Page 82 of Mafia King's Bride

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Why didn’t you call then?” I ask, channeling my inner Yelena. “You could’ve asked me over for dinner, you know.”

Papa sighs like he’s auditioning for a soap opera. “I wasn’t sure if you’d forgiven me. I wanted to give you time. Be less overbearing.”

Right, because ghosting your daughter is the epitome of being overbearing. “I see,” I say, biting my tongue. “So why the summons now? And please stop using Viktor as your messenger pigeon. I have a phone, remember?”

He offers an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry. I won’t lie, I use Viktor because it’s the only time he’ll come around to see me.”

Well, that’s news to me. “I thought Viktor started working for you?” I prod. “He told me a few weeks ago he was joining the family business.”

Papa strokes his cheeks, looking every bit the troubled Bratva boss. “He is, but we only talk about work. I’ve tried inviting him for dinner, but he always declines. You’ll help me talk to him, won’t you?”

Great, now I’m the family therapist. But I can’t help wondering why Viktor’s keeping Papa at arm’s length. If it’s because of me, well, that’s a whole other can of worms.

Time to change the subject. “I heard you met with Dmitri the other day,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Something about uniting our families?”

I don’t mention forgiveness. Papa’s pride is as fragile as a house of cards, and I’m not in the mood to deal with it.

But instead of elaborating on this supposed deal, Papa’s face darkens faster than a storm cloud.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my stomach doing somersaults.

He pushes back from his desk, chair scraping across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. His shoulders are so tense, I’m half expecting them to snap.

“Papa,” I say, worry creeping into my voice, “what’s going on?”

He fixes me with a look that could freeze hell over. “He told you about it? Do you think he bought the idea of a partnership? Did he look like he believed it when I asked for forgiveness?”

I blink, feeling like I’ve missed a crucial page in the script. “Uh, I guess? He seemed fine. We didn’t really discuss it much. We were kind of busy having dinner, you know?”

Papa exhales, settling back into his seat. He leans forward, hands on the desk, and I mirror his posture, bracing myself for whatever bomb he’s about to drop.

“Everything I said to him was a lie.”

Well, there it is. The other shoe, dropped with all the subtlety of a piano in a cartoon.

He smiles, and it’s the most chilling thing I’ve ever seen. “To make Dmitri Orlov think I’m weak. Apakhanlike me, apologizing? I might as well hand over my tough guy card. But I did it because I have a plan.”

Alarm bells are going off in my head like it’s New Year’s Eve in Times Square. “What kind of plan?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“I never forgave him for taking you from me,” Papa hisses, his voice cold as ice. “You were the one person who mattered most to me, Anastasia, and he knew it. I would’ve let it go if he took some territory or seized my business, but you?” He laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound. “I’m going for revenge.”

Oh, God. This is not happening. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to start a war,” I plead. “You know how the last one ended. You know how these Bratva wars turn out.”

He shrugs like we’re discussing the weather, not potential bloodshed. “This isn’t some hasty plan, Anastasia. It’s why I haven’t contacted you for months. I’ve been planning, gathering my people, waiting for the right moment. And I’ve found it. You,” he reaches for my hands, but I pull away, “only need to ensure he’s at the right place at the agreed upon time.”

I stand up so fast my chair nearly topples over. “You aren’t going to use me as a pawn anymore. I did that once, paying for your mistake by marrying a man I didn’t love.” I fold my arms, trying to look braver than I feel. “You need to fight your own battles.”

Papa approaches me, but I hold up a hand to stop him. I’m the only one who knows what I went through, and I won’t do it again.

“I’m sorry,dochka,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “But I promise you, this time, I’m putting that bastard down for good.”

The realization hits me like a freight train. “You’re planning to kill my husband?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t torment our family again,” he replies, like he’s suggesting we try a new restaurant. “You know it, Ana. I wouldn’t do this if I had other options.”

I grit my teeth, anger bubbling up inside me. “Dmitri will end you. You don’t know what he’s done to people who’ve tried to stab him in the back. Plus, you’re planning to kill the man I fell in love with.”

“You don’t love him,” Papa snaps. “At best, you have Stockholm syndrome, and that’s my fault. Let me make things right, darling. I’ll even give you what you’ve always been asking for,” his voice softens, “a real position in the family business.”

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