Shit.
Amanda's eyes go wide. "Victoria Maria Sartori, are you telling me there aremultiplesuitors? Like, actual suitors? Competing for your hand?"
"Don't say it like that."
"Like what? Like it's the most dramatic thing I've ever heard?" She sets down her wine with a decisiveclink. "This is insane. This isamazing. This is literally a Regency romance novel except with Italian food and better clothes."
"It's not romantic."
"It'sextremelyromantic. Who are they? Wait—" She holds up a hand. "Let me guess. Some boring finance guy with a trust fund and a personality disorder?"
"James Rogers. His family does luxury automobiles."
"Called it. And the other one?"
My stomach tightens. Dmitri's face flashes through my mind—those pale eyes, that knowing smirk, his hand on my jaw in his office.
"This isn't over."
"Someone else," I say carefully. "Russian."
Amanda's eyebrows shoot up. "Russian? Like,RussianRussian? Bratva Russian?"
"He's the one from the club," I admit. "The one who?—"
"OH MY GOD." Amanda nearly launches off the bed. "The tall-dark-and-disappeared guy? The one you snuck off with and then refused to tell me about for an entiremonth?"
"I didn't refuse?—"
"You gave menothing, V. Nothing! I thought maybe you'd finally gotten laid and were being modest about it, but this?" She grabs my hands. "This is so much better. He'spursuingyou. Like, formally. With marriage intentions."
"It's not?—"
"It'sexactlythat." Her grip tightens. "Do you like him?"
Oh…
Do I like Dmitri Baganov?
I like the way he looks at me. I like that he didn't treat me like glass when we kissed, didn't handle me like the precious Sartori princess everyone else sees. I like his directness, his refusal to play games.
I hate that I like any of it.
"He's dangerous," I say finally.
Amanda's smile turns knowing. "That's not a no."
"It should be."
"But it's not." She squeezes my hands once more before releasing them. "Okay. Movie time. We're watching something with a hot morally questionable love interest, and you're going to tell me everything about this Russian of yours."
"He's notmy?—"
"Sure, babe." She's already reaching for the remote. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I watch her queue up something on the streaming service, her profile lit by the screen's glow.
Do I like him though?
