Page 13 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

The tempo drops. Her skirt brushes my leg.

For one step, every careful inch between us matters.

I do not close it.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

Tamara glances toward the edge of the dance floor where several men immediately look away when caught watching.

“They’re afraid of you,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem upset about that.”

“Fear keeps people predictable.”

“And what keeps you predictable?”

She means it lightly. I don’t answer lightly.

“Discipline.”

The song ends before either of us says anything else.

I release her first. That unsettles her more than pressure would have.

She knows what to do with pressure.

“Well,” she says lightly, stepping back. “Congratulations. We survived the hostage waltz.”

“A memorable achievement.”

“Do married people usually hate each other this much at first sight?”

“No. Typically it takes eight to ten years.”

“So we’re ahead of schedule.”

“Significantly.”

Before I can say more, the lighting changes. The chandeliers dim a fraction as music pulses faintly from downstairs—the nightclub level of The Velvet Echo waking up beneath the reception.

A few younger guests drift toward the staircase immediately.

“Ah,” Tamara says dryly. “The sacred transition from Orthodox sacrament to bottle service.”

“That’s New York tradition.”

Mikhail appears out of nowhere with a champagne flute in one hand and what looks suspiciously like tequila in the other.

“There she is,” he announces, already too drunk to modulate his volume properly. “My terrifying new sister-in-law.”

“Mikhail,” I warn.

He ignores me completely, eyes fixed on Tamara. “Question. On a scale of one to psychotic, how close are you to a complete nervous breakdown?”