Page 68 of Mafia King's Bride

I press a hand to my chest, half expecting to find my heart trying to escape. “Down, girl,” I mutter to myself. “He’s your husband, not a chocolate lava cake.”

But that’s how it always is with Dmitri. One touch, and I’m a mess of hormones and want, like a teenager with her first crush. Except my crush is a dangerous Bratva boss who just asked me if I’d be willing to frame someone for murder. In principle.

Totally normal, right?

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Alright then,” I announce to my empty office, “back to work. Time to see which scoundrel I get to save from going to the guillotine.”

I turn back to my computer, wondering when my life turn into a soap opera crossed with a crime thriller. And more importantly, why am I kind of enjoying it?

TWENTY-SIX

DMITRI

I stop in front of a florist shop, parking my car and staring at the flower arrangements sitting prettily in the window. “She finds roses ordinary,” I say to Yelena on the phone. “I’ll get carnations.”

She laughs. “Are you sure she likes them, or is it because you bought them that one time? Did you ask her if they are her favorite?”

I shake my head, already annoyed. “She’s my wife, Yelena. You’d think I’d know a thing or two about her by now.”

“Right.”

I roll my eyes, more at myself than her. “That was sarcasm.”

She clicks her tongue, the playful attitude still there. “I knew it. Are you delivering them yourself, or will you let your ego get in the way of showing up at your wife’s office?”

“Yelena,” I say, the impatience clear in my voice, “I’m hanging up now. I’ll call you back in two hours.”

“Wait, I?—”

I hang up, tuck my phone in my pocket, and get out of the car, grabbing my coat as I step out. The florist shop door swings open easily, and the warmth inside contrasts sharply with the cold gnawing at my skin.

“Hi,” a man with an apron and a name tag that reads “Aaron” greets me immediately. “What can I help you with today? Would you like to order a custom bouquet or to select one from our collection?”

My instinct is to ask for a bouquet of white carnations, but I stop myself. I never actually asked Ana what her favorite flowers are. How many assumptions have I made about her?

“Can you suggest something for a lover?” I ask, my voice as cold as usual, adding quickly, “Not roses or carnations.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe something that matches the color of her eyes, then? It could symbolize true love—mixing something personal with something meaningful.”

True love?

The thought hits me hard. Do I love her? I’m not sure if that’s what this is. But I can’t deny that whatever I feel for Ana is stronger than anything I’ve felt for anyone else. I want her. I want her more each day.

“Her eyes are blue,” I say, a bit softer this time.

“Forget-me-nots,” he suggests, walking me over to a section of delicate blue flowers, petals soft like velvet, the color just like her eyes—deep and unforgettable.

They’re perfect. Like she is.

“I’ll take them,” I say.

I watch as he carefully picks the bluest ones, their light veins almost transparent in the right light. He arranges them with precision, but as I watch, I decide not to take them to her myself. Maybe it’s better this way. The flowers can speak for me. At least they won’t betray my inner turmoil.

I hand over my business card with Ana’s office address written on the back of it. “Have them delivered. Call me when she receives them.”

As I leave, I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think. I hope she understands the gesture. I don’t say the right things when it comes to her. Hell, I don’t even know what the right things are.

I’m back in my office, my mind half on Bianchi and the unfinished business I have with him, and half on Ana. I haven’t heard from her since last night, and though I should be focusing on Bratva matters, my mind drifts back to her.

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