"Fair enough." He signals the waiter. "Then let's order. You'll need energy for the next three months."
Dmitri speaks to the waiter, ordering for both of us without asking my preferences. Under normal circumstances, I'd be furious. But I'm too busy drowning in my own thoughts to care about food.
Three months.
I asked for three months, expecting a fight. Expecting him to laugh, to counter with three weeks, to remind me that mafia marriages don't work on my timeline. That's how this world operates. A princess gets sold to the highest bidder, the wedding happens before anyone can change their mind, and she learns to live with her choice.
But Dmitri agreed.
Not just agreed. Henegotiated. Like my conditions actually mattered. Like my comfort was a factor worth considering.
No mafia man does that.None.
I watch him dismiss the waiter with a nod, his attention already returning to me.
Why?
The question burns through my skull. Why does the heir to the Chicago Bratva, a man who could snap his fingers and have a dozen mob princesses delivered to his doorstep, wantmespecifically? Want me badly enough to play by my rules?
This isn't tradition. If Dmitri needed a wife for political reasons, he'd have married years ago. The Bratva has connections to Russian families, Ukrainian families, even some Polish organizations. Women raised from birth to be pakhan's wives. Women who wouldn't demand three-month evaluation periods or veto power.
He could have had any of them. He could have had the wedding done within a week.
Instead, he's sitting across from me in a restaurant. He's agreeing to my terms. He's promising to murder my other suitors.
This is not business.
My brothers won't question it. Of course they won't. The alliance benefits them too much.
None of them will ask why Dmitri chose their sister over easier options.
But I need to know.
The question claws at my throat. I grip my wine glass to keep my hands from shaking, or from reaching across the table to slap him until he gives me a real answer.
Why me? Why the tech nerd who hides in her room? Why the grieving sister who can barely function at family dinners?
"You're thinking very loudly," Dmitri observes.
"I'm trying to figure out your angle."
"I told you my angle. Marriage. Alliance. You."
"That's not an angle. That's a list." I set down my glass harder than necessary. "You could have any princess in any organization. Women who wouldn't make you jump through hoops. Women who'd marry you tomorrow."
"I don't want them."
"Why?"
The word comes out sharper than intended. Almost desperate. I hate how it sounds.
Dmitri's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. A crack in the ice.
"Because they're not you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer that matters."
