She squeezed my shoulder as she said it. I tried not to roll my eyes.
My mother has been trying to sell me on the idea ofmarriage for years. I know that my father and mother went through with an arranged marriage, and they’re happy with each other. As far as I know, my mother has never wanted anything other than a marriage and children and lots of Bratva events to attend. She is perfectly content being married to my father.
For me, marriage seems like a chore. I’m only twenty-one. Right now, I’m happy staying at home with our paintings and Dasha.
Not to mention that the only reason that any of these men want to marry me is the power they’ll gain with the rest of the Bratva.
If my brothers hadn’t been murdered by that madman, my life would be perfect. Though I suppose there’s no use dwelling on the past. That’s what my parents would say, anyway.
I will get married at some point. I’m sure of it.
When I do, it won’t be a boring, pre-negotiated transaction with another Bratva family.
Though, it would be a shame not to wear this dress. It’s my favorite so far, after four engagements.
The shimmering bodice is hand-embroidered with pearl beads, and the silk skirt is deliciously comfortable. I’ve started quite the collection — of course, you can’t choose the same dress for different weddings, even if the occasion never goes ahead. That would be terrible luck, Mama tells me… Although bad luck is not something I’m opposed to, when it comes to my weddings. Some might say I invite it in.
Papa always tells me that my standards are too high.
I can’t help that I’m a perfectionist.
I’ve blown off the past four fiancés that he’s shoved in my face — all with good reason, of course.
At the altar, I’ve revealed a scandal about each of my previous fiancés.
Second family. Stolen identity. Secret gambling addiction. Too close relationship with an infamous FBI agent.
These things happen in the Bratva, but everyone pretends they don’t. So when I bring them to light on a public occasion — my wedding day — with compelling evidence to back them up, everyone has to act horrified. Even if, behind closed doors, they have just as many skeletons in their closet.
Some might say it’s lucky, that I’m placed in a household where there’s so much Bratva gossip that I can’t help overhearing. That I’m just an unlucky bride whose parents keep selecting the wrong men.
Those people underestimate me.
I think my father knows the truth. That I painstakingly research each of my fiancés, digging deep into their pasts for every shred of scandal, in the same way that I analyze the paintings the Bratva brings in to check for authenticity.
My father hasn’t said anything, but his disappointment grows greater with each cancelled engagement. The engagement periods are getting shorter. When I was seventeen, engaged for the first time, I had a whole year to research.
Now, on my fifth fiancé, Anton Romanov and I have only been engaged for a single month.
At first, it looked like he was squeaky clean.
The thought had me panicked. What if my parents had finally chosen the one Bratva suitor whodidn’thave a scandal in hispast?
My initial inquiries with the kitchen staff — always the best place to start — went nowhere. A quiet word with my mother’s assistants didn’t help either.
Even using my allowance money to discreetly commission New York’s top private detective came up with nothing.
Nothing.Nol.
What if Anton Romanov was exactly as he seemed on the surface — tall, handsome andperfect?
My mother certainly seemed more relaxed about this engagement, as if Anton’s superficial good looks meant that there was no way I would jeopardize the marriage.
I can admit that he’s aesthetically pleasing, but a handsome face doesn’t change any of my reasons for not marrying. I still went in search of a scandal. My doubts deepened with every passing day. I was trapped, with nowhere to turn, nothing to do to escape this engagement.
That was, until I received a padded mailer full of documents about him last week. Meticulously organized.
The handwritten note said, “Thank me later,” in a barely-legible scrawl.
