“I need to get laid,” she says loudly enough for half the bar to hear.
I cringe and stare into my glass. “So crass.”
She elbows me. “I think you do too.”
“Ugh. No.”
She narrows her eyes, watching me too closely. “Is there someone I don’t know about?”
“No,” I snap—too fast. She knows me better than anyone.
A slow grin spreads across her face. “Ah. The Campisi girl.”
“No, it’s nothing,” I repeat, but my voice is weak, and she knows she’s cornered me.
“It didn’t look likenothinglast night,” she says, sipping her wine with exaggerated calm. “It looked hot enough to melt paint off the walls.”
“She’s beautiful,” I concede. “But anyone with eyes can see that.”
“Beautiful, sure,” she says, leaning closer. “But whatever that was between you two? That wasn’t just two hot people dancing for the sake of diplomacy. You looked ready to kill anyone who tried to cut in.”
I don’t answer. My silence says enough.
Her brows shoot up. “Have you fucked her?”
I keep my mouth shut.
“Oh my God, Nikolai. Seriously? When? Just last night or…”
“Shut it, sister,” I growl through my teeth.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement now. “You have to tell me everything. This is huge. Like—huge. What are you going to do? Are you in love with her?”
“I don’t do love,” I say flatly. “You know that.”
My sister makes a doubtful sound. “You always say you don’t do love,” she says slowly, “but I’m pretty sure you would, if it were the right match.”
“Match,” I echo with a humorless laugh. “Matches are political. What political sense wouldthatmake?”
“A lot, actually.” Her eyes glint with mischief as she leans in. “Think about it. Lars and Antonio are in that room right now, hammering out whatever tenuous agreement comes from the bombshell you dropped today. You forced him into a corner, and now he has to play nice in the sandbox. But he’ll be seething about it, right? So offer yourself up. Say you’ll marry his daughter and unite the Barkovs and the Campisis. Together, it would be…”
She makes an exploding head gesture.
I stare at her, caught between disbelief and reluctant curiosity. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell Don Campisi would ever allow it, but I can see the logic in my sister’s idea.
Still—marriage? The thought alone makes my stomach turn. Not because I don’t believe in the idea, but because I know exactly how it can be weaponized. Love makes you reckless. It makes you weak. I’m already a wreck thinking about someone using Misha against me. Or Lars. Or Volya. The idea of a wife, or children, being pawns? Unbearable.
“No.” It’s all I can manage to say out loud.
“Just… no?” she pushes. “Maybe it would be a good match. It could open doors for both families, perhaps even preventing what feels like an inevitable war. You should go talk to them about it right now.”
I groan and drag a hand down my face. “No. Go away. Go… find someone to bother. Whatever.”
“Gladly. Killjoy.” She huffs, rolling her eyes before strutting off toward a group of Barkov men fresh in from Russia. She lays a hand on the bicep of one of the younger ones, and he beams at her like he just won the fucking lottery.
Shovingthe thought of my sister’s sexual exploits way, way down into a pit, and deciding the best possible outcome tonight is a blackout.
I’m going to get blind drunk.
