Page 16 of Dark Desires
"Can you believe this? It’s like we're in some mafia romance novel or something. Anyway, what do you even know about this guy?”
"Just that he’s Bratva. The Ivanov Bratva, I think. Uncle Domenico says he’s not a full-blooded Ivanov, though. And that’s the extent of my fairy-tale prince dossier."
We head downstairs, the topic shifting to something less medieval.
"And how’s it going with Omar? You know, the guy you actually like?" I nudge her as I speak, hoping to steer us toward normalcy—or whatever version of normal we can get around here.
Her face lights up at the mention of her secret love.
"Omar’s amazing. But with all this," she gestures vaguely, encompassing the looming portraits and probably the lurking bodyguards, "I’m supposed to marry someone else."
"I don't know, Steph. Just tell my father you’re in love and you don’t want this marriage of convenience, especially since it’s not convenient for you.”
“True love isn’t for girls like us. It’s for normal people.”
Part of me thinks she’s right. All the same, I take her hand and give it a squeeze.
"We'll figure this out. We always do, right?"
My attempt at reassurance is totally flimsy, but she offers a small smile in response.
Fairytales don’t belong to girls like us—ours come with bodyguards and bloodstained contracts.
I slip into the warm night, chandeliers spilling gold light through floor-to-ceiling windows.
My hand grips the cool brass handle.
Don’t puke on the marble.
My father lost his mind rushing this marriage. Tonight is Stephania’s rehearsal dinner, and it all feels so rushed and calculated.
I want it to be her fairytale.
But I know better.
The private dining room is a cathedral of crime disguised as elegance.
One long table stretches the length of the space, draped in white linen, glittering with crystal, heavy with gold flatware. Roses trail the center, candles throwing soft light across polished faces and sharper eyes.
Every chair holds someone who could ruin me with a single look. Every stare feels close enough to peel my skin.
And money. God, the money.
The Ivanovs fronted this dinner like they’ll front the entire wedding. A quiet flex that screams: we own this city. And maybe, you.
Mario is glued to my shoulder, shadow and reluctant friend. “Everything alright, Miss Mancini?”
“Define ‘alright.’” I flash a grin. “If I knock over one of those candelabras, do they bill me or just have me whacked?”
“Both seems efficient,” he deadpans.
I laugh—too loud, too brittle. Then champagne wafts by, sharp and yeasty, and my stomach rolls in betrayal.
Not here. Not now.
I blink hard. Crystal. Linen. Roses. Pretend I’m steady.
“Isa!”
