“It was really generous of them,” I agree, trying not to allow her to see how much I hate every second of planning this sham wedding. “Let’s keep looking. Maybe something a little more extravagant.”
Misha is paying for the wedding. I’m going to do my best to bankrupt him with it. To get even with him, however I can.
“Whatever you want,lisichka,” she tells me. “You deserve to have everything the way you want it for your special day.”
Nothing is the way I want it. Misha has taken that from me.
But it’s okay. I’ll be okay.
Because I have a plan.
Misha only said I had to marry Scorpion. He didn’t say anything aboutstayingmarried to him, and I’ll make Andriani’slife a living hell until he has no choice but to get rid of me the only way he can without starting a war—divorce. And then I’ll be free to carry on with my life. I’m going to leave this city, go so far that Misha can never find me.
And I’m taking Svetlana with me.
All I have to do is bide my time and stick to the plan.
I don’t even need ballet anymore. I’ll do something else. I can teach yoga, work at a dance studio for kids, anything. I’ll change my name, my hair. Everything. I’ll be free in a way Ekaterina Sidorova could never be.
I turn to the hovering saleswoman. “Where are your most expensive lines? Let’s start there.”
Her eyes light up like a kid who’s just seen Santa Claus. I knew it. She’s been listening in all along.
“Right this way,” she says.
Scorpion
I’m stewingin my office at the underground club I run, poring over the contract Priest forced on me, when a knock sounds at the door. I already know it’s my brother Lucky. Gio, my head of security, texted a few minutes ago to clear the interruption with me.
Probably because I told him I’d shoot anyone who came through the door.
“Come in,” I call, reaching the end of another page and flipping it over.
The urge to set it on fire is strong, but I’ve been resisting so far. I’d rather wad it up and stuff it into Mikhail Sidorov’s mouth while he’s hog-tied and begging for mercy, just before I end him. But that’s a project for another day.
Lucky sweeps into the room, the youngest of us all, and it shows. His name is no accident. He’s got a pretty face, he always wins at cards, and he’s a damn good shot. We babied the shit out of him, protecting him from most of our old man’s wrath. He’s the golden boy.
“You’re a difficult man to get ahold of,fratello mio,” he announces, sounding like a jealous girlfriend.
Probably because I’ve been ignoring his texts and calls.
“Did you get shot?” I ask him, leaning back in my chair.
“Nope.”
I rest my elbows on the plush armrests and steeple my fingers. “Arrested?”
“Nope.” He throws himself into one of the two seats on the opposite side of my desk. “Fuck, these are uncomfortable.”
“That’s the point,” I drawl. “The only one I want spending time in here is me.”
He raises a brow, looking unimpressed. “I wouldn’t have to be sitting here if you’d answer your damn phone.”
“I’ve been busy.” Working my jaw, I glare pointedly at the no-longer-neat stack of papers sitting on my desk. “A marriage contract to review and all that.”
Lucky winces. “Cazzo, I forgot about the whole contract thing.”
I’m not surprised he did. Apparently, no one in my family is as fucked up as I am over being forced to marry a Sidorov. But why should they be? It doesn’t affect them.
