Page 52 of Mafia King's Bride

She stands, picking up the bouquet with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll give these to Ana and tell her they’re from me. Don’t worry, brother, I won’t let you send the wrong message.”

“Good.” The word comes out more curt than I intended, but her comment leaves a sour taste in my mouth. There’s a part of me that hates the idea of passing off the gesture as someone else’s. But I bury that feeling down deep. Feelings are a weakness, and I’ve had enough of those for one lifetime.

Minutes after Yelena leaves, Alexey, Igor, Bianchi, and the rest of the men filter into the conference room. The usual suspects. I take my seat, the weight of my role settling back onto my shoulders as the door closes behind us.

“I saw your sister as she was leaving,” Bianchi says, a grin tugging at his lips. “She’s all grown up now. Last time I saw her, she was still wearing braces. Is there a man in her life?”

“If you’ve got designs on Yelena, you’d be smart to drop them,” I reply coldly. “For your own good.”

Bianchi chuckles, but there’s an edge to it. “You’re saying she’s not available?”

“I’m saying she’d make you regret it. And it wouldn’t be personal,” I add, letting my gaze sweep the room. “But you’d regret it all the same.”

Yelena didn’t crawl out of an abusive relationship just to be tied down to another man. She’s stronger than that, and anyone stupid enough to try will find themselves on the wrong side of her wrath.

Bianchi leans back, shaking his head. “Dmitri isn’t like the rest of us. We buy our wives whatever they want, and while they’re busy unwrapping presents, we find ourselves mistresses. But we pretend they don’t know about it. Like you, Pavlov,” he says, nodding toward Igor. “Freya already knows about your new girl.”

Igor’s jaw drops, caught off guard. Idiot. He’s so careless, it’s almost embarrassing.

“What makes you different, Dmitri?” Alexey chimes in, his voice sly, his beady eyes watching me too closely. “You didn’t marry Anastasia because you love her. We all know the real reason. So, what is it? Is she that good in the sack?”

Something in me snaps. Before he can finish the sentence, I’m across the room, my fist clutching the front of his shirt. I shove him back into his chair with a force that sends the air rushing out of his lungs.

My voice is ice. “You will never speak of Ana like that again. Understand me?”

Alexey’s face pales as my fingers tighten around his collar. He sputters, struggling to breathe under my grip.

“I will cut out your tongue and make sure you choke on it if you ever disrespect her again,” I growl, my tone deadly serious.

I release him, watching as he gasps for air, his hand clutching his throat. The room is dead silent, every eye on me.

I turn, my voice calm once more as I head back to my seat. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s get on with the meeting.”

At eight o’clock sharp,I toss my bag into the backseat of the car, the weight of the day pressing against my shoulders. It’s a typical New York evening—traffic clogging every inch of the FDR, slowing me down as I navigate through the endless sea of brake lights. I grip the steering wheel harder than usual, my mind circling back to Ana.

I asked Yelena to give her the flowers. Red and white carnations.

Love and admiration.

My chest tightens as I pull into the driveway. I could have chosen roses, something simple, but no—I had to be difficult. I’d chosen carnations, flowers thatmeantsomething, and I don’t even know if Ana is the type to care about that kind of thing.

What’s worse, I’d allowed Yelena to lie and say the flowers were from her.

The door swings open, and I step into the quiet foyer, the scent of freshly popped popcorn drifting from the living room. My feet slow as my mind replays last night, the dinner, the tension, and the words I didn’t say.

I sent them because you’re my wife.

I could’ve come up with something else,anythingto break through that wall between us, but that was what came out. Cold. Dismissive. Like everything I’ve done with her since this sham of a marriage began.

Yelena is sprawled across the couch, engrossed in a wrestling match, popcorn in hand.

“I think I’ll move out next week,” she says casually, as if we were discussing the weather. She throws another handful of popcorn into her mouth, barely glancing in my direction.

I stop mid-stride and shrug. “Okay.”

Yelena’s always unpredictable, so I don’t question it. She could be serious, or she could be toying with me—either way, I don’t bite.

Before I can head upstairs, she pipes up again. “If you didn’t see Anastasia’s car, it’s because it broke down at work today. She came home pissed off, didn’t want to eat, and went to bed early.” She lifts the popcorn bowl as if offering me a solution. “I made my special popcorn for her, but she didn’t have an appetite.”

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