot.
I’m in the middle of a meeting later when an image comes through on my phone.
It’s a snapshot of Karina outdoors, her face in profile, all that dark hair slicked back and dramatic smoky makeup darkening her eyes and making them mysterious.
Her lips are parted like she’s talking, a soft sable coat draped around her, leaving one shoulder bare.
I save the photo, zoom in, and take her in. Straight brows, high cheekbones, that sharp, stubborn chin, the graceful arch of her bare foot. Every detail hits me low and hard. I step out of the meeting and call her. It rings for a long moment before she picks up.
“Yes?” she says, clipped and in a hurry. It’s my first time hearing her voice since she walked out of my office wobbling unsteadily on her heels after a first-class fuck on my desk. When she answers I feel how much I have wanted to talk to her and see her again.
“Nice coat,” I murmur, imagining her scanning the rooftop for the invisible watcher who somehow knows every detail of her outfit.
“If you know I’m wearing this coat, you know I’m in the middle of the shoot,” she says. “Did you miss me that much?” She pitches the last words louder, clearly for the interviewer’s benefit.
“I wish I could be there.”
“Oh really? I did not know you had such an interest in fashion.”
“I don’t, but I appreciate beautiful things, and your left shoulder slipping out of that fur is downright exquisite.”
“All this time I wear sexy sparkly dresses to catch your eye and all it takes is an old coat?” she teases me, her voice like syrup.
“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” I tell her, and I know I’ve said too much. She could wear whatever she wanted and win me over. Letting her know that isn’t the best idea.
“So romantic, my Dima,” she croons and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, which I assume, or pretending for the photo crew.
“Did you like the flowers I sent?”
“You mean the hundreds of flowers that overflowed my office? I had to let my employees take some home,” she says, equal parts exasperated and flattered.
“I didn’t want you thinking I’d forgotten you,” I say. “Did you read the card?”
“Yes, you want to set up another appointment to discuss things. I know exactly what sort of appointment you mean, and I’ll schedule that for after we’ve said our vows.” She says sternly.
I can’t hide my disappointment when she makes it clear she’ll hold out another two weeks instead of doing what I want, which is walking off the shoot, sliding into a car, and calling me to meet her in whatever parking lot she lands in.
The craving is that fierce. Two days ago I was buried to the hilt in her tight body, staring at the elegant curve of her back and the palm she slapped on my desk when she came.
Right now I want to ditch this meeting, track her down, drag her from the interview, and pin her against the first wall we find.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not at your photo shoot, Karina. Because I’d make them clear the studio for us.”
“We’re outside. You’d be asking them to clear a rooftop. It’s too windy.”
“I’d warm you up,” I promise, my voice dropping to a low growl.
“You may be a man of leisure, but I have work to do now, my love. These excellent people are standing around waiting for me while I chat with you. I will see you later, darling,” she says, her voice sugary sweet.
Then she hangs up and I get a message immediately reading, “Won’t see you later. I’ll see you at the ceremony.”
I should be furious, but I want to laugh instead. I feel lighter, electrified by our conversation and the energy I felt crackling through the phone every time she said a word. Before I return to my meeting I message my secretary.
The wedding is lavish, the enormous church studded with candles and white silk, a profusion of lilies of the valley drips from tall vases.
We compromised and had an evening wedding, not some bizarre torchlit midnight affair.
A string ensemble plays Tchaikovsky as she walks down the aisle alone.
Sergei is seated not in one of the pews but on a thronelike chair to the side of the altar.
Her wedding dress is a bespoke gown that seems to be two dresses at once.
An ornate, off the shoulder silver and white sheath that molds to her body and flows almost like liquid mercury around her under the soft light.
Framing that silhouette is an abundance of white netting, a voluminous skirt worked with threads of silver that catch the light.
The silver part of the actual dress is probably structured like a skyscraper, but it gives the illusion that if she’d step into direct light, it would be transparent, like lace.
The gown is at once opulent and racy, very much like Karina herself.
Between the dazzle of candlelight and silver thread and the sparkle of diamonds coiled in her dark hair, I’m nearly blinded by the sight.
She grips my hand tighter than I expect when we repeat our vows.
The reception is grindingly slow with extravagant courses served on China, magnums of champagne poured into delicate crystal flutes.
It’s a spectacle befitting a union like ours, a marriage of elite families, their business interests joined for ever, a perfect wedding of influence and power.
Absorbed in a conversation with Sergei, who is so proud that I’m watching him for signs of a heart attack, I look for my bride and find that she’s off with her friends and cousins, laughing and dancing, drinking champagne. I excuse myself from my father-in-law and go take her by the hand.
“Did you want to dance?” she asks, giggling. I level a dark look at her.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her.
“Leaving? I thought we’d stay at least another hour,” she protests. I quell her with my look.
“Our flight,” I tell her pointedly. She nods, resigned, hugs her friends and follows me.
“Did you have to do that?” she demands the moment we step outside.
“Tell you it was time to go? As a matter of fact, I did. I have no intention of sitting with your father while you party until dawn.”
“No one would have kept you from partying if you wanted to,” she pouts.
“That’s not the kind of celebration I have in mind,” I say. “We’re flying to my casino in Montenegro tonight.”
“Oh,” she says. I expect her to say more, “So your idea of a celebration is to sit up on the plane for several hours and be dead tired when we get to some casino. I was having fun.”
“Not as much fun as we’re going to have. Take a nap on the plane so you can fully enjoy your wedding night. It’ll still be nighttime when we land, they’re a couple of hours behind our time.”
Karina cooperates but she’s obviously pissed about not getting her way, having to leave when she was the center of attention. It doesn’t bother me. In part because she doesn’t know what I have in store for her when we reach our penthouse suite.