Page 40 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

I see her sitting at a table in the corner of the room, laughing so hard that little splotches of red show through her makeup. She smacks the table, and I watch Elena, Arseny’s wife, and previous mafia princess, give her an approving glance.

It takes me the next thirty minutes to make my way across the room, pushing through the crowds and trying my best to avoid polite conversation with well-meaning relatives I haven’t seen in decades. Old women still try to pinch my cheeks despite the fact that I’m nearing forty and have killed men with my bare hands.

When I finally got near Fiona’s table, she was the one telling the story, the other wives rapt with attention. I step to the side, standing behind a large plant to hear what she’s saying.

“—then I said, Is that a promise?”

Penelope gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth.

“Weren’t you scared?” she asks. “For the first little while after meeting Kervyn—after he kidnapped me, I should say—I was fucking terrified. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t do anything except cry.”

Fiona shrugs.

“I guess the thing is that I was raised by my father to believe that the worst thing was just around the corner. To prepare for it, to fight against it. Then I grew up, and it was like—the worst thing was that my internship didn’t offer health insurance. The worst thing was running out of floss or getting a flat tire. I was trained in hand-to-hand combat and living the most mundane life. It was like a bait and switch. When Boris came into my life, it was like I finally had a purpose. Like, for the past five years, I’d been dropped into the wrong story.”

She takes a breath, sipping from her champagne, then holding it up as she gestures around.

“All this? It’s exciting. I only hope Boris will let me in more and be a part of the operations. Part of the fight.”

“Well,” Elena says, glancing up from the nail she’s filing, “Arseny understands that I’m part of the executive team.”

“According to Kervyn, I’m his queen,” Pen says, “but just be warned—the second you get pregnant, they’re going to act like you’re made out of glass. Once, Kervyn pushed my hand away from a box of tissues, insisting that he pull it out for me.”

The women burst into a bout of laughter.

“If anything,” Hannah says, “a pregnant woman is more dangerous. All those hormones, pushing you to do things you wouldn’t normally do.”

“Like eating pickles and peanut butter,” Penelope mutters, blushing bright red like she didn’t think she was saying that out loud.

“It takes time,” Arina says, reaching across the table and putting her hand on Fiona’s. “These guys are trained not to trust anyone. We’re all outsiders here—you just have to show up every day and show them that you’re in it for the long run. Eventually, they start to trust you.”

I back away from the table, leaving the women to their talks. So, Fiona wants me to trust her and let her in. I want that, too—but it’s difficult, especially with my brothers reminding me she was with the Allards first. And I can see in her eyes when she talks about Olive that she still trusts the girl.

That could be dangerous. I think again of the little boy who died in the Corsica attack on the community. I may want that love with Fiona, may want to connect with her and let her into the family fully, but I can’t risk the lives of my people just to reach for that with her.

As I walked to the bar, Viktor and Luka grabbed me by the arm, dragging me to a card table and demanding that I play a game with the men.

I give in, sending one more glance in Fiona’s direction. Playing cards will be a good way to get my mind off everything, including the question of whether or not I can truly trust her.

Chapter 18 - Fiona

“Okay, am I fucking crazy, or were midterms brutal this term?”

Anya’s eyes are wide in the mirror, and she glances at me, waiting for me to confirm that this was one of the hardest mid-terms ever. The truth is that it was, and it makes me even more worried about finals in just a month and a half.

“You’re taking twenty-one credits,” I laugh, trying to get my shoe on as I glance up at Anya, who’s carefully taking the curlers out of her hair. “Of course, that was brutal.”

Anya is taking twenty-one, and I’m only taking eighteen, but I still barely managed to scrape by. When I expressed my stress about the whole thing, Boris made himself scarce, claiming I had a hard time studying with him in the room.

Which wasn’t exactly not true.

“Okay, but my French teacher didn’t have to be such a bitch about my essay topic,” Anya says, tipping her head to put in a pair of dangling earrings. “I wanted to talk about the Corsica! How was I supposed to know she’s scared of the mafia?”

I sputter, laughing loudly at the irony of that—being afraid of the mafia and having a member of the Bratva in your class. Even if Anya isn’t threatening herself, she sure has a lot of muscle behind her.

“So, just stick Boris on her,” I mutter, finally pulling my shoe on. Anya glances at me through the mirror, pausing in pursing her lips to touch up her lipstick.

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “As much as I wish I could, I don’t think it’s fair for her to lose her job over it. Some people are just bad professors.”

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