I flap my hand as though their concerns are nothing more than a bothersome insect. “They’ll get over it if they haven’t already.”
“They shouldn’t have to get over anything because you shouldn’t be marrying her. What were you thinking? How’s this going to look to Pavle when he picks a successor? He already favours Stefan and now you’re giving him even more reason to—”
“Christ, Mum. I’m getting married. Given the number of conversations that start and end with complaints about my non-existent love life, I thought you’d be more open to the idea.”
“There’s a difference between dating and marrying some spoilt princess who doesn’t understand the first thing about the real world.”
“Crimson understands more than you think.”
“Oh, please. She couldn’t even order for herself. Is this the first time she’s been to a restaurant that isn’t owned by an ally?”
I run a hand through my hair, wishing this lecture was three days behind me so the wounds had healed. “She didn’t order because you wouldn’t leave her alone long enough to read the menu.” I don’t answer the second half because my suspicion is she’s one hundred percent correct. “And this decision is made, so I’d appreciate if you got on board.”
“You can undo it. If you want my advice—”
I hold my hand up, but she barrels on regardless.
“—then you should tell her you made a mistake, say sorry, and get her on the next plane back to Christchurch. The syndicate is already up in arms about the Serbs encroaching on our territory without changing your surname to Petrovic.”
“Ciprian isn’t with the Serbs.”
“Of course, he is. The only thing more important than money is blood.”
I drop my voice low. “You can’t talk me out of this.”
She shifts in her seat, then stands. “I haven’t even started yet, so don’t make that bet too quickly.”
“I want her.”
My mother stops, a faint crease on her forehead showing how perplexed she is. Usually, she avoids expressions unless they do her benefit, afraid of the resulting lines if she indulges too often. “The business takes priority.”
I incline my head, not bothering to correct her. It’s my business and I decide what position it takes. After a short internal battle, I decide there’s no incentive in keeping that to myself. “If it comes down to a choice, I can rebuild.”
“Not without my blessing. I’m the one who got you started.”
Christ. Not this again. “It’s interesting. A few days ago, Thaddius claimed credit for all my achievements, now you. Is this a family trait I should be worried about?”
“The only family you should be worried about is the one who’s going to cause trouble if you insist on putting a ring on her finger.”
“She already has one.”
A war rages across my mother’s face. “Fine. Keep her. But knock her up the moment you get a chance. I suppose you’re working on that already?” She must read something because her snarl returns. “Let me guess. She’s a virgin. But you still want me to believe her father isn’t in deep with the Serbs.”
I’m not about to update her on Crimson’s actual status. I recall all too well how distraught she was at her dad discussing her virginity with me. I’m not about to discuss her lack of it with my mother. “It’s important to me that you be at our wedding.”
“Oh, really?” My mother’s snide tone is supported by her raised eyebrow and the expression of absolute disdain on her face. “Nice to know you’re still capable of thinking outside your immediate couple.”
“I imagine it’ll be special for Crimson, too. Considering her mother died of cancer, it’ll be nice to have a female influence around.” I lay my palms flat on the table. “If you’re going to be a positive one, that is. If you’re going to spend the next decade in a mood, then I can retract the invite.”
The muscles along the side of her jaw clench, then relax as she transforms her gritted teeth into a smile. “Of course, dear. You know I can be pleasant when I need to be.”
“Or the opposite when you want.”
“Give me a chance,” she snaps. “Your little wife isn’t the only person to have their life disrupted by your sudden decision.”
I move my gaze away, determined not to be riled. After spending twenty-six years in my mother’s company, I know she loves nothing more than a fight. I also know she doesn’t mean anything by it. Arguments are her love language.
When she clears her throat, I glance back at her, and she asks, “What d’you mean her mother died of cancer?”
