Page 19 of A Bride for the Mafia King

His palm is warm against the black satin of my dress. Fingers brush the skin of my back that’s exposed by the low line every time I shift.

“Of course not,” he whispers back, dipping his head at a passerby.

When I try to move away and gain even an inch of space between our bodies, I quickly learn that only brings his grip back tighter.

I lean into him slightly, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “Seriously, is this really necessary?”

“Yes.” It’s a command, despite his low voice. His eyes flicker to mine with a spark of mischief reflecting within.

“I’m not a toddler. I won’t wander off,” I protest, quietly, careful not to be heard by those around us.

“You wandering is not my concern,” he murmurs, smirking. “This way I know exactly where you are. And I must admit, I find your discontent … amusing. I can think of several women who would happily take your place.”

“Good,” I hiss. “Let them.”

He pauses, considering me for a moment.

“I think not.”

I roll my eyes. Tolya’s smile deepens, then disappears as we approach another group. Five men and one woman, all of them older, dressed in various shades of greys and blues. A family, I guess, judging by the similarities in their features—one I don’t recognize. But from the shift in Tolya I can tell they’re important.

“This is the time for you to be demure and quiet,” he whispers as we approach the group. Almost begrudgingly adding, “Please.”

Nodding slightly, I feel his hand relax ever so slightly against my back. When the small talk dies down and we move to a quieter corner, each with a glass of wine and a view of the crowded hall, I turn to him.

“Who were they?”

Inhaling deeply, his face takes on a serious look—more serious, if that’s even possible. “They’re from the Shatalin family. One of the oldest of the Bratva families. Traditionalists. Orthodox. Extremely conservative. But they’ve lost sons and daughters to the conflicts that the trading has brought about. They tire of the bloodshed, as do I.”

“I see.”

“They want peace,” he adds. “Like I do. That’s why I asked them to host. Showing the others that such a respected family is on board with the change — well, I am hopeful that will convince them. Even despite the recent… insurances that I’ve undertaken.”

Us… he’s talking about us.

“Is that why you brought me here? To put me on display?” I ask quietly.

His hand squeezes my hip reassuringly. “You’re not a display. You’re a symbol. There’s a definitive difference.”

“There is? Because I don’t see one.”

“You’ve been to enough of these dinner parties at your brother’s side to know exactly how the game is played.”

I drop my eyes to examine the contents of my wine glass, jaw tensing. He’s right.

“The stakes are the same now as they have always been,” he adds. “Our lives. Our freedom.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Freedom? You think I have any sort of freedom left?”

He turns on me then, expression unreadable. Leaning in close enough for only me to hear.

“You have more freedom than any one of those girls being trafficked ever will. I’d consider myself grateful for the protection your position affords you if I was in your shoes.”

That hits like a slap. I feel my eyes widen, looking up to meet his gaze once more. The anger that’s been building within me fizzles out. Replaced by a dull ache in my chest.

God, he’s right. I’ve been so sheltered, so protected all my life. Where would I be if I didn’t have Nico or Tolya?

I swallow harshly, licking my suddenly dry lips. “Why do you care so much?” I ask finally. “Not that I condone it by far – I don’t – but why does it matter so much to you?”