Page 84 of Mafia King's Bride

I can’t tell her. The words stick in my throat like I’ve swallowed a fistful of sand.

Instead, I crumble into Daria’s arms, sobbing. The deal I made with Papa already feels like a noose around my neck. The thought of life without Dmitri—his stubble scratching my chin when he kisses me, his warm hands making me feel safe—it’s like someone’s taken a cheese grater to my soul.

And Yelena. Oh God, Yelena. My partner in retail crime, my unexpected bestie. What am I supposed to do without our therapy sessions at Bloomingdale’s? She was the first person in forever to make me feel like I belonged somewhere.

What’s she going to think when I leave?

“I don’t know what else to do, Daria,” I choke out, trying to muffle a sob that threatens to shake the whole building. “I can’t...I can’t think of any other way to stop my father from going full Rambo.”

“Oh, Anastasia,” Daria croons, probably wishing she’d called in sick today. “You don’t have to be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You can let go. It’s not going to be your fault.”

But it will be, won’t it? If I call Papa’s bluff, he’ll go after Dmitri, guns blazing. I’ll have to live knowing I could’ve prevented a bloodbath.

Some choice, huh? It’s like being asked if I’d rather lose an arm or a leg.

I cry for what feels like centuries. Daria, bless her heart, lets me turn her shirt into a Kleenex. When I finally pull myself together, I feel like I’ve been through a human car wash.

“Thank you, Daria,” I manage to croak out.

She nods, clearly holding back from saying more. “If you ever need help, you can come to me, okay? I promise I’ll be here.”

I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Thanks.”

I shuffle out of the building, feeling about as lively as a deflated balloon. The waterworks start up again as soon as I’m in my car. I sit there for an hour, crying until I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly solved California’s drought problem.

But I can’t go home yet. Dmitri will take one look at me and know something’s up. He’s like a human lie detector, and right now, I’m a walking, talking fib.

So, I do what any sensible person would do when their life is falling apart—I head to a bar. Tucked away in a corner, nursing a glass of Chardonnay, I try to figure out how the hell I’m going to pull this off.

By the time I crawl back to my car, I feel like I’ve aged a decade. Is this what it feels like to be caught between a rock and a hard place? Because if so, I’d like to file a complaint with whoever’s in charge of metaphors.

“Ana?”

Dmitri’s voice catches me off guard. He’s awake, sitting on the sofa in our room when I walk in.

“Hey,” I say, trying to smile. It’s forced, and I pray he doesn’t see right through me.

His brows furrow, and I can feel my facade crumbling. “What’s wrong?” he asks, taking my hands and gently pulling me to the bed. We sit on the edge, his arm around me, holding me close. “What happened?”

Tears well up in my eyes again, and I blink rapidly, willing them away. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

“Make love to me,” I whisper.

It’s the only thing I can think of to ease the ache in my heart, to distract myself from the weight of what I’m about to do.

Dmitri looks confused, but he nods. His lips meet mine in the gentlest, sweetest kiss he’s ever given me. He lays me down on the bed as if I might shatter at any moment.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

I wrap my arms around him and kiss him firmly. I try to memorize every touch, every sensation, knowing that soon, it will all be just a memory.

But even as I lose myself in Dmitri’s embrace, a single tear escapes, rolling down to my ear. It’s a quiet reminder of the countdown that’s begun, of the heartbreak that’s waiting just around the corner.

I hold onto Dmitri tighter, wishing I could freeze time and stay in this moment forever. But I know I can’t.

So, I close my eyes, willing every second of this night to imprint in my memory.

THIRTY-TWO

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