Viktor Kozlov, watching us with ice-blue eyes, a crystal tumbler in his hand.
Our gazes locked. He raised his glass in a mocking toast. Then he started walking toward us.
"Cesare," I murmured.
"I see him." His hand tightened. "Stay close. Don't react."
Viktor approached with a beautiful blonde woman—model-perfect, with cold eyes. Probably a version of what Cesare thought he’d be getting with the alliance. And instead, it was taking everything in me not to tremble under his protective touch.
"Cesare. How wonderful to see you." Viktor's accent was thick. "And your lovely bride. We didn’t get to speak much at the wedding."
He took my hand, brought it to his lips. His kiss lingered too long, as it had that night.
"Viktor Kozlov," he introduced himself. "And this is Irina."
"Mrs. Monti," Viktor said, still holding my hand. "You are even more beautiful up close. Cesare is very lucky man."
There was something in his tone—innuendo? Threat?
"I'm the lucky one," I managed, pulling my hand back.
Viktor's smile widened. "Of course. Though I wonder... did you know what you were agreeing to? Or were you surprised by the arrangement?"
The question was pointed. Deliberate. He knew something. Biance wouldn’t have been surprised by the arrangement because she would’ve been involved in it… so did that mean Viktor knew who I really was? I frowned as something came to mind, some thought–an echo of Bianca’s voice, though I couldn’t catch the words.
Cesare's entire body had gone rigid beside me. His enemy’s eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. "Ah, but forgive me. I ask too many questions."
He stepped back, that predatory smile never wavering. "Enjoy the evening, Mrs. Monti. I'm sure we'll talk again very soon." His gaze traveled over me with deliberate slowness, making my skin crawl. "I have so many questions about you. So many... curiosities about how a bride comes to her wedding."
The emphasis on those last words sent ice down my spine.
Then he walked away, Irina's heels clicking beside him on the marble floor.
I realized I'd been holding my breath, my lungs burning.
"What just happened?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the chamber music.
Cesare's response came low and deadly, each word a shard of ice: "He knows. Or suspects enough to be dangerous. Either way, we have a serious fucking problem."
CHAPTER 8
Cesare
The anniversary celebration was in full swing, crystal chandeliers casting amber light across Manhattan's elite criminals dressed in thousand-dollar suits. I stood near the bar, whiskey neat in hand, watching my wife navigate a conversation with Don Battaglia's wife like she'd been born to this world.
Incredible. I can’t help wondering how I’d feel if I’d seen her, known her, before she was forced to meet me at the altar. If I would’ve thought that a quiet artist could step into my life and wield charm so unconsciously. Something was nagging at me, though; something other than Viktor’s obvious cat-and-mouse game, whatever that was.
Giovanni Lombardo wasn’t here. He’d made some excuse, I’d heard from a few associates. It wasn’t a good look; the wholepoint of this marriage had been to unite our families, and Giovanni not showing made it look like he didn’t respect my power.
We were forty minutes in; just past nine.
Paola wore the emerald dress I'd chosen—silk clinging to curves I'd mapped with my hands this morning—and those diamond earrings catching the light every time she turned her head. Every inch the Don's wife. Poised. Graceful. Perfect.
Mrs. Battaglia said something, and Paola laughed. Not the performance laugh. Real laughter, warm and genuine, the kind that made something tighten in my chest.
Pride.
That's my wife.
