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Shock and disgust rocked my body, and against my better judgment, I found myself leaning into Raphael’s firm frame for support. His hand slid over my hip, and he pulled me into him. “Aye. That’s what I thought. See, you do know how to behave.” He ended his arrogant ribbing by pressing a kiss above my ear. “Good girl.”
I pushed off him.
Without skipping a beat, Raphael reached for my hand and tugged me back to his side. “The extra men are where I instructed?” he asked Liam over my head.
“Aye. You got me and Grifin inside and four on the street.”
I looked up at Raphael. “Are turf wars going to be part of my nightly routine? Because if so, I’m going to need better shoes.” And my knives.
Raphael snorted and reached for my chin. In hindsight, I realized the gesture was meant to be teasing, but in the moment, I flinched and batted him away, my hand fluttering to my tender throat on instinct. I expected him to retaliate, but he didn’t. Instead, his lips thinned when his eyes landed on the blue dapples I’d tried to cover with makeup.
“That was on Lucifer’s watch,” he replied, his tone firm and cold. “Tonight, you’re on mine.”
The mention of Lucifer threatened to send my mind reeling in a direction I couldn’t afford. I nodded to end the conversation, then cataloged Raphael’s implication.
The four of us entered the restaurant, and it only took a matter of seconds for me to take note of how Raphael’s presence alone commanded the attention of the entire establishment. I may have hated the jerk, but I was still impressed. As though he’d read my mind, he squeezed my hand. Then he spoke to the hostess in perfect Russian. I nearly had to pick up my chin off the ground. I wondered if my fiancé was fluent in every mobster language that graced Boston Harbor.
The hostess clutched the menus to her chest like they were made of Kevlar as she ushered us to a smaller room off the main dining area.
Raphael held out my chair, but I couldn’t bring myself to express gratitude. I wondered what Liam and company thought about Raphael’s little display of outright pomposity. He was putting all our lives on the line—and for what? The chance to grandstand the reach of his power in front of the Bratva?
I’d made it through the appetizer course with relative ease and had just shoved a spoonful of cabbage and potato stew into my mouth when Raphael grinned at me with demented amusement. Something in his expression opened the door to my own self-sabotage, and the next thing I knew, I’d ordered a vodka tonic.
He continued to drone on about our wedding and a preceding engagement celebration on St. Patrick’s Day. Right—because our heritage mandated the excuse of a country-specific holiday to overindulge in spirits. My eyes glazed over somewhere between Father O’Brien officiating and promises of a honeymoon later in the year.
Did Raphael really believe we’d both live to see this fictional honeymoon come to fruition?
I snorted into my highball glass.
Raphael’s amiable tone evaporated. “It’s settled—a grand St. Patrick’s Day soiree to celebrate our engagement and then a private ceremony soon after—aye?”
“Aye,” I mocked.
I was drunk.
“Willa.” Raphael’s voice was like a whip.
I snapped my head up and blinked. “Present.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “No one told me you were a lush.”
“No one told me that being your fiancée was going to drive me to drink. Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning wanting to pour Fercullen over my Cheerios.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you?”
“After last night’s bedtime story? You probably poisoned any liquor I can reach. I couldn’t find a step stool.”
“Delightful.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you couldn’t reach the top shelf. Everyone knows that’s where you keep the good stuff.”
His jaw twitched, but when he leaned forward, a hint of desire looked back at me. “You know, Willa, I’ve decided I like you—foul mouth and all.”
This wasn’t happening.
“Uh-huh,” I drawled.
Raphael’s smoldering gaze continued to heat up. “I know who you are.”
