When I got up to rinse my mouth with a minty mouthwash, I saw the matchmaker’s expressionless face in the mirror.
Margo Winthrop was a fixer just like me, but she operated at a higher level. The matchmaker role was passed down for generations, and with it, she held the secrets of the wealthy and powerful. Secrets she wielded and used for blackmail to keep the peace. From what I’d learned, she never used them to force alliances. She didn’t need to. In a way, I admired her after she helped my brother win the woman he loved. She wouldn’t admit it, but she might have a romantic bone in her body.
I spat out the mouthwash and nearly gagged out how absurd that sounded.
Marriage Ink, her full-service wedding business, should be renamed Marriage Inc.
Marriage was business, and scandals were buried.
I stared at her reflection in the mirror. “If I agree to this intent to marry, the first requirement is no retaliation against the troopers’ families.”
Surprise raised her brows. “I never considered that, but then again, I only understood the complete story a few minutes ago.”
I emitted an internal scoff, dried my face with a towel, and returned to the room. Trust Margo not to admit any oversight on her part.
“This is a cover-up. Viktor killed them, but why should the troopers’ families be held liable for what I did?”
“You don’t know if that’s going to happen.”
“Still, I want that in writing.”
“It might be out of Kirill’s hands. It’s Moscow who will want vengeance.”
“That’s not my problem, is it?”
“So you would sacrifice more lives just to save a few?”
“Yes.” I picked up the duffel to check its contents and so Margo wouldn’t see the tears springing to my eyes. The agony that I might choose to condemn my family to a bloody war. But they were the mafia. They chose a life of crime, and it had consequences. “Because the troopers’ families are innocent. Mine…I’ve been in lockdowns and I’ve had security details trail me before whenever a war was brewing. It’s an accepted way of life.”
“Why didn’t you have security last night?”
“A month ago, I made a deal with Dom.” I showed Margo the underside of my forearm. “I’d wear a tracker, but Viktor fried it.”
Margo walked to the secretary in the corner of the room, opened a folder, and scribbled something on it. “It’ll be anaddendum. It only makes this contract more urgent.” She turned to face me. “Now let’s get you ready.”
Forty-five minutes later, a man who introduced himself as Sato escorted us to Kirill’s study. I didn’t pay attention to it earlier since my mind had been in a fog of whatever drug the fucker had injected me with. But my mind was clearer now.
Probably because of the aroma of freshly brewed coffee rising from the carafe on his massive dark wood desk. I recognized OCD because it was the antithesis of the chaotic way I worked. The neatly stacked binders at one end of the table made me want to claw at my bare arm. Instead, I clasped my right arm and let my nails dig into skin before I gave in to the urge to sweep them across the desk. My eyes wandered across the bookcases behind the desk—the books arranged by color and height.
My prospective husband stood at the far end of the room staring out the window.
He’d exchanged his all-black suit from last night for a dark gray one. When he turned, his hair still bore sleek remnants of a shower. There were telltale smudges under his eyes, but his drawn features belied the amusement curving his mouth. “Miss De Lucci, you look…nice.”
Margo gave a clucking sound of irritation. “It’s going to take a miracle to make you two even resemble a legitimate couple.”
“He can start by pouring us coffee,” I said pertly.
“Of course,moya milaya,” he drawled with a Russian word that sounded like an endearment and an insult at the same time. Kirill held my eyes briefly before he came unstuck from his position by the window and approached us. He stopped by the carafe to pour the steaming brew into a cup.
“Margo, I know you want yours black.” He handed her a porcelain cup etched with purple flowers and rimmed with antique gold.
“A touch of cream for me,” I said, relishing this bit of his servitude. “No sugar.”
After pouring mine and fixing it the way I wanted, he rounded the desk and stopped in front of me.
It took all my self-restraint not to grab the cup. Our fingers touched in the exchange, and I jolted at the contact. I stared at the cup, refusing to look at Kirill. I didn’t know what the heck that was. Probably my nervousness.
“I trust the shoes are comfortable?” he asked.
