I’ve never been to a club before. As a teenager, my father forbade it, and I never got the chance to experience it. Now, the thought of being the center of attention, of dancing, feels terrifying. Which is why, when Mikhail pulls me through the crowd, I tense, digging my heels into the floor.
I shake my head, and he lowers his to me so he can hear me. “I—I can’t dance. And my heels are killing me.”
My words cause a smile to appear on his face. Not a sarcastic one, but sympathetic. Without question, his direction changes, and I’m led into a semi-occupied booth across the room, where I can breathe a little easier.
The men sitting there—Bratva, I assume—take me in as we approach, but only for a second. As soon as they see Mikhail’s arm snaking around the small of my back, they don’t spare me another glance. He shakes hands with two of them, and then we take our seats just as Rodion and Niko find us again.
“So this is where you disappear when you’re not home?” I ask, roaming my eyes around the crowded space.
Mikhail makes himself comfortable, hand extended across the couch’s backrest behind me.
“Not exactly,” he says, leaning in. “This is one of Niko’s clubs. We come here sometimes to celebrate, but mostly, we’re at the warehouses.”
“Warehouses?” I ask.
He nods once but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, because the shiver running down my spine says it all. Since the incident with Enzo in the basement, I forgot what Mikhail does for a living. At his core, heisa killer, a criminal. He made me forget every time he looked at me with those curious eyes, just like he makes me brush it off now, as if it means nothing.
What is wrong with me?
Before I get to question my mental faculties, a brunette waitress comes to our table. Her hair is long and straight along her shoulders, and when she walks, it sways from side to side, like a supermodel on a runway.
“Lovely foryouto show up. Where have you been, Mr. Rykov?” she asks, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. I don’t fail to notice the way she purrs his name—as if it’s a shared secret, a dirty pleasure, maybe something he asks her to call him when they’re in private.
Something tightens in my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if he brought me here to humiliate me. Clearly, he’s sleeping with this woman, and I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t, and yet…
Mikhail sighs. “I know you’re short-sighted, Sienna, but surely you can see the four hundred thousand dollar wedding dress wrapped around my wife. It’s Vera Wang.”
Sienna laughs, her lips thick and carnal. “Hmm. Maybe congratulations are in order, then. Except…” She leans in, displaying her cleavage for him to devour. “You’re not fooling anyone. We both know this kind of woman isn’t your type at all, don’t we?”
My pulse bangs against my veins. How dare she?
“Cheer up, doll face,” Rodion says from across the table. “Plenty of cocks to choose from at this table. Take your pick.”
She ignores him.
When I lean forward, her sharp eyes immediately glide over to me—a bitter, hollow sight that would’ve otherwise been a beautiful pale blue.
“You are a stunning woman, Sienna,” I say, planting my chin on my palm. “And I’m sure you’re nice, but my husband won’t be seeing you again, no matter what promises he may have made you. He’s married now.”
Her eyes dart between me and Mikhail, as if she’s waiting for him to contradict me. I hold my breath, praying to God he doesn’t choose to humiliate me in front of all his friends. I couldn’t take it. Not from him.
I can tell he watches me even though I refuse to break eye contact with this woman, his gaze burning into the side of my face. The one second of silence stretches, and then?—
“You heard her,” my husband says.
Relief courses through me like oxygen. Slowly, Sienna straightens, nodding with disdain. “Whatever. I’m taking my break. Bring your own goddamn drinks.”
But we don’t have to. Another waitress steps in, going around the table for our orders, but I’m completely tuned out of the conversation.
“Jealous much?” Mikhail asks, puffing out smoke from another cigarette.
Here, I decide to make myself heard. “Just because I want nothing to do with you doesn’t mean I’m fine with you breaking our wedding vows. If I’m trapped in this marriage, so are you.”
“Who says I’m breaking them?”
“Please. As if you weren’t thinking of sleeping with her again.”
“Come here, Cecilia,” he commands.
