I’m dressed and presentable within the next fifteen minutes, thanks to Chastity’s help, and I lead my escort down the stairs to the breakfast room, where the sounds of boisterous conversation are already filtering out.
“I’m itching to get back in the ring and bust some jaws,” Sandro says as he cracks his knuckles and throws a few air punches.
After a week in their company, I’ve learned to tell him apart from his identical twin, Raf, by the tattoo of an eight-point nautical star beneath the outside corner of Sandro’s right eye.
But even without the distinctive feature, I would be able to identify him quickly by his penchant for fighting. Raf, on the other hand, seems more subdued.
Smart but almost obsessively focused on making those who hurt their family pay.
I’ve learned to cut both twins a wide berth because of their more menacing unpredictability.
Gio, on the other hand, seems rather levelheaded compared to the rest of the brothers that I’ve met.
A fact he proves once again as he claps Sandro on the shoulder. “I don’t think the Murrays will be welcoming you back to their fighting pits anytime soon, brother.”
“Yeah, considering they were right there destroying our family home alongside the Tanakas and Novikovs,” Raf growls, spearing a forkful of eggs on his plate as if they personally insulted him.
Sandro shifts uncomfortably in his seat, wary concern etching his face as he studies his twin.
He looks unsettled by the dark, spiteful storm that roils inside Raf.
Not that I can blame him.
After finding out his wife was killed in the attack on their family, I can see why Raf’s fury seems to bubble just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. Still, his anger slows my steps at the doorway.
As if sensing my presence, Miko shifts his gaze in my direction, his blue eyes penetrating as he finds me. “Good morning,” he says, from his seat at the head of the table.
His deep voice captures his brothers’ attention, and they turn their heads to give me a casual greeting before promptly going back to ignoring me.
“Good morning,” I murmur, turning my attention to the sideboard that holds a wide variety of breakfast options to make myself a plate.
By the time I take a seat, it’s as if the brothers have completely forgotten my existence—aside from their subtle switch from English to Italian.
It’s a sure sign that they still don’t trust me, and they don’t want me to know what they’re talking about. They do it often enough, and while I wonder if it’s an intentional effort to alienate me, it’s also the main reason I choose to join them for breakfast every morning.
Because this is where the important information trickles in. And my ears perk up as I listen without making it obvious that I understand them.
After all, I was raised to be a perfect Russian bride—an asset to my husband, so I know all the languages I might need to eavesdrop on critical conversations.
Not that I intend to do anything to hinder the Chiaroscuro brothers’ plans. I could care less about their revenge.
I just hope to pick up on some intel that could help me leave this life behind.
And until I do, I’ll play along with becoming Miko’s bride. Because clearly, outright defying him isn’t working. I’ll have to be sneakier if I want to make it out of here alive.
“You ready for the big day, brother?” Gio asks in Italian, turning his attention to Miko as he switches to their native tongue.
I keep my eyes on my plate, pretending not to understand the question, but my heart skips a beat when Miko glances in my direction.
“I’m ready to do what’s necessary,” he states.
Something inside me cracks, my heart sinking a fraction of an inch at the lack of emotion in his tone.
My response surprises me. I didn’t realize that, despite my best efforts to be realistic about what this marriage is about, something of the romantic deep inside me refuses to die out.
And in the days since Miko freed me from Pyotr’s reign of terror, some of that idealism must have trickled through the cracks, bringing to life a seed of hope—at least until Miko’s lackluster response killed it stone dead.
“I’m surprised by the level of success we’ve had in pulling together a strategic guestlist,” Raf states. “Based on who has RSVP’d—beyond the Italian families who are still loyal to us—despite such short notice, I’d wager the Irish are less than happy about the way the Murrays have handled things.”
