Page 32 of Inked in Devotion

It had been six years since his three-year-old daughter had been killed in a car accident. Ophelia was driving. That was the breaking point of their marriage, but the fractures had started before that.

An uncomfortable pressure pierced my chest as Ophelia’s reasoning for wanting to divorce Maksim mirrored Chloe’s reasoning for why she didn’t want Sebastian growing up bratva. But my blood flowed through his veins. Danger was intrinsic. He had a couple more years before I taught him survival skills.

I cleared my throat. “So, who are Chloe and Daniel having dinner with?”

“Daniel’s sister, Ivy, and her husband, Nico De Lucci.”

“For fuck’s sake…what’s this? Like a done deal already?”

“Chloe stayed with the De Luccis for a while, so she must have met Ivy and Nico.”

“Hmm…”

“See, here’s the thing. Daniel Wu falls under the workaholic type. You rarely see him at events with women.”

“Maybe he prefers men?”

“Women are seen coming and going from his Hong Kong penthouse.” Maks scoffed. “Sometimes even his office late at night.”

“He uses them to blow off steam?”

“Yes. So he’s the perfect candidate for Chloe.”

“What?”

“If you’d read the Marriage Ink contract that Margo had showed us, you’d know Chloe prefers the marriage to be in name only. A sub-clause stated each partner can carry a discreet arrangement with a paid professional.”

I hitched my shoulders. I’d known people with this type of marriage before. All for business with not an ounce of chemistry, it might as well be a marriage between two robots.

We got caught in traffic. Maks checked his watch impatiently.

“So how far are you going to keep up this game?” he asked.

“I don’t follow.”

“You’re free to marry Chloe. Offer your son and her the protection of your name and the bratva. You don’t have to love her. That could come later.”

I was surprised this came from Maks because he and Ophelia married for love. They were sickeningly sweet as newlyweds. But now? Their marriage was dead. Ophelia took herself out of the equation and fled the country, renouncing every single cent of Zahkarov money. Hell, Kirill was grumbling to me that Maks had been earmarking a chunk to finance Ophelia’s humanitarian mission because he didn’t want her to go without necessities.

“It’s not that simple.” Since Maksim was on the legitimate side of the Zahkarov organization, he didn’t know of the secret history remembered by only a few. Before my cousin Grigori framed me for the Mistress Strangler killings that sent me to prison, he approached me about honoring the agreement between the Petrovs and the Vozhokari. Kirill once asked me why my cousin would sell me out. It was because Grigori felt I was the one who had betrayed the clan despite swearing our loyalty to the Zahkarovs. There were a few Petrovs left in the Zahkarov organization, and many of its soldiers loyal to Grigori had been killed after Grigori became persona non grata. Still, there had always been a House of Petrov under the Zahkarov bratva. Kirill was trying to rebuild the triumvirate with me as the next brigadier.

Maks sighed. “I can’t help you if I don’t know everything. I know there’s some kind of assassin’s code or society rules, etcetera. Is that the problem here?”

I remained silent. Maks wasn’t as in the dark as I thought. Maybe Kirill or Ivan filled him in. They just didn’t know how deeply embedded it was in everything I did or avoided.

We didn’t speak any more until we reached the club.

Maks grumbled again when I refused to park valet. Why should I when there was available parking outside the building?

We walked up to the establishment. Bouncers wearing suits and earpieces like Secret Service stood beside the receptionist's podium, but we were waved through.

“You come here often?” I asked.

“They have private rooms and top-notch spirits. The Zahkarovs pay for six memberships, and it’s a hundred k a year. Two of them are not being used. Three brigadiers, Ivan, Kirill, and mine.”

Two vacant brigadier positions. One once held by Grigori. The other held by Kirill until he became pakhan.

“Not my scene.”