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She celebrated her eighteenth birthday last month. And all she does is fucking complain about her party. Something about the wrong shade of purple for her monogram or some shit. I stop paying attention after my second old-fashioned.
Relieved when dinner’s over, I steer her out of the restaurant. Unfortunately, she does expect me to walk her to her car. Tempted as I am to have her guards escort her, there are cameras. And worse, there’s a quarter-inch of snow on the ground.
Beneath the restaurant’s awning, she whines about her Louboutins getting wet.
The brat expects me to carry her.
And so, gentleman that I am, I stoop to pick her up. It’s only a few paces to her limo, and I imagine sprinting to it and hurling her into the backseat. Like an annoying sack of potatoes.
As soon as she’s in my arms, the wind picks up. The brat shrieks right in my ear, and I look heavenward in exasperation. Above me, a swirl of snowflakes gusts across the sky.
It reminds me of one of my last nights with Brioni. Strolling together toward the taproom, her head on my shoulder as she sighed dreamily. The both of us so thoroughly in love, I remember that clearest of all.
And for the briefest moment, I smile.
I deposit the shrieking Italian in her limo and manage not to slam the door. I don’t respond to any of her emoji-filled texts.
The Russian pakhan sends me his eldest daughter. The firstborn of all his children, she’s thirty-three. And cold as a Siberian winter.
She’s disconcertingly sharp. By the time our entrées arrive, it’s clear she should be the one to inherit the bratva leadership. Not her entitled shit of a younger brother.
She’s emotionless. Her decisions are rational. She points out, correctly, that the bratva’s area of control lies partially between ours and Seven’s.
The intersection of our three territories forms a capital Y that’s been tipped to the left. Seven has the north, we O’Sullivans have the south, and the Russians have the west, like a triangular wedge halfway between us.
“Similar to the flag of the Czech Republic,” she says, her accent like a supermodel’s.
I nod like I know what she’s talking about, and she looks unimpressed as she continues.
“A Russian–Irish alliance will strengthen both of our borders against the Vanleusens,” she concludes matter-of-factly.
Everything she says is without sentiment. The only time her lips flicker with a smile is when she tells me the meaning of her name, Vasilisa. Queen.
It’s a good alliance.
* * *
“Congrats on the decision.” Brady sounds as unsentimental as my new bride-to-be.
“At least she’s hot,” Finn adds.
The three of us are drinking in the pub’s back room instead of going to Mass. I only ever went for Brioni anyway.
“Hot,” I repeat flatly.
It’s no consolation. I don’t want hot. I want girl-next-door gorgeous. I want youth group instructor who takes down her hair to reveal how devastatingly sexy she is. I want doe-eyed beauty who doesn’t realize she’s beautiful.
I take another slug of whiskey, then put my face down on the table.
My brothers must have a silent exchange above my head. After a few seconds, Finn scrapes his chair back and heads for the door.
“I’ll grab us some tacos,” he announces before leaving.
Brady moves to take the chair beside mine.
“I know you miss Brioni,” he begins.
A blistering understatement. My entire body is sore, depleted by my starvation for her.
