Page 7 of Bloody Lace

DIMITRI

I’ve just leaned across the bar to get my third vodka with lime for the night when someone taps me on the arm. I turn, expecting it to be Nicci Armand—the woman I’m here with tonight—and I’m startled to see my right-hand man Vik instead, the head of my security.

“Ser, I need to talk to you. In private.”

I frown, giving the bartender a quick, grateful nod before breaking away with my drink in hand. Nicci is nowhere to be seen, which is a relief. This is only the third of a number of holiday parties I’m meant to attend this season—which means I’m supposed to be attending them withher—and I’m already exhausted with her company.

Which makes it worse that by the time the new year rolls around, I know I’m expected to have put a ring on her finger. She’s upset that I haven’t done it yet—I know that, too. Just as surely as I know that I’m stalling.

Why, I can’t be sure. I know the arrangements my father has made, and I know the inevitability of the match. But regardless, I keep putting off the moment of no return for as long as possible.

“I’m sorry to pull you away from the party,” Vik says apologetically, as he pulls me into a side room, flipping on the light and giving it a quick, visual once-over for any cameras.

“Don’t be,” I tell him flatly, leaning against the table in the center of the room as I take a sip of my drink. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll be less flippant when you hear.” Vik runs a hand over his short, bristly white-blond hair. “There’s been trouble in the east part of your territory in the city. A few businesses attacked. Looks like the Crows are up to their antics again. Someone reported seeing a few of their guys stopping by businesses, talking up the owners.” He pulls out a folded manila envelope from the inside of his jacket and tosses it onto the table, and I open it up, sliding out several grainy, dark photos.

It’s hard to make out exactly where these were taken, or who the business owners are—or even exact features of the gang members in the photo. But I can see the crude shape of the symbol on their vests, and I frown, irritated.

“How are they continuing to be such a pain in our asses? Put them down. They’re nothing but a jumped-up gang. They have no business in Bratva territory.”

“They have some connection to the Yakuza, I hear. Your father is concerned with making thekumichoangry, if that’s true. You know they have some territory bordering us. And occasionally they have to let our product slip through.”

“Then we need to find out if those rumors of connection are true,” I bite out. “If they’re trying to extort and cause trouble inourterritory, then how does it look if we let it slide? Like a wolf with no teeth.Otetsshould know this.” My jaw tightens, years-long frustrations with my father threatening to rise to the surface. I’m his heir, but he doesn’t give me the authority he should. Meanwhile, he hesitates to act in almost every circumstance, weakening our position and what I stand to inherit.

Nicci is another example of that. If I were going to marry for business rather than desire, I would have chosen to try to make an alliance with one of the other, powerful families. One of the Italian daughters, or the Irish, or even another Bratva daughter from one of the families on the West Coast. But instead, my father has shoehorned me into a marriage with the daughter of one of his wealthy business associates, claiming that the marriage will bring more money into our empire and fund the endeavors that we’ve been trying to branch out into. Her family is Parisian money, highly wealthy, but not what I’d choose for an alliance.

I wouldn’t choose her for anything, frankly. My only consolation is that there’s no real expectation that I’ll be faithful in the marriage, or anything resembling a loving or present husband. Nicci knows as well as I do that the match is for money and status. But that bothers me, too—because deep down, if I did marry, I’d prefer that it be to someone I wanted to come home to every night. I can already charm my way into any bed that I please, I have no desire to add guilt to those exchanges. Secrecy has never added spice to sex for me.

But, as usual, I push that problem away to deal with at a later time. Right now, it appears, I have bigger problems.

“Do you have a list of businesses that were targeted tonight yet?” I ask, and Vik nods, pulling another sheet of paper out of the inner pocket of his jacket and handing it to me.

There’s three—a credit union, a bakery, and a clothing boutique. The moment I see the boutique—Pearls and Lace—and the owner’s name under it, I pause.

I hadn’t known the name of the business, but I would recognize the woman’s name listed next to it anywhere. I haven’t forgotten it since her best friend called it out, just after I’d caught the woman when she nearly fell on an icy sidewalk outside the Met.

Evelyn Ashburn.

I looked for her after that night. All I had was a first name and an occupation, and in a place like New York City, that isn’t actually all that much to go off of. But I also have connections, and I wasn’t above using them to find out who the woman that enchanted me that night at the Met was.

I found out her full name, easily. It was on the guest list for the party that night. But shortly after that, my father announced his machinations to arrange a relationship between myself and Nicci, one that I tried to dodge for months before finally accepting the inevitability. I’d been distracted, and then once the dust settled, I knew there was no point in looking for Evelyn further. From that one meeting, I garnered that she isn’t the type of woman to agree to be a man’s mistress, and I wouldn’t insult her by asking.

Now, the first thing I feel, when I see her name on the slip of paper Vik handed me, is elation. And then I instantly feel guilty, because I’m only seeing this on account of her business having been targeted. Targeted, specifically, by an organization out to hassle me and my family.

I need to find a way to make this right.

Selfishly, I know it’s because it gives me a reason to go and find her—even save her, once again. I’ve barely even glanced at who the other two businesses belong to, and I can’t make myself focus on them long enough to take in more than the cursory information. My mind is filled with thoughts of Evelyn last year—the way her curves felt in my arms when I caught her, the orange and clove scent of her perfume, the softness of her hair when it fell across my arm. The shape of her back under my hand, as I danced with her.

The way she so blatantly refused me, shrugging off my attempts to charm her, and disappearing into the night. I can’t remember any woman ever having done that. Sex and pleasurehas always come to me as easily as breathing, to the point that all of the women who have found their way into and out of my bed have begun to blur together.

But Evelyn didn’t come easily. She didn’t come at all. She left me on that dance floor, assured me that we would never see each other again, and disappeared into the night.

Was it really a year ago?I hadn’t realized that time had passed so quickly. But looking down at the paper, I’m seized with an inescapable need to go and find out exactly what has happened to Evelyn’s business. To go and findher.

“Call the car around, Vik,” I tell him abruptly. “We’re going to go look into this.”

“Of course,ser. I recommend we go and see the damage done to the credit union first, I believe we have a few accounts?—”

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