Page 153 of Sinful Bride

“You have our new father to thank for that.”

She grins. “I should’ve known you two were the same person.”

Chuckling, I take the champagne and leave them to their game of tonsil hockey. I’m giving them a pass mainly because Derek happens to be Hazel’s brother, and I don’t need my wife’s anger if she hears I considered punching him in the face.

The man I’m looking for is telling a table of vors and visiting allies some joke he heard back in the Old Country. It doesn’t translate well, but it involves several animal parts being inserted in several human orifices where they don’t belong.

“Pasha, darling, perfect timing!” Mama fans her blushing face with a napkin and tugs me to her. “I’m pretty sure the alcohol has gone to your father’s head. Keep an eye on him? I need to freshen up.”

Arlo delivers the punchline to uproarious laughter, then winks at her and steals a searing kiss that makes half the table whistle and cheer. “Freshen up now, lyubov moya. We’re going to get so dirty later?—”

“And that’s enough of this,” I scold as I pluck the half-drunk vodka from his hand.

The subsequent boos and good-natured ribbing give her a window of opportunity to flee to the powder room, to which she takes alongside Daphne for the added help. I drape an arm around Arlo’s shoulders and salute the table with the stolen tumbler.

“To the happy couple!”

Everyone roars and drinks up.

With the rabble satisfied, I steer my father—I’m still getting used to that term—back to the bridal table. “Time for some cake.”

“I’ve had cake?—”

“Then more cake. Anything to soak up the alcohol.”

“Sit with me, son.” He pats the chair next to him. “We should talk.”

Sighing, I lower myself into the chair, uncertain as to where this is suddenly coming from. We’ve been talking, a lot, ever since he helped save Daphne from her parents and Brennan. Frankly, I’ve had enough talking for a lifetime.

“What’s going on?”

“A wedding. Didn’t you notice?”

I grimace. “You are clearly drunk, so I’m gonna go?—”

“No.” Arlo stabs a finger on the table. “You stay. Listen to your father.”

I glance over to where Mak is spoon-feeding his date and Sofi is once more practically dry-humping hers. “I haven’t spoken with anyone about… us. You. Yet. So we should keep that under wraps.”

He hiccups mid-chuckle. “You told half the Bratva.”

“But Sofi and Mak don’t know. I don’t want them overhearing something they shouldn’t.”

“So tell them.”

He says it so easily, like it wouldn’t completely rock our world and raise a wall between me and my two closest friends. My own flesh and blood—even if only by half. “I can’t just?—”

“Sure you can. Or I can. Either way, I’m good with it.”

“I’m not,” I growl. “What will they think when they find out the truth?”

Arlo knocks back a nearby flute of champagne in one gulp. “‘Oh, thank God’?”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“You want me to just go over there and tell my siblings that we’re only halfway related?”

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