Page 22 of Arranged Marriage By the Bratva

Matteo sighs as the shared plate arrives. “Why is his name floating around in my memory? Bogdan, Bogdan. Mmm. I know it.” I let him take a minute to figure it out, his face dropping as he recalls. “He’s that asshole who tried to start a fight with me at the wedding.”

“Yes! Him, it’s him!” I exclaim, collecting a small taco from the shared plate and nibbling on it.

“It proves my point, Elena. The Orlovs are not to be trusted. Ever. But why have you not told Nikk about it?”

Stumbling over my words, a flash of Nikk’s hard chest enters my mind, making me blush right down to my toes. “He left for LA this morning on business, so I’ll wait for him to return. I planned on telling him last night—” I pause, feeling the bloom of heat flowering on my cheeks. Matteo lets out a disappointed sigh, casting his gaze into the crowd of restaurant-goers, a sizzling steak enroute to its table.

“I see.”

“I don’t know, Matteo. I’ve had so much going on in my mind, it’s been hard for me to process. I’m struggling to believe I stumbled on it at all.”

Matteo recovers, returning his gaze to me. “Don’t worry about it. You need to relax. That’s all. It’s my last night in New York, so how about we get your favorite drink.” He smirks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Limoncello?”

“Of course, only we’re indulging in the alcoholic version tonight. I checked before we came that they have it.”

“No! They do?”

“Yes. They do. I slipped a shipment of lemons to them already. You’re aware this place is managed by the Orlovs?”

“Yes, briefly, I remember Nikk mentioning something about this place. Nice call.” I’m still coming to terms with the Orlovs’ tentacles into the underbelly of the city, and when the Orlovs’ manage a bar, it’s code for extortion.

“Alright.” Enthusiastically, Matteo flags down the waiter ordering rounds of the potent drink I love so much. It’s so tasty I barely notice the alcohol in it, throwing them back and reminiscing with Matteo over old times.

“Do you remember when Dad chased that dog through the village that stole his favorite shoe from the porch?” I giggle, feeling freer than ever, and my head light. Blinking a few times, I notice the edges of Matteo softening. “Phew, I should have taken my time. I haven’t eaten much tonight.”

Matteo chuckles. “You’ll be fine. Let your hair down. You’re in safe hands,” he advises in a slick tone, smiling at me. “See. I’ll drink with you.” He slams back a Limoncello shot, making me laugh and hiccup simultaneously.

“That doesn’t work. No work,” I tell him in a floaty voice. “You’re not a flyweight drinker like me.” My pitch goes up, but I’m enjoying myself so much I have two more shots, unable to walk when Matteo calls it a night.

“Maybe we should call it a night after all.” I can hear Matteo’s voice, but it’s muffled.

Patting the air, I wrongly think it’s Matteo’s shoulder as he rounds the table, paying the bill and guiding us out. “Oh, sorry, I thought that was you,” I slur slightly, hoping the chill of the New York air will refresh me. It does a little, but I’m starting to regret drinking so much.

“Ooo, you did overdo it a little. That’s my fault. Sorry, Elena, I just wanted you to have a good time. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” he sympathizes as I lean into him, his body like a pillar.

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Matteo,” I sling out, the air helping a little as I’m guided into the passenger seat.

“Here, let me get you some water,” he offers, handing me a bottle.

“Thanks.” I take a sip, placing the bottle back in the middle of the console, trying to regain my bearings.

“Don’t worry about anything, Elena. I’m going to take you home. Don’t worry about a thing,” he soothes, his voice drowning out like a nighttime lullaby. Did I drink that much?

Don’t worry, it’s Matteo. You’re going to be fine. He’ll take care of you.

I feel different, not tipsy, woozy, but it’s making my body feel heavy. Matteo helps me to my room, but I can’t get my head to work either. Things are blurring and don’t look right.

“Here we go. Come on, let’s get you in your room,” he whispers with a deep chuckle, and I let him take me. I can’t think straight, my head is fuzzy, and my tongue drier than sandpaper. Every step I take feels as if my legs are sinking into the ground like quicksand, and my face is slackened.

Blinking hard, I put it down to a few too many drinks, and maybe when I lie down in my room, I will be okay.

That’s all it is. You drank too much, silly girl. You know how much you love Limoncello.

I’m discombobulated as Matteo opens the door, taking me through to my room, and to the bed. It feels different—harder. The walls, oh the walls are a different color, and they feel as if they’re closing in on me. When did we paint them gray? No, we didn’t paint them gray, did we?

“Matteo,” I croak, “I need some water. Puh-please,” I beg, feeling as if razor blades are lodged in my throat. Looking around, a wash of horror descends on me. This isn’t my room.

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