Page 25 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

Roman is staring at me. I wish I could make out his expression, but he’s a closed book. His eyes are dark and narrowed, his lips pursed into a thin line.

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods once and moves past me to the door.

“We should go,” he says without looking back.

I follow him out of the study, my legs unsteady and my heart still racing. As we walk down the hallway, I catch my reflection in one of the gilt mirrors on the wall.

I look away from the mirror and focus on Roman’s back.

Ninety days. I just have to make it ninety days without completely losing myself to this.

8

ROMAN

Three days pass. Three days of searching through Dmitri’s files and finding nothing but dead ends. Three days of Vera avoiding me whenever possible and looking at me like I’m a loaded weapon.

I catch her in the garden on Friday afternoon. She’s sitting on a stone bench near the koi pond, a book open in her lap that she’s clearly not reading. Her eyes are distant, fixed on something beyond the manicured hedges.

“Vera.”

She startles and the book slips from her lap. She catches it before it hits the ground and looks up at me with an expression that’s half guilt and half annoyance.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“Reading. Or trying to.” She closes the book and sets it aside. “What do you want?”

I sit next to her on the bench. She shifts slightly away, putting distance between us.

“I’ve made a reservation at Kuro-Tetsu,” I say. “We’re having dinner there tonight.”

She blinks at me. “We are?”

“Yes. Be ready in an hour.”

Her jaw tightens. I can see the refusal forming on her lips, but she doesn’t get the chance to voice it.

“It’s not a request,” I continue before she can speak. “We need to be seen in public together. It shows the family that you’re under my protection. Besides, I know how much you enjoy Japanese food.”

Dmitri had a Japanese chef, a few years ago. I’d watched Vera fawn over the meals he made through the hidden dining room camera for months, figuring out exactly the kinds of meals she loved most.

I watch as Vera rolls her eyes. “Sounds more like you want to take me on a date.”

The word drips with sarcasm. She’s mocking me, trying to put distance between us by making this into something transactional.

“Call it what you want,” I say. “But yes, it serves a purpose. Anton has been making a fuss. If they see us together, looking like a united front, it undermines his position.”

“So I’m just a prop. Something to parade in front of your enemies.”

She looks away, toward the pond. The koi are circling near the surface, their orange and white bodies glinting in the afternoon sun.

“Kuro-Tetsu,” she says after a moment. “That’s the Japanese place on Rush Street.”

“You know it?” I already know she does.

“Dmitri took me there once for our anniversary.” Her mouth twists. “He spent the whole dinner on his phone, making deals. I sat there and ate my omakase alone while he ignored me.”

The image rises unbidden. I can picture Vera sitting at a table in an expensive restaurant, beautiful and alone, while her husband treats her like furniture. It makes something hot and angry coil in my chest.