Page 48 of Mafia King's Bride

“Dmitri,” she whispers my name, her eyelids fluttering briefly as if she’s caught between the dream world and reality.

A rush of emotions surges through me—things I can’t explain, things I don’twantto explain. I gently pull my hand away from her grip, retreating like the coward I’ve become when it comes to her. Standing by the door, I look back at her one last time. She’s already settled back into peaceful sleep, unaware of the storm inside me.

It’s a shame, really—a damn shame—that I’ll never be able to say these things to her when she’s awake. Because men like me don’t get to have peace. We make promises in the dark, and they disappear with the daylight.

SEVENTEEN

ANA

“Flowers for you,” Steve announces as he strides into my office, holding a massive bouquet of white and red roses like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to receive. “Met the delivery guy on my way in. Figured I’d do him a solid and bring them up.”

I stare at the bouquet suspiciously. “What about my signature?” I ask, wondering who would send me something like this. The only person who might send me roses is Yelena, and she’s more of a chocolates and cocktails kind of girl.

Steve shrugs. “I signed for you.”

Of course, he did. Because that’s totally normal. I should probably ask how, since delivery guys don’t just hand things over without verification, but I can already imagine him pulling some fast-talking nonsense. Not worth the effort.

I get up and take the roses from him, their scent hitting me as I inhale deeply. It’s nice—unexpected, but nice. A small smile creeps onto my face, though I can’t shake the curiosity gnawing at me. Who’s responsible for this?

“This came with it,” Steve says, holding up a pink envelope between two fingers like it’s a classified document.

I roll my eyes and snatch it out of his hand. “First, you shouldn’t sign for things addressed to me. Second, my personal life is none of your business. And third,” I gesture at the mountain of paperwork on my desk, “I’ve got a lot to do, so if you don’t mind…”

He clicks his tongue, then heads for the door, lingering for a beat, hoping I’ll crack and read the letter in front of him. When I don’t, he finally leaves.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I rip open the envelope, curiosity winning over. Inside is a folded note and when I see who it is from, my stomach drops.No way.

The note is short and to the point:

Anastasia,

I’d like us to have dinner. I’ll send my stylist to set you up with a dress. Or several.

—Dmitri

I read it again, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Dinner? Shopping?What?

I hold the letter up, staring at it like it might suddenly change into something that makes more sense.Dmitrisending flowers and asking me to dinner? Is this his version of an apology? Or worse...guilt over what happened between us?

It’s been days since we slept together, and while I’ve been trying to compartmentalize it—as in, shove it into a drawer and never look at it again—this is not how I expected him to follow up. I thought maybe we’d just avoid each other until the awkwardness faded into a distant, foggy memory.

But dinner? Astylist?The whole thing feels so transactional. Of course, that’s exactly how Dmitri operates. I’ve been invited to a business meeting with a wardrobe requirement.

“What is this? A summons?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

The thought crosses my mind that he might be feeling guilty. But no, Dmitri doesn’t do guilt. Or if he does, it’s buried under layers of icy detachment. Besides, he hasn’t exactly made an effort to see me since we slept together.

I glance at the flowers again, my heart speeding up despite my better judgment. It’s the first time he’s ever given me a gift. Probably sent by his secretary, but still. It’s the thought that—nope, I’m not doing this. I can’t afford to get my hopes up.

“Dmitri wouldn’t know how to be thoughtful if it slapped him in the face,” I mutter, trying to tamp down any stupid expectations.

But damn it if he doesn’t know how to make a woman feel like a goddess in bed.

I give myself a mental shake. Focus, Ana. Flowers don’t mean feelings, and dinner doesn’t mean, well, anything, really. It’s probably a power move, and I’m not about to fall for it.

Just as I’m setting the note aside, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I say, half expecting Steve to barge back in with another nosy comment.

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