Page 2 of Big Bad Wolf

My blood pressure rises exponentially with every word Nikolai utters. The fact that he not only commented on her appearance but used the word fuck in reference to her makes me want to rip his head off his body. No one will miss him.

“Shut up, Nik. Vas knows better than to pursue a senator’s daughter,” my father addresses his brother but keeps his gaze trained on me. The corner of his mouth tips into a smirk that quickly disappears. “Don’t you? You know that crooked bastard is terrified the press has finally caught wind that he’s in bed with the Sicilians. He’s trashed all his credibility and will have no qualms using his daughter to ally himself with a legitimate family by marrying her off before his next election. Scarlett will be the glue that binds them. Their wedding will create a distraction and new money will ensure he has a cushy life when he retires.” Although my father’s words don’t surprise me, they sting nonetheless.

Acid rises from my churning stomach, clogging my throat with the pain of words I can’t utter out loud.

Naturally perceptive, my father lifts an eyebrow as his forehead creases with justifiable concern. He’s already guessed my interest has more to do with obtaining Scarlett than revenge on her corrupt father, but he’s beginning to realize he’s underestimated my affection.

“You don’t fool me, Vas. As much as I appreciate your sudden enthusiasm for negotiations, you don’t start a war with the Sicilians over a piece of ass,” he scoffs, then takes a long, slow drink, stifling a grin as he waits for my reaction. He’s always been a cruel bastard. But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

I blow out a sharp breath, and my upper lip curls into a snarl. He loves to bust my chops. “Are we done, old man? If you’re too frightened to take on the Sicilians, then retire and let me do the heavy lifting. Either way, I’ll get what I want.”

“Watch it, Vasily. Not even my son is above the rules.” My father’s voice deepens as he offers a stern warning.

I’m playing chicken with one of the most powerful men in New York. He’s not the kind of man who would kill his only son, but he could easily exile me to Russia. He’s issued that threat repeatedly since I turned eighteen.

“We’ll talk later. I have somewhere I need to be.”

ChapterTwo

Itake a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping to escape the outside world for a few more seconds. When the ache in my chest is too much to bear, I exhale loudly and place my hand on my forehead, trying in vain to steady my dizzy head. The half-melted candle on the red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth flickers from the rush of air, and a nearby patron angles her head to inquire about my health.

“Are you okay, darling? You look flushed.” An elderly woman with kind eyes leans toward my table. She reminds me of my grandmother with perfectly styled hair and extravagant baubles that appear out of place at Gennaro’s, a historic trattoria on the Lower East Side.

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” I smile at the woman and pretend I’m overheated, waving my hand in front of my face like a fan.

She offers a warm grin and returns to regaling her husband about the events of her day. My heart skips a beat, and I imagine someday growing old with the man of my dreams—wherever he may be.

Although, I’m beginning to wonder if he exists at all.

I’d like to believe I’m a reasonably attractive girl. Am I delusional?

People have told me I turn heads. Were they lying?

I should have taken advantage when I had the chance. Like a fool, I assumed a line of men would be waiting for me when I was finally ready to enjoy the company of the opposite sex. Lately, men have treated me like I’m radioactive. They see me coming and then run the other way. If they ask me out, they either stand me up or end the date early.

Did I peak too soon?

I shake my head and reach for my wine, slurping obnoxiously as I try to wipe those thoughts from my mind. It took weeks to get these reservations, and I won’t let my dumb insecurities ruin my dinner.

Gennaro’s has the best lasagna in Lower Manhattan and allows me the privacy I crave. Typically, I have an entourage of Secret Service trailing me at my father’s command. He’s always terrified I’ll do something to embarrass him and ruin his chances in the upcoming election. It’s his last, and he’d like to go out with a bang. As expected, his security team declined to follow me here.

Gennaro’s is a neighborhood favorite with Sicilian gangsters looking for somewhere to do business, and it’s one of the few places my father’s men would never be caught dead. They’re too paranoid about appearing on the front page of theNew York Daily,commiserating with criminals.

Their hypocrisy isn’t lost on me. My father is the king of criminals—but he commits his offenses in the halls of Congress versus the streets of New York.

It’s not like I plan to participate in shenanigans. My best friend, Sybil, snagged orchestra seats toRomeo and Juliet, and there’s no way on earth I’d miss it. I know that doesn’t seem like a wild time, but I’ve never been much of a party girl. I’ve longed to see this ballet for years, but it hasn’t returned to the city since the month before my mother passed away. Chemotherapy made us miss it then, and I won’t miss it again. I’m attending for both of us this time.

Given my record of being a world-class crybaby, I don’t need a group of men in black suits and earpieces hovering nearby, watching me lose my composure. It’s bad enough that their constant presence leaves no room for anonymity. For once, I’d like a quiet evening with friends, doing girl things without worrying about what may get back to my father.

I lift my wrist to check my watch and grimace at the time. The girls are twenty minutes late for our pre-show carb loading. If I eat more bread, I won’t have any room for the main course, and I’ve fasted most of the week anticipating a generous helping of lasagna. Frustrated but trying to keep my cool, I clutch my glass of wine and take another generous swig, hoping they arrive before I drink myself under the table.

It’s not like Sybil to be late, and Tasha texted me over an hour ago to say she was ready to go. They’ve just returned from a work trip overseas but it’s still incredibly uncharacteristic of them.

I hope nothing’s wrong.

“I’ll have another glass of Chianti, please,” I ask a lingering server who gives me a sympathetic gaze, probably assuming I’ve been stood up. There’s no sense in clearing up his conclusions. When the girls arrive, he’ll put two and two together.

And why do I care either way? I need to stop worrying about what strangers think of me and live on my terms. Tonight, that means Chianti, the ballet, and a plate of lasagna that melts in my mouth.

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