Page 18 of Cashmere Cruelty

She glides to me instead, dressed in white from head to toe. Her fairy tale gown shimmers with every step, catching the light like the diamond-studded hilt of a dagger. Regardless of her jokes, I don’t think anybody could upstage her today.

Not that they’d be dumb enough to try.

“Luck doesn’t concern us anymore,” Petra declares, wrapping her arms around me from behind.

I try not to flinch at the contact. If we’re going to sell this, we both need to look like we can stand each other’s presence.

Her gray eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Starting today, nothing will stand in our way. Not luck, not fate. Not anyone.” She fixes my tie as she talks, and it takes every ounce of my willpower to stop from slapping her hands away.

Don’t touch whatshetouched. It’s not meant for you.

Her diamond ring glitters on her hand. Somehow, she makes that look like a weapon, too.

I finally shake her off. “You sound awfully confident.”

“As should you,” Petra shrugs. “We’re here, Matvey. We made it. You don’t have to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She’s right, in theory. But old habits are hard to break. Until we say, “I do,” I’m not leaving anything to chance.

“Soon,” she murmurs, drawing close again, “all of our dreams will come true. You’ll bepakhanof the strongest Bratva on the East Coast, the combined power of the Groza and Solovyov families at your beck and call. And I…”

“And you’ll bevor,” I complete for her. “Just like your daddy never wanted.”

A feral grin splits her face in the mirror.

Petra.Ever since we crossed paths two years ago, I knew right away I’d finally met my match. Not in strength or cunning, buthunger.That’s what being Bratva is all about: not how much money you can be buried with, or how many cops you’ve got in your pocket, or how many skyscrapers you can slap your name on.

That’s the American dream—it was never ours.

A Bratva is made for one thing: torule.

Coming here makes it easy to forget that simple truth. I never did, though. Even as myvory, my generals, let themselves grow complacent in the lap of luxury, I kept striving for more.

To accomplish that, I need numbers. Numbers that Petra can provide.

Numbersher fathercan provide, to be more specific.

Vladimir may have crossed an ocean to make his fortune here, but his heart never left the old Russia. He wanted a husband for his daughter; I wanted the soldiers he’d offer up as dowry.

And Petra? Petra had goals of her own. She wanted more than to be a pretty thing on someone’s arm. I was happy to indulge her.

I’m not Vladimir, after all—I don’t give a shit what’s between someone’s legs. I care only how they can contribute to my cause. And if someone brings me an army, man or woman, they have earned a place in my ranks.

Now, if only she would quittouching me.

“Won’t you let me kiss you?” she blurts suddenly. Her fingers stroke the line of my jaw.

I push her hand aside. “You can kiss me at the altar.”

“And after?” she presses, all but hanging on my tie.

I do my best to smother my irritation. The worst thing I can do is give Petra the satisfaction of seeing me snap. That’s what she lives for—getting a rise out of people.

“I don’t get it, you know,” she muses when I don’t answer. “It’s not like I’m ugly. Aren’t you curious what it would be like? Just once?”

I’ve wondered the same thing. By all accounts, I should find Petra beautiful. In an objective way, I guess I do. She looks like a statue: sculpted out of marble, perfect in every proportion.

And just as cold and sharp.

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