“What’s the matter, Ranny boy?” Tristan tips his chin up at me.
I don’t want to fuck your cousin, for starters.
But it’s not just that. I let the word “marriage” roll around in my mouth like a broken tooth. I can’t stop prodding it, can’t stop tasting the blood. My father calls it tradition; Dmitry calls it peace. What it is is aleash. A very public one. And I’m the fucking sap who gets stuck paying the price. Tristan gets to smirk, Jenica gets to preen, and I’m supposed to kneel so the cameras catch the angle.
To which I can say only this:Not a fucking chance.
I was bred for war, not pageants. I take what I want and I don’t bare my throat willingly to anyone. Six months and thepakhan’scrown is mine—after that, I set the rules. I just have to make it ‘til then.
Obviously, I don’t say any of that. I pick up my glass and hold it with the rest of them.
“To new beginnings,” Katya says and everyone echoes.
We all take a drink and I keep my eyes on Tristan, who is grinning like a fool. There’s no way he’s actually okay with this. Tristan and Jenica are close. Well, somewhat. I don’t actually believe that Tristan Chadovich is capable of loving anyone but himself, but the two of them have some eerie sort of understanding.
It’s why I don’t trust her.
It’s one of many reasons why I’m not going to marry her.
I leave the lounge as soon as my glass is dry without even bothering to come up with a plausible excuse.
I’ve got a million thoughts running through my head, but the one that recurs most often is that I can only imagine what Amara will think when I tell her to add tuxedo fittings and cake tastings to my daily grind.
You would think that arranged Bratva weddings would just be a courthouse situation. Sign the damn papers at gunpoint and call it done. But no—they’re elaborate, public affairs. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. A bride dripping in diamonds. A Dom Perignon fountain spilling gallons of Benjamins on the marble floor.
It’s almost as if to say,This is forever.Because if it’s not, it will be blood on the floor, not champagne.
I will be thirty in six months. That’s six months until I become Rozanovpakhan. Once I ampakhan, it won’t matter if I ammarried or not. I can handle the rivalries and everything else, no truce needed, arranged marriage or otherwise.
In other words, I just have to forestall this marriage for six months. I’ll find a way. I’m sure as fuck not marrying a Chadovich.
As I head to my car, though, I pause. I need a drink. Another drink, arealdrink, a drink in the company of no one I know. I rip open the top buttons of my shirt, roll up my sleeves, and make sure my car is locked before wandering down the street.
There’s a speakeasy around the corner that most people don’t know about. It’s dark, the drinks are stiff, and I have never run into anyone who knows my name. Perfect.
I pass a cantina, a sushi place, a barbeque joint where everyone is eating with their hands and sucking down pitchers of cheap beer. Then I smell curry and my stomach actually lurches in my gut.
I am hungry. The scent is coming from a Thai place with an open patio and?—
I stop.
Sitting outside at a table under the awning, right in the middle, is Amara. But she’s not alone. She’s with a woman who is grotesquely overdone and two preening men. One is nodding at everything the overdone woman is saying while his eyes stay locked on her cleavage, and the othermudak, the one sitting next to Amara, has his hand clasped on her thigh.
And it’s moving up.
My feet move quicker than my better judgement. Because… no.
Fuckno.
10
AMARA
At first, I think Ransome is a mirage. But mirages don’t look that good.
Is he not wearing a tie? Ransome Rozanov always wears a tie. And are his sleeves rolled up? Jesus.
I’m not sure if this is some kind of crazy wet dream where I am stuck on a lousy date with a total creep and my sexy as fuck boss is about to save me, but I’m here for it.
