Page 40 of Til Death Do Us Part (Kornilov Bratva Duet 2)

Molly

The restaurant is at the top of a skyscraper downtown. Three of the four walls in the dining room are floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is bathed in the faint glow of the city. Candles flicker on the round tables, a four-piece band plays softly in the corner, and everyone is dressed in their best.

And looking directly at me.

At us, really.

Viktor has his arm wrapped tightly around me, his fingers splayed across my hip, and I know I should feel nervous. Hell, an hour ago I was contemplating faking being sick and hiding under the covers. But now, standing next to Viktor with his arm around me, I can’t find the fear.

Somehow, while distracting Viktor in the car, I managed to distract myself, too.

The way his eyes traced my shape, the way he devoured me with his gaze, made me feel powerful. If I can bring a man as fierce as Viktor to his figurative knees, then what do I have to fear from anyone in this room?

He told me back at the apartment that he would take care of me—that he would take care of all of us—and I wanted to believe him. At least for tonight, I want to trust that I will be in good hands. I want to trust that he won’t let me make a fool of myself. So, to the best of my ability, I shed my nerves and fear and trepidation over meeting new people and making new alliances and focused on the one thing Victor and I have always had in abundance: chemistry.

Viktor wears a kind smile as we move through the room and greet his guests, but it is surface level. It doesn’t reach his eyes the way his smiles in the car did. This is business Viktor. Mafia boss Viktor.

And I’m his queen.

I hold my head high and shake the hands of women who, only a few months ago, would have found me undeserving of the energy it would take them to spit at my feet. Now, they bow their heads in small signs of respect and don’t make eye contact with Viktor as we pass. But I can feel their attention snag on the two of us. On Viktor’s hand claiming my waist and my body molded against his as though we are carved from the same clay. They may doubt whether we are equally matched in our marriage, but they won’t doubt whether there is passion.

In the center of the room, with a wide berth around them, stands a couple who I assume are the Irish boss and his wife. Viktor hastily described them in the elevator on our way up.

Seamus and Niamh are older than I expected them to be. He has a shock of gray hair and hers is pure white, but trimmed neatly around her ears. They smile as we approach, and Seamus extends his hand to Viktor while his wife smiles warmly at me.

I’m not sure what I expected of them, actually. Viktor told me this dinner was to create an alliance. I think I expected things to be more tense. To feel more like a hostage exchange. Instead, there are suits and kind smiles and pleasantries.

“Viktor,” Seamus says, turning to me and winking. “Your new wife is lovely. I expected nothing less.”

I meet his expectations even if he didn’t meet mine. That seems like a good thing.

It seems everyone was waiting for us to arrive because as soon as we greet Seamus and his wife, the rest of the guests begin moving towards their tables. Viktor presses his hand to my exposed lower back and leads me to a table just big enough for the four of us in the center of the room.

“You don’t even have to speak to impress these people,” Viktor whispers in my ear. “Your natural charm shines through.”

I’m not so sure Seamus wasn’t just commenting on my physical appearance, but I take the compliment, either way. Viktor’s confidence gives me some of my own.

I sit between Viktor and Niamh, and the two men begin talking immediately, speaking in quiet tones. I know they are talking business, but they look relaxed. I suppose they would. Criminal affairs are their work. Why should they be bothered about discussing such things openly?

“Hardly any small talk before they get down to business,” Niamh says next to me. She rolls her eyes playfully when I look at her. “Seamus has always been ninety percent business.”

“What of the other ten percent?” I ask.

Niamh’s eyes spark with mischief. “The other ten percent is why I married him, and I’m afraid it’s indecent dinner conversation.”

I cover my mouth with my hand and laugh, surprised by her forthrightness.

“I’m sure you understand,” she says, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear. “Why did you marry your Viktor?”

My Viktor. I do think of him that way. But only sometimes, when I lower my guard. When my thoughts are running away with themselves.

“I was drawn to him the first moment I ever saw him,” I say. “He seemed bigger than life. Tougher than everyone around him and firm in what he wanted. He overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t deny our chemistry.”

My answer is meant to make Viktor look strong, dominant. But I realize, halfway through, that the answer is true, too. For all of our struggles, I admire Viktor’s strength and our connection.

“He is protective, too,” I continue, brow knitted in thought. “Of me and our son. He loves the people in his life fiercely and is loyal to those who are loyal to him. He is a good man.”

I blink as if coming out of a trance and smile at Niamh. She is no longer looking at me, however. She is looking over my shoulder. I follow her gaze and see Viktor smiling at me. He was apparently eavesdropping on our conversation.

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