Page 54 of Mafia King's Bride

A tear sneaks down my cheek, the traitor. I swipe it away, cursing my inability to keep it together. “So why push me away now? Last I checked, I’m still his daughter. Or did I miss the memo where he disowned me?”

“The Bratva and their pride.” Daria sighs. “They’d rather eat glass than admit they’ve screwed up. He used to talk about how badly he wanted you to be proud of him. Now, I think he feels like he’s lost that right.”

“That’s ridiculous! He didn’t have a choice.” My voice cracks and more tears betray me. Stupid tear ducts. I’m starting to think they’re in cahoots with my heart.

The Bratva code. The reason I’m married to a man who makes icebergs look cuddly. All because dear old Papa couldn’t keep his hands off what didn’t belong to him. And now I’m the sacrificial lamb, given to Dmitri Orlov like some sort of twisted peace offering.

“And the kicker?” I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “I’m actually falling for the guy. Talk about Stockholm syndrome on steroids.”

Daria pushes a cup of coffee into my hands. The warmth seeps into my fingers, grounding me. “I’ll try talking to him again,” she promises. “Maybe he’ll listen this time.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, taking a sip. The coffee burns my tongue, but at least it gives me something else to focus on besides the gaping hole where my heart used to be.

I stand up, my legs feeling about as steady as a newborn giraffe’s. “I should go. Thanks for...you know. Everything.”

Daria grabs my hands, squeezing them tight. The compassion in her eyes nearly undoes me. “You’ll get through this, Ana. And if you need someone, I’m always here.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. If I open my mouth now, I’m liable to start bawling like a baby. With one last watery smile, I turn and flee the office.

As the elevator doors close, I lean against the wall, feeling utterly drained. I can’t go back to that mausoleum Dmitri calls a house. Not now. There’s only one place left for me, one person who’ll listen without judgment.

Too bad she’s six feet under.

“Ana.”

I pause as I walk into the living room, and Dmitri, who looks like he’s been waiting for a while, gets up from the couch.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice hoarse from crying.

He frowns. “I’ve been calling you. Where have you been?”

Where have I been?The question sounds so silly in my head, and I scoff. “Why does it matter to you?”

Dmitri walks toward me, but I step back and stretch my hand out, telling him to stay away.

“Don’t,” I call out when he doesn’t listen. “Don’t come closer. I can’t deal with you tonight.”

“Deal with me?” he growls. “It’s past midnight. Your phone is off.”

Rolling my eyes, I reach into my bag and bring out my phone. Switching it on, I thrust it at him. “It’s on. You happy now? I was busy, okay? I’m sure you know what that means, with your fancypakhantitle and your stupid connections and your?—”

My rant is cut short when Dmitri grabs the phone from my hand and pulls me in. My brows crease when he begins to sniff at me. I struggle to free myself, but he refuses to let go.

“You smell like alcohol,” he says, his tone teetering the line between accusatory and concerned.

I say accusatory because I doubt he can summon up concern for me, but the way he looks at me feels weird. Different.

Even with the alcohol flowing through me, I can read between the lines.

“That’s weird,” I murmur.

His voice is soft when he says, “What is?”

“You,” I point with my free hand. “When you asked me out to dinner, I couldn’t tell what you were thinking. You had this poker face,” I mimic it, and it makes me laugh. “But now your eyebrows and lips are all funny.”

When I try to touch his mouth, he lets my hand go and takes a step back, sighing.

“It’s unlike you to get drunk.”

---