Page 20 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“Yes,” I say, remembering that I should respond to her, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “Yeah, Anya is the best of us.”

“Oh, really?” Fiona says, giving me a look. “Because Anya said that Anton is the best of the brothers.”

“She didn’t—” Boris starts, but then Anya comes bustling in, carrying a basket of warm rolls. They smell amazing—everything Anton cooks smells amazing. But I would never tell him that.

“Don’t get butt hurt about it, brother,” Anya says, touching her nose after she puts the rolls down. “It’s just that—how could you not choose the brother who makes the food? And also, Anton is always helping me with my homework.”

“I’m smart, too, you know,” I say, setting down the last plate. “Just because Anton won that contest in—”

I stop when I realize Anya has already bustled out of the room, not paying a single iota of attention to what I’m saying. I roll my eyes and grab the silverware from the basket, placing it carefully. When I realize Fiona is standing at the front of the table, I clear my throat.

“Like this,” I say, showing her how to properly place the silverware next to the plate. “Didn’t you learn how to set a table growing up?”

Fiona lets out a snort, moving to the other side of the table and setting down the cutlery the way I showed her. I watch her fingers move, nimble and sure, as she grabs each piece and places it exactingly.

“Yeah,” she says a moment later, “I set the table before my dad, and I had TV dinners on the coffee table every night.”

“Every night?” I ask, my head whipping to look at her. “What about Sundays?”

“We weren’t religious.”

“Not in a religious sense,” I clarify, “I just mean—what about family dinners? What about Christmas?”

“KFC for Christmas,” Fiona says, laughing in a way that her smile doesn’t meet her eyes. “Chinese buffet for Christmas Eve.”

I start to laugh; then I realize she’s not telling a joke. I think of my mother—of how traditional she loved for Christmas Eve dinner to be. My brothers and I are in stuffy suits, and my sister is in a velvet dress. My father, making a toast. Every single nook and cranny of the house was filled with family—blood-related and not.

Mother and father would take in new family members—those in the Bratva that hadn’t established themselves yet—for the holidays. Especially when they had kids. In the two weeks surrounding Christmas, I would see more random people than my own family.

But on Christmas Eve, we always had a private dinner, just my brothers, sister, and parents. Occasionally, our grandparents would be invited as well when they were visiting from Russia.

I think of the salmon pie, meat dumplings, and stuffed buns my mom would make for the meal. Then, I think of what it would be like to sit in a shitty Chinese buffet on a day that’s supposed to be all about family.

“So, what about your mother?”

“She died when I was little,” Fiona says, swallowing. “I—she actually took her own life.”

“Well, fuck,” I breathe. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” Fiona says, “I hardly knew her. Really, the only memory I have of her is finding her.”

“Finding her—” I start, then realize what she means and pause. Of all the terrible things I’ve seen during my time in the family and as leader of the Bratva, that is not one of them. The mere thought of my mother doing such a thing makes my chest twist painfully.

“It’s okay,” Fiona says, taking a deep breath. “I mean, it was painful to learn that Mr. Allard was involved in all that awful stuff, but I still have Olive. She’s like my family now. She’s my best friend, the person I love most in the entire world.”

“Fiona, I—” I start, trying to think of the words I can say to express that while I don’t understand it expressly, I have also lost both of my parents. But before I can say anything, Anton, Roman, Viktor, and Anya come bustling in, all carrying a dish.

“Ivan!” I call, watching the man pop his head in from the kitchen. “Well, are you coming, or what?”

Color brushes over his cheeks as he hurries into the room, taking the place at the table Fiona and I set for him. She’s situated across the table from me, which is fine because it means I get to look at her. And besides, I’m not sure if I’d be able to handle having her so close.

Whenever she looks at me, I think of how her lips felt against mine.

The food is passed around the table, and Anton explains each dish, describing our grandmother’s recipe and how he adapted it to his tastes. Fiona listens dutifully, trying each thing and giving him specific compliments like, “So earthy,” or “I love the sear on this.”

As I look at her, I can’t help the rush of adoration that wells in my chest. Hearing about her childhood—it starts to explain the woman here with me, so hardened to everything around her. Not caring and even somewhat participating in her own abduction.

I think again of the moment when I pressed the cloth to her mouth, how she had gone completely still, taking a deep breath, almost as though she wanted me to catch her.

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