"I hate you," he mutters.
"Only on Mondays," I correct.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don’t want a Voronin bride."
"You’re not getting a Voronin bride," I smile sweetly. "You’re getting a confused twenty-something Italian girl who is terrified of her own shadow."
He groans. "Worse."
"She’s cute," I offer.
"I do not wantcute. I want compliant."
"Camilla is compliant," I say, stretching the truth. The truth being that I don't know her at all, and from what I do know, she might appear compliant on the outside, but there's a rebel inside of her. "She just panics and runs away sometimes."
Mikhail narrows his eyes. "She disappeared again?"
I sigh. "Yes."
"You lost her?"
"She’s slippery!"
"She’s human, not smoke!"
"That remains to be seen."
He swears in Russian, so creatively, I actually take mental notes.
"We’ll find her," I promise. "And when you meet her, you’ll see she’s sweet. Gentle. Kind."
He grunts. "I'm none of those things."
"Perfect," I beam. "Balance."
He groans again and stalks off, terrifying a passing waiter. I laugh to myself. He’s going to love her. He’s going to hate that he loves her, but he will.
Across the room, Enrico is deep in conversation with Grigori’s lieutenant, a tall blond man built like a tank. They’re both drunk, both leaning too close, both insisting that their grandmothers made the superior tiramisu recipe.
"You don’t even know what tiramisu is!" Enrico slurs.
The Russian slams his palm over his heart. "I have eaten many tiramisus."
"That’s not the plural."
"It is now!"
Marcello passes them with a glass of champagne, shaking his head. "Idiots."
A sudden crash rings out.
Everyone spins.
Vito—Toni’s consigliere—is sprawled on the dance floor, gripping a fallen speaker stand like it betrayed him.
"Assassino!" he yells drunkenly.
The Russian best man points a finger. "You tripped!"
