"I promise."
He releases my wrist and sinks back against the pillows. "Good. Now get out. The nurses will fuss if you tire me."
I stand. At the door, I pause.
"I'll find someone."
"I know you will." His eyes are already closing. "You always do what needs to be done."
I leave his room with my promise burning in my chest.
A wife.
I shove through the door to my private office and pour three fingers of vodka.
I don't want a wife.
I want?—
No.
I drain the glass and pour another.
Stop.
I set the glass down hard enough that vodka sloshes over the rim, pooling on the desk. I watch it spread rather than clean it up.
Vittoria Sartori.
Her name loops through my head like a song I can't stop humming.
Pathetic.
I'm Dmitri Baganov. Future pakhan of the Chicago Bratva. I don't obsess over women. Women obsess overme.
Except this one. This one ran.
That's the problem. That's why I can't stop thinking about her. She rejected me twice, and my pride can't handle it. Simple as that.
I've had beautiful women before. Dozens. Hundreds. They blur together in my memory. Forgettable faces, forgettable bodies, forgettable everything. I fucked them and forgot them and never thought twice.
But Vittoria?
I remember exactly how her lips tasted. I remember the small sound she made when I pulled her closer. I remember the way her fingers curled into my hair like she wanted to crawl inside my skin.
And then she stopped. Pushed me away. Left.
That's why you can't forget her. She's the one who got away. Classic psychology. Unfinished business.
The explanation makes sense. It should satisfy me.
It doesn't.
My father wants me married. Wants stability for the Bratva. Wants to die knowing his legacy is secure.
I should find a suitable woman. Someone from a connected family. Someone who understands our world, who won't flinch at blood or ask inconvenient questions. Someone who'll look good on my arm and stay out of my way.
There are plenty of candidates. Daughters of allies. Sisters of associates. Women who would kill for the chance to be Mrs. Baganov.
