Page 17 of King’s Promise

Arranged marriages, huh. Is it possible I’m better off with him than taking a crap shoot with another? Sergei looks more like a movie star than a member of the Bratva with his dark brown eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses. He’s slick and knows what to say in every situation. What was I thinking with my foolish crush on him? He’s flashy, insincere and nothing like Nikolay.

I’m envious of the fact he doesn’t have to hide all his feelings in situations, unlike Nikolay. He’s been a part of our family since I was thirteen, coming from our hometown in Russia. I glance around to find him making the rounds with his “brothers” in what appears to be subdued conversations.

Mum calls for toasts. The room falls silent.

“To my dear husband. The man I loved; may he rest in peace.”

The group chimes in with “here, here” before sipping their drinks. The toast rolls around the room and stops with me. I snag a glass of white wine off the table and lift it.

“To Papa.” I hope it’s sufficient and take a sip. What can I say about a man I didn’t respect? Sure, he kept a roof over our head, but there were no bedtime stories, no showing up at school events. He was an absentee father even though we lived in the same house. Someone else toasts and as others chime in, I breathe a sigh of relief I didn’t have to make a drawn-out speech.

“Well done,” Nikolay whispers in my ear. His warm breath caresses my neck. My skin is peppered with bumps of … excitement? Anticipation? We’re flirting with the inevitable, he knows it, I know it. I’m wondering what his plans are. We’ve not discussed much of anything; we keep to our own rooms and only bump into each other in common areas and dinner.

“Thank you.” I’m ashamed I told him about taking care of everyone when I lived here. It’s not something we advertise in Russia; women are expected to do what I did and more. Only it should have fallen to my mother.

I glance at Mum, who appears to be stronger than I remember. She was a wreck a few days ago and now she is a confident widow. I wonder at the sudden change in a woman who lived under Papa’s iron fist. Could she have someone new? How can she so easily transition after years of marriage?

“Your mother appears to be doing well,” Nikolay comments.

It’s irritating how he reads my mind. Does he pick up on my body tensing with anticipation whenever he’s near? Does he know I long for his touch? How well does he know me? I’m afraid to find out. He’s a man who by all accounts has enjoyed the bachelor life for years. In the Bratva, most men promise to never marry and live the playboy lifestyle and all it entails. And most mafia men have mistresses, will he have one as well?

My sister has been busy online this week and sent me screenshots of Nikolay’s yacht and articles about his nightlife here in London as the CEO of a huge hotel chain. I have no doubt women find him appealing. His aloof manner and indifference to everyone is the biggest come on ever.

“Yes, I was thinking that myself. I’m tired, can we leave?”

He takes the still filled wine glass out of my hand and puts it on the table with his. “We’re leaving,” he announces, giving me a small smile.

“Thank you.” I take in the room one last time as a single woman. I text my sister from the Range Rover on the way home to tell her we left.

Home, funny how I’ve not been there long and yet, it’s become my sanctuary. I like Hazel, she’s sweet with a warm heart, older than my mother and more enjoyable. It’s nice to have an ally in the house, someone I can go to for advice and not be judged for it.

* * *

True to his word,Alex brings the Range Rover around to take me to school. I have no idea how he will blend in. My initial concerns about more murders have considerably subsided.

“I think this is unnecessary,” I complain to Alex from the backseat. It seems I’m making myself stand out with all the fuss.

“I have my orders.”

I stare at the back of his head and try to remember he’s seen a rougher side of life, and this is a huge step up for him. I heard he’s from a poor section of London.

He parks and we get out. I grab my backpack and take a familiar path to a large lecture hall where class is held.

“What are you going to do? Lurk?” I stare at him like he’s an imposition.

“If that’s what I need to do, yes.”

“Will everyone know you’re Mafia?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Your father was murdered, and he was of considerable wealth. I don’t find it hard to comprehend your need for protection. There are others here from dynasties who have security in the shadows, you just can’t pick up on them as they blend in, having been trained well.”

Good point. I hope he’s right. Meanwhile, no one here knows it was my father who committed suicide and I have to pretend it never happened or I blow my cover.

I sit in the theater and my friend, Darci, joins me.

“What’s with the goon in the back?”

“Security, I suppose,” I reply with no explanation, and she doesn’t seem phased.

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