What the hell is wrong with you?
I should be focusing on surviving this shit, not thinking about a naked crime lord. God knows what the man came here to do.
He moves closer, his steps slow, predatory. He slips a hand into his navy blazer and presents a key.
“Sophia is married.” He skirts around the bed and unlocks the chains.
Married already?
No!
I wince as I claim back my hand. It’s unnatural to keep it in such an upright position for over two hours.
“So… that’s it? I’m free to go?”
“You may attend the wedding reception and see your friend. That’s what you wanted, right?”
Not entirely, but what else am I supposed to do? Fight? I guess it’s never too late to do that.
My eyes find his. They glow a supernatural blue in this half-light.
“Not worried I won’t still kick up a fuss?”
“I don’t think you’re dumb enough to try. Almost all of the people here today have connections to the Bratva. Nobody will stick up for you if you accuse Timur of murder. Not even Sophia.”
I narrow my eyes to prolong the eye contact—he needs to know I don’t take these things lightly.
Then, I get off the bed.
“Good girl. Go and see your friend. Maybe she’ll explain why she married thatmonster.” He puts emphasis on the last word.
Smooth.
The fucker has a sense of humor.
I huff out a breath. Iron out my dress and get the hell away from Nikolai Rogov before I end up staring into his navy-blue eyes for too long.
Security still loiters around in the lobby when I make it back, and they eye me as I cross the room to head to the reception.
“The reception is out in the court,” says one of them. He points in the opposite direction. “This way.”
I shield myself from the blinding lights that filter into my eyes, and try to locate my bestie. Guests are everywhere, and they speak to one another in Russian. Most wear dark colors,probably to represent the morally questionable activities they involve themselves in. It’s a stark contrast against the soft theme they’ve got going on. Peonies line the aisle, ribbons in a similar blushed shade rippling in the breeze. The place smells of flowers and champagne.
It’s a big court and the grass has been freshly cut. Everything smells so fragrant and I hate them even more because of it. They dress everything up. Hide the torture and the murders behind flower arches, pretty gardens, and soft, viola melodies. Does the woman under the peony arch know these guests’ true colors, or is she involved in the syndicate herself?
Something dazzles me brighter than the sun. I turn my head, and that’s when I see her.
Sophia.
They’ve dressed her up in diamonds. She wears a shining bracelet around her wrist, and matching dangling earrings that wiggle every time she moves her head. I can appreciate a nice dress, and the one she’s wearing is phenomenal. It’s crisp white with a bandeau neckline, and the skirt shapes into an elegant mermaid tail. She smiles a white smile even brighter than the gown, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
I weave between the crowds, inches away from reaching her, but my legs suddenly stop working. Something else catches my attention.
Between the moving bodies, I catch two hands shaking, like a business deal has just been sealed. And I immediately recognize one of them.
It can’t be.
I squint, and return my own hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the lights.
