Page 64 of Mafia King's Bride

Then he drops the bomb. “So, how’s the old man?”

And just like that, my mood plummets faster than my college GPA. “I don’t know,” I mutter, suddenly finding my napkin fascinating.

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up so fast, I’m worried they might achieve orbit. “You don’t know? Is he okay? Is he, you know, still breathing?”

I nod, feeling like I’ve swallowed a bowling ball. “Oh, he’s alive. Probably plotting world domination or perfecting his disappearing act. You know, the usual Papa stuff.”

And just like that, our happy reunion takes a nosedive into the soap opera that is my life.

Welcome home, brother. Hope you brought popcorn.

Viktor drops his sandwich like it’s suddenly turned into a live grenade. “Okay, spill. What’s going on? Is he sick? Did he finally tick off the wrong person and end up in concrete shoes?”

I bite my lip, wishing I could just disappear into the upholstery. “No, nothing that dramatic. Though at this point, I’d almost prefer it. He’s just...gone MIA. Radio silence since I got hitched.”

Viktor’s face scrunches up like he’s just tasted something sour. “Wait, what? Is this Orlov’s doing? I knew that guy was bad news. I told Father he should’ve?—”

“Whoa, hold your horses there, cowboy,” I cut in. “It’s not Dmitri. Well, not entirely. I mean, sure, he started it, but since when has anything stopped the great Nikolai Petrov? I’ve been to his office, his house, I even considered skywriting ‘Papa, call me!’ But he’s refusing to see me. Apparently, he thinks he’s failed me so badly that we can never speak again.”

Viktor scoffs so hard, I’m worried he might pull something. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard some doozies in my line of work.”

“Tell me about it,” I groan, throwing my hands up. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure it out. Maybe you can talk some sense into him? Because I’m officially out of ideas and patience.”

“This is insane,” Viktor mutters, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Our father, abandoning his daughter? The man who once threatened to castrate a guy for looking at you funny? Are you absolutely sure Orlov isn’t behind this?”

“Trust me, if Dmitri was capable of keeping Nikolai Petrov away, he’d be ruling the world by now. No, this is pure, unadulterated Papa drama.”

Viktor reaches for his phone, but I grab his wrist faster than you can say “family dysfunction.”

“Don’t,” I plead. “I’ve already tried calling him more times than I can count. If he answers you now, I might actually lose it. Call him later and let’s just have a nice meal? Please?”

He sighs, dropping his phone like it’s suddenly become radioactive. “Okay, okay. You win. If he doesn’t reach out, it’s his loss. You’re the best thing in this family anyway.”

I blink back tears, suddenly feeling like I’m four years old again, looking up to my big brother. “Thanks, Viktor. I needed that.”

“Hey, what are emotionally stable siblings for?” He grins, trying to lighten the mood.

I manage a watery smile. “Right. Because we’re the poster children for well-adjusted adults.”

As we finish our meal, I can’t help but think about Papa. There was a time when he was my whole world. Now? Now I’m just hoping he might consider being a footnote in my life story.

Welcome to the Petrov family circus, folks. We put thefunin dysfunctional.

I pullinto the garage around eleven p.m., feeling like Cinderella racing against the clock. Viktor declined my offer to stay with us. Apparently, the idea of sleeping under the same roof as Dmitri was too much for his delicate constitution. Can’t say I blame him. Living with Dmitri is like rooming with a grizzly bear. A very sexy, occasionally sweet grizzly bear, but still.

I grab my bag and head inside, plastering on a smile that hopefully says, I’m a responsible adult who didn’t just spend the evening gossiping and eating junk food.

Lo and behold, there’s Dmitri, lounging on the couch like he’s auditioning for a GQ spread. “Good evening, Mrs. Orlov.” He smirks. “You’re early.”

I can practically taste the sarcasm. “What can I say? I live for the thrill of beating curfew. Did you get my message, or should I have sent a carrier pigeon?”

He nods, crossing the room in two strides and pulling me into a hug. It’s warm and comforting, and I’m totally not melting into it.

Nope. Not at all.

“Yeah, I got it. Where’s your brother staying?”

“Downtown hotel,” I reply. “I offered him our guest room, but apparently, the idea of sleeping under the same roof as you was too much for his delicate sensibilities.”

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