Page 53 of Santa Daddy
“Seventy-two hours,” Valentina reminded us cheerfully as she gathered her things. “Then bells, candles, music, and happily ever after.”
Happily ever after.
I didn’t bother to fake a smile.
When the door finally shut behind the last assistant, Dani turned to me, necklace glittering against her throat in the kitchen’s soft light, the smell of baked sugar still hanging in the air.
“What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”
I looked at the woman who’d become the axis my world was tilting around, standing in my kitchen in a half-pinned white gown, wearing my tracker like a promise.
“You have three days.” I said. “To become my wife by Christmas Eve. Or disappear.”
I didn’t say which option scared me more.
Either way, the clock was ticking.
11
MARKED TERRITORY
KONSTANTIN
The Christmas party was already in full swing by the time we arrived.
Laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thump of bass leaked down the hallway from the main room of the club. Someone had gone overboard with decorations out there—garlands on every railing, fairy lights netted across the ceiling, a twelve-foot fake tree drowning in red and gold. A live singer murdered jazz versions of carols over the sound system.
The back room where we were headed smelled like a different holiday.
Smoke. Sweat. Fear.
The private door muffled the party noise the second it closed behind us, turning the festive chaos into a dull hum. In here, the only lights were low amber sconces and the glow over the felt table in the center. A wreath hung crookedly on one wall, looking out of place among the framed photos of dead men and old scores.
Dani walked beside me in heels that tried to break her ankles and a red dress that was more suggestion than fabric. It caught the light from the lone string of white Christmas bulbs someone had lazily tacked along the ceiling. Her legs looked endless. Her dress looked like the answer to questions men here didn’t deserve to ask.
Every eye tracked her as we walked in.
Let them stare.
Let them imagine.
Then let them remember they’d lose teeth for making it more than that.
“Breathe,” I murmured against her ear as we approached the table. The scent of her hair cut through the stale cigar haze, something clean and warm. “You look like you’re walking to your execution.”
“Aren’t I?” she whispered back. Steel under the words. That steel hadn’t been there when I’d pulled her out of the tree lot.
The players around the table were the usual suspects. Men who’d earned their seats over years of doing things you didn’t talk about in daylight.
Krupin gave me a sharp nod as he stacked chips. Baranov raised his glass in greeting, his gold watch catching the glow from the single red candle stuck in the middle of the table as someone’s half-assed nod to “festive.”
At the far end sat Cyril Medvedov.
Rival boss. Old enemy. The kind of man who’d sell his entire bloodline for the right price and call it good business.
Christmas spirit, my ass.
“Konstantin,” Medvedov rasped, not standing. “And this must be the famous bride. Even lovelier than the rumors.” His gaze slid over Dani like he was browsing an auction catalog. “Your fiancée adds class to our little holiday gathering.”
