Page 30 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Wordlessly, Aleksey leaves the table at once and goes to the bar, leaving me alone with my fiancée.

“Derzhatel obschaka,” she says. “I thought Bogan would wait until we were married.”

I look closely at her. Flawless porcelain skin, green shimmering eyes. She is no less beautiful than she was before I became second-in-command of the Dubrovsky Bratva, and yet I’m no more interested.

“Why’s that?” Not that I care. I’m just not drunk enough to tell her to go. Yet.

“To keep our marriage pact alive.”

“I wasn’t aware it was dying.”

She shrugs. “My father wanted me to… make sure that was the case.” Her dress is low-cut and when she moves her right shoulder down, the front gapes open. I wonder if Leonid told her to dress like this, to try to tempt me into touching her, prove that my family is still committed to this union.

I know I should do it. She’s beautiful, she is here, and fucking her would be fulfilling my duty to my family.

But I can’t.

For three days straight, my cock has been an unforgiving steel rod. Now, when I want it to work, when I need to prove that I’m not hung up on Corinne, I can’t get so much as a twitch.

Both women are beautiful. Both sexy. My past and my future. And one is right here, ready, willing.

Katerina is my future.

But Corinne is my everything.

Shit.

“Hold that thought.” Her mysterious smile is as dazzling and sparkling as her five-carat earrings. “I need to talk with Aleksey. I’ll be back.”

With a little luck, I can sneak outside. I try to remind myself of the facts as I go. Katerina is going to be my wife because I amderzhatel obschaka. Corinne is my past, and in a week, she’ll be out of my life again. And then I can get past all the nostalgia that makes me want her.

One week, and I can get on with my life with Katerina.

One week. That’s it.

9

Corinne

Eggs are on the stove. Toast is in the toaster. The smell of bacon is filtering through the air. And all I can think of is that bag of money sitting undisturbed on the table.

So.

Much.

Money.

It’s not my money. Not Tomas’ money, either. He doesn’t even care about it. It’s Italian gangster money.

But it would make such a difference for Mom and Dad. And if gangster money can do some good, it might as well be for good people like my parents, right?

Mom has worked at that damn supermarket since I was ten. She makes next to nothing. Poor Dad has spent the last thirty years hauling concrete, working in the heat of summer and the coldest of Massachusetts winters. This money could change their lives. It would let them through until I can open my own firm and make sure they’re lounging poolside in a senior community in Florida. They deserve it.

Every month, when I don’t have to pay student loan payments, I think of Dad and how he agonized over me not getting to go to my university of choice because of the cost. How embarrassed he was when some uncle of his left behind an inheritance no one knew about.

I didn’t understand it then, but taking that money hurt Dad’s pride. It made him feel like he couldn’t support his family. But I never looked at it that way. Dad used the money for my education when he could’ve used to buy them a new house or to make their lives easier.

I owe my folks. I could help them out, right here, right now. All I have to do is grab the bag and run.

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