Page 19 of The Bratva Contract
“Oh really? I did not know you had such an interest in fashion.”
“I don’t, but I appreciate beautiful things, and your left shoulder slipping out of that fur is downright exquisite.”
“All this time I wear sexy sparkly dresses to catch your eye and all it takes is an old coat?” she teases me, her voice like syrup.
“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” I tell her, and I know I’ve said too much. She could wear whatever she wanted and win me over. Letting her know that isn’t the best idea.
“So romantic, my Dima,” she croons and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, which I assume, or pretending for the photo crew.
“Did you like the flowers I sent?”
“You mean the hundreds of flowers that overflowed my office? I had to let my employees take some home,” she says, equal parts exasperated and flattered.
“I didn’t want you thinking I’d forgotten you,” I say. “Did you read the card?”
“Yes, you want to set up another appointment to discuss things. I know exactly what sort of appointment you mean, and I’ll schedule that for after we’ve said our vows.” She says sternly.
I can’t hide my disappointment when she makes it clear she’ll hold out another two weeks instead of doing what I want, which is walking off the shoot, sliding into a car, and calling me to meet her in whatever parking lot she lands in. The craving is that fierce. Two days ago I was buried to the hilt in her tight body, staring at the elegant curve of her back and the palm she slapped on my desk when she came. Right now I want to ditch this meeting, track her down, drag her from the interview, and pin her against the first wall we find.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not at your photo shoot, Karina. Because I’d make them clear the studio for us.”
“We’re outside. You’d be asking them to clear a rooftop. It’s too windy.”
“I’d warm you up,” I promise, my voice dropping to a low growl.
“You may be a man of leisure, but I have work to do now, my love. These excellent people are standing around waiting for me while I chat with you. I will see you later, darling,” she says, her voice sugary sweet. Then she hangs up and I get a message immediately reading, “Won’t see you later. I’ll see you at the ceremony.”
I should be furious, but I want to laugh instead. I feel lighter, electrified by our conversation and the energy I felt crackling through the phone every time she said a word. Before I return to my meeting I message my secretary.
The wedding is lavish, the enormous church studded with candles and white silk, a profusion of lilies of the valley drips from tall vases. We compromised and had an evening wedding, not some bizarre torchlit midnight affair. A string ensemble plays Tchaikovsky as she walks down the aisle alone. Sergei is seated not in one of the pews but on a thronelike chair to the side of the altar.
Her wedding dress is a bespoke gown that seems to be two dresses at once. An ornate, off the shoulder silver and white sheath that molds to her body and flows almost like liquid mercury around her under the soft light. Framing that silhouette is an abundance of white netting, a voluminous skirt worked with threads of silver that catch the light. The silver part of the actual dress is probably structured like a skyscraper, but it gives the illusion that if she’d step into direct light, it would be transparent, like lace. The gown is at once opulent and racy, very much like Karina herself.
Between the dazzle of candlelight and silver thread and the sparkle of diamonds coiled in her dark hair, I’m nearly blinded by the sight. She grips my hand tighter than I expect when we repeat our vows. The reception is grindingly slow with extravagant courses served on China, magnums of champagne poured into delicate crystal flutes. It’s a spectacle befitting a union like ours, a marriage of elite families, their business interests joined for ever, a perfect wedding of influence and power.
Absorbed in a conversation with Sergei, who is so proud that I’m watching him for signs of a heart attack, I look for my bride and find that she’s off with her friends and cousins, laughing and dancing, drinking champagne. I excuse myself from my father-in-law and go take her by the hand.
“Did you want to dance?” she asks, giggling. I level a dark look at her.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her.
“Leaving? I thought we’d stay at least another hour,” she protests. I quell her with my look.
“Our flight,” I tell her pointedly. She nods, resigned, hugs her friends and follows me.
“Did you have to do that?” she demands the moment we step outside.
“Tell you it was time to go? As a matter of fact, I did. I have no intention of sitting with your father while you party until dawn.”
“No one would have kept you from partying if you wanted to,” she pouts.
“That’s not the kind of celebration I have in mind,” I say. “We’re flying to my casino in Montenegro tonight.”
“Oh,” she says. I expect her to say more, “So your idea of a celebration is to sit up on the plane for several hours and be dead tired when we get to some casino. I was having fun.”
“Not as much fun as we’re going to have. Take a nap on the plane so you can fully enjoy your wedding night. It’ll still be nighttime when we land, they’re a couple of hours behind our time.”
Karina cooperates but she’s obviously pissed about not getting her way, having to leave when she was the center of attention. It doesn’t bother me. In part because she doesn’t know what I have in store for her when we reach our penthouse suite.
