“Ransome, you look dashing,” Katya says, touching my arm briefly with a gloved hand. Her wedding ring, gold and gaudy, is on the outside, and she makes no effort not to show off the rock in the overhead lights.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I nod. Because, as much as I don’t want to, there is a game to be played, and unfortunately, as long as I am Bratva, I’m going to have to play it.
“So, Ransome. What are your plans after the wedding?” Dmitry starts in. “I understand you have a birthday coming up that will mean a power shift for the Rozanov family.”
“I plan to lead,” I say. I owe him nothing, not an explanation or a speech to buy his respect. I will be apakhanin half a year’s time, no matter who respects me now. But they will then, Rozanov and Chadovich included.
“You are stepping into some weighted shoes,” he goes on. “Not to mention, I hear there is a new deal going on with the El Paso trade?”
My dad’s face does not change save for a slight shift in the tightness of his eyes. We have always pulled our inventory fromthe El Paso/Juarez border. That’s no secret. Though I doubt they know the details of this new deal, specifically the size of it. And we aren’t about to give them that information.
“I will handle that as well,” I say.
Dmitry studies me, but my stance doesn’t waver. So he switches to a topic I hate even more.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to my daughter?”
At the same time Dmitry asks the question, my phone buzzes. It’s Ivan. He has Amara and they’re on their way.
“Ransome,” my dad snaps.
“Excuse me,” I say as I look up. “Business is pressing.”
“More pressing than the attention of your future wife?” Dmitry asks.
I force my gaze to her, but my phone buzzes again with a notification that the car is a mile out.
“Hello, Ransome,” Jenica says. I shove my phone in my pocket and take the hand she is holding out to me. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
I flash a small smile of circumstance. My eyes dart back to the door.
“Are you nervous?” my mom, who is no doubt trying to smooth things over, asks with a sugary tone.
“I don’t get nervous,” I say, my eyes still locked on the door in the back room. They should be approaching soon. I wonder if she is wearing the dress I sent over. She’d better be.
“You do seem to get bored, though,” Tristan says, and his voice is the only one ballsy enough to snag my attention. “What’s the matter, Ransome? Is my cousin not up to your standards?”
I realize I am still holding her hand, my thumb on her bare knuckles, and I should probably do something about it. But I also worry that letting go of her hand would free up my fist and it would land on Tristan’s face.
“He’s just being shy,” Jenica says with a smile, but I can hear the irritation in her voice. I would be irritated with me too.
My attention clocks at the back of the room. As the double doors of the gala open, heads turn like the progression of a wave, the closest people first, then the middle, then the back, until every eye is on the red dress and dark hair coming through the door.
It looks exactly as I imagined it.
Hugging every curve as if it was made for her. Flowing around her hips like a halo, the material light enough that it appears it is only brushing her caramel-kissed skin.
Her lips are cherry red, a contrast to the black sequined mask.
“Who is that?” Katya Chadovich asks. Whispers of the same question fill the room like a curious cloud.
As she moves through the room towards us, every eye moves with her.
And my breath stops dead in my chest.
26
AMARA
