Page 8 of The Bratva Contract
At least this cabbage is going to be dressed to kill.
Two hours of hair and makeup later, I’m confident he can’t ignore me. Not looking like this. My dark hair is a gleaming sable lion’s mane around my bare shoulders. My gown is a feat of engineering, slinky and almost liquid in movement and secured only by a slim gold buckle at my shoulder. I can’t wait till he sees me. The message will be loud and clear, peonies won’t tame me. Nothing will.
The dimly lit hotel ballroom drips with champagne-colored fabric and cream accents, all crystals and candlelight. Music battles with laughter and clinking glasses as I enter fashionably late. I spot him instantly, as if my eyes were trained to his height, the breadth of his shoulders, that powerful outline and unmissable presence. I’ve met him only once; he has no right to this much of my energy. Yet the moment my gaze adjusts to the dazzle, I zero in on him.
Head to toe in black, he’s unable to recede into shadows. The size of him and the energy that pulses off of him make it impossible for him to blend in to a crowd. I go to him as if drawn there. As soon as I appear at his elbow, he turns toward me, arm sliding possessively around my waist , pinning me to his side. He looks down at me, and I see the moment my dress registers with him, feeling him pinch the sheer fabric between his thumb and finger near my hip. I love watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, the only visible tell that I’ve got his attention now.
I expect a scene, a scolding. My intended will cut a formidable figure as he sternly tells me to go home and put on something decent, something less provocative. Perhaps he’ll make a crude remark that I look like someone he hired to whore for him, not a bride. But he wouldn’t lower himself like that. No, he spares me the one glance, swallows hard and returns to conversation with me hanging from his side like an ornament. I don’t like it and I have a feeling he knows that perfectly well.
He introduces me to the men flanking him, but I forget their names the moment he lifts my hand and brushes his mouth across my knuckles. The quick flick of his tongue tasting the salt of my skin sends a shock of heat straight through me. The impropriety rattles me more than my scandalous dress could ever rattle him, and goose bumps bloom along my arms.
“I have your ring, but I’d like to give it to you when we make the announcement,” he says, his voice low, intimate in a way that pulls at me. I can’t explain it, but I’m in his thrall now. Not because of a ring or an announcement. Because he can surprise me, because he’s going to be a lot of trouble but he’s sure as hell never going to be boring. I manage a light, silvery laugh.
“You know I don’t care about a ring,” I say with deliberate nonchalance.
“You’ll care about this one,” he says and there’s something level in his voice that sets me off balance a little. Suddenly I want to see the ring.
“I don’t wear much jewelry,” I point out, and it’s true. His fingertip glides over the narrow gold buckle at my shoulder, and heat flares low in my belly. The gesture feels private, almost indecent, and a flush creeps up my neck.
“Maybe I can change that,” he murmurs, then turns back to business as though he hasn’t rattled me to my core.
Finally a couple joins our group and the woman asks about wedding plans.
“Nothing definite yet,” he says. “We’re enjoying the ride too much to rush.”
“Oh, darling,” I coo, “we’re among friends, you can tell the truth,” I lean in closer to him and smile. “We plan to be married next month. I’ve hired Sigrid to plan it, of course.”
“Naturally,” the woman says. “Are you doing afternoon or evening?”
“Midnight,” I announce. “I’ve always wanted a candlelit ceremony. It’ll be black tie, naturally, followed by a late-night champagne breakfast, truffled eggs, caviar, everything I adore. Dima will handle the flowers; he’s so thoughtful with them, always spoiling me.” I add.
I can practically see the tic in his jaw. I’ve just announced my plans without consulting him, broadcasting to one of his close associates that we’ll wed at midnight, making it extravagant, strange, romantic.
Before he can rein me in, or ask whether I’m inviting ghosts to my Gothic festival, I slip away to greet guests. Soon I catch up with my cousin Josie, who is practically drooling. “I wish my dad owned more than a dry cleaner,” she says. “Then I could snag a man like that.”
“The only reason he wants me is for the bratva,” I reply. “Besides, he’s about as old as your dad.”
“True, but look at him, who cares?” she says, biting her lip. “I brought Mario with me, but he doesn’t seem like much fun now that I’ve seen the fiancé.”
“Mario can be a fun weekend,” I tell her. “Besides, nobody’s pressuring you to get married and pop out an heir or three.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she says with a gaze of slavish adoration toward my intended.
“I’mright here,Jos,” I say sarcastically.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s not like you love him or anything. I’m just enjoying the view. He is so hot,” she says.
“Yes, he is,” I admit grudgingly, “but it’s not going to be fun. I’m betting he’ll be all business, walk in, drop his pants, get himself off, and call it done.”
“Nah, look at the way he’s eating.”
I glance over just in time to watch my fiancé bite into the juicy flesh of a blood-orange slice that had been riding the rim of his drink. My palms go slick, my knees a little shaky. The tender, sugared citrus looks downright obscene between his teeth. I want to stride over, slap the fruit from his hand, and remind him that no one actually eats cocktail garnishes, for fuck’s sake, anything to knock my thoughts out of orbit around him.
Josie’s mom toasts my dad, and someone even older follows with a salute to my deceased father-in-law. I half expect every octogenarian in the room to totter up, glass raised, honoring one fossil after another. I snag a fresh flute of champagne from a passing waiter and a canapé from another. The fig-and-honey bite is so fantastic I grab a second. I’m halfway through a third, ravenous, when Josie elbows me.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of goat cheese. She nods toward the front, where my father and Dima have materialized beneath a spotlight, clearly waiting for me. I drain the rest of my drink and hand the glass to Josie. Squaring my shoulders, I strut the length of the room and take my place at Dima’s side.
His big hand curves around my hip, the sheer gold fabric crushed beneath his rough fingers. I feel the heat of his hand through the fabric. My father makes a toast, too long and meandering for anyone to enjoy it, and at last he welcomes my fiancé to the family to a round of thunderous applause. Everyone raises their glasses and toasts to our health. They clamor for a kiss. I’m ready to demur, offering him my cheek to kiss. He hasn’t said a word to me up here, with the bright light and all the eyes on us. He didn’t tell me I look beautiful or to watch my mouth and stop making his decisions. Nothing. I feel perilously close to a tantrum. He can even ignore me in this dress. It’s unbelievable, and I want to start screaming.
