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"I've been part of the Kislev bratva since I was a teenager, but I never spent much time with Lili or her twin, Avel; they were kids then. Vlad and Sasha were adults, so they taught me their business, but when I was in my twenties, I went to prison, where I met Timur. He knows this shit already."
"I do indeed." Timur gestures at me. "This man is loyal."
"Thank you," I reply. "I took the fall for Vlad when he didn't cover his tracks well enough. His family needed him, and I feared his miserable father would leave him to rot in jail." I finish my drink. "I had good reason to be concerned. While I was incarcerated, Sergey refused to bail me out and thwarted Vlad's efforts to help. It wasn't until Sergey fell ill that Vlad could get around him, and I was released after my next parole hearing."
"Well, that's messed up," Sissi remarks, leaning back in his chair. "Why did he bring you into his family only to treat you that way?"
There was a reason, old man, but I’m not discussing it with you.
I shrug. “No clue. Sergey was a nasty piece of work at the best of times. A lot of the cruelest shit he did was just for fun.”
“I’m gonna get a drink,” Lilyana says, “and leave you to business.”
"Alright," I reply, raising an eyebrow at her. "But don't breathe a word about this Moretti situation to Vlad. I've got it under control."
16
Lilyana
“Come and sit,” Vlad says, handing me a glass of white wine. “Are you okay?”
I nod and smile, masking the complicated reality. Arman and I are on the verge of marriage, but there’s something suspicious going on, possibly more than meets the eye.
Arman believes trouble is looming, enough so that he wants to keep Vlad in the dark out of fear that Vlad will blame him. Aldo Moretti has already made his displeasure clear, as did Ricardo. They view the marriage as a ploy to shield the Kislev bratva from external influences by placing it, and me, under Arman’s protection. Who’s to say they’re wrong? After all, that’s how he sold it.
But it doesn’t feel that way when we’re alone. Arman wants me, and he’s struggling to conceal it, but possessiveness is not love. He’s the pretender to the throne, and if he can say and do the right things, I’ll be one less person he has to convince. What man wouldn’t want to claim a princess at his leisure while casually taking control of her kingdom?
Vlad kisses the back of my hand. “I have to ask you something. Has Arman...” he pauses, studying my face, “...tried to do something you didn’t want him to do?”
If he’d asked whether Arman had touched me, I’d have had to answer truthfully or deceive him. If he wanted to know whether my virginity was at risk or if I was intentionally provoking Arman to lose control—well, I’d have had no choice but to lie to my beloved brother’s face, hoping my expression wouldn’t betray me.
I thank my lucky stars for my good fortune. I don’t like lying to Vlad, and thanks to his choice of phrasing, I don’t have to.
I take a large sip of wine. “No,” I say with a smile. “Of course not.”
Everything Arman has done, I wanted. If anything, I wanted more. He may be using me, but what did I expect? Papa knew it before I did; I’m no one’s treasure.
A passerby starts talking to Vlad as if on cue, treating me as if I’m not present.
“Your little sister has landed on her feet!” the man says. “Arman Nechayev may not be a bratva man by blood, but she wasn’t exactly fending off suitors with a stick, was she?”
Vlad gives the man a murderous look, but he’s oblivious. His social skills are somewhere at the bottom of a wine glass.
“She’s fortunate to have snagged herself a husband, let alone a handsome fellow like him!” The man hiccups and stumbles. “Assuming she provides an heir, he gains a permanent stake in the family, which is exactly what he—”
Vlad swivels his chair and kicks the man squarely in the shins with both feet. The man falls hard, hitting his head on the hardwood floor, and everyone stares. I leave my seat and head for Arman.
Whether it’s the wine or embarrassment, I can’t suppress my pent-up anger. How dare these men treat me like a pawn? Even the people I love don’t seem to grasp the situation. I’m not a trophy, performing monkey, or the vessel for some asshole’s voracious ambition. I’m me—a person with my own thoughts and feelings.
I throw myself onto Arman’s lap. He looks stunned, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling his lips to mine.
Screw you, future husband. I’m not your toy.
His shock quickly turns into an enthusiastic response. I grab his chin, biting his lower lip, and his tongue explores my mouth, devouring me. His hands wrap around my waist, pulling me close, and the room fades away for a moment.
I don’t care. Why should I? No man will love me, not even Arman, but I’ll play along if he wants to pretend we could have something real. This marriage may not be the romance of the century, but our chemistry is sufficient to convince onlookers that the relationship is genuine. It’s as close as I’ll ever get, so why not?
The conversations at the tables resume their buzz, and I break the kiss, gazing into Arman’s eyes. Images flood my mind of him kissing me in countless other places, and my cheeks flush.
