I look him in the eye. “If you had protected her the way you should’ve, we wouldn’t be standing here right now. I wouldn’t say another fucking word like that to me if I were you, Sidorov. You won’t like what happens.”
I brush past him, intentionally clipping his shoulder with mine, and leave him standing alone in the gazebo. The marriage from hell is off to a fantastic start.
Chapter 13
KATYA
When Andrianis have a wedding reception, they have a wedding reception, even if it’s been thrown together over the course of one week and no one knows the bride.
It’s three a.m. by the time the party has wound down, and the DJ is still spinning tracks by the pool to the handful of guests who are dancing. The day was warmer than usual for this time of year, but there are heaters scattered throughout to keep everyone warm. The Andrianis thought of every detail.
Svetlana left hours ago, and so did Misha and Dmitri and the rest of the Bratva. I’ve been on my own, left to politely smile as I’m introduced to face after face until they’ve blurred indistinctly together, and I know I’ll never remember whom I’ve met tonight.
At least Chiara wasn’t among them.
I’m exhausted. And maybe, just maybe, a bit drunk.
It’s been a long, terrible day of feigning happiness and obeying my brother’s orders, and I’m slumped in a chair at the head table, eyeing my empty glass of wine and wondering if I should go in search of more. The photographer—another Andriani—is still snapping away, finishing up with candidphotos of the reception. She stops by me and takes a few shots without comment.
I briefly consider holding up my middle finger for one of them before I scratch the idea. It’s not the friendly photog I want to flip off. It’s my brother, my husband, and the rest of the powers that be who decided I had to hit pause on my life and become a Mafia bride.
“You should go home and get some rest,” I tell her instead, sympathetic to the hours she’s been working.
She must be more exhausted than I am.
But she just smiles. “Not until Don Andriani says I can.”
The calm acceptance in her voice irritates me. I haven’t seen Scorpion’s eldest brother Priest in hours, and I’m pretty sure I watched him and his wife sneak off some time around midnight.
“But I’m the bride,” I counter. “That has to count for something.”
“It’s no problem.” She holds up the camera and snaps a few more of me. “I enjoy taking pictures. The later shots are usually slice of life and the most realistic, when everyone can let loose and be themselves.”
Everyone but me. I don’t say that, though. Misha was clear on our way to the makeshift altar that I need to pretend like this is the best day of my life. I need to smile and fake it for the Andrianis and Revellos, for the Bratva, for the camera. Everything has to go according to plan.
What plan that is, I’m not exactly sure. But I am positive that Misha is cooking up something in his twisted mind, and that I won’t like it.
I’m keenly aware of the photographer—Elizabetta—and hope none of the turmoil roiling through my head shows on my face. As a ballerina, I mastered the art of keeping all emotions to myself except for the ones I want to show. I’ve easily become whatever role I’m playing, surrendering myself to the dance andthe drama. But none of that prepared me for what I’m going through now.
“You’ve probably got enough shots of me by now,” I tell Elizabetta with a gentle smile, hoping she gets the hint.
She changes angles and keeps snapping away as I feel a familiar tingling rush up my spine. It’s the same electric current that hits me whenever Scorpion is near. But I’m not prepared when his big, warm hands land on my bare shoulders.
“My wife is beautiful,” he says, his voice a smoky, dark rumble that oozes sex. “I understand why you’re over here with the camera.”
“She is,” Elizabetta agrees, stopping to smile warmly at the man standing behind me.
She’s twentysomething and pretty, her dark hair scraped into a messy bun, artful tattoos on her toned arms. Jealousy, unwelcome and unfamiliar, pierces me like a bullet. Is this another of Scorpion’s fuck buddies?
He must feel me stiffening under his touch, because he leans down, heat radiating off him like there’s a furnace at my back, his lips grazing my ear as he addresses the photographer instead of me. “A few more of the two of us, and then we’re out of here. You’ll have to go take pictures of the sorrystronzosleft on the dance floor.”
Elizabetta chuckles and lifts her camera. “You make the perfect couple. Smile.”
I force a smile to my lips, trying to ignore the way my new husband’s breath is fanning along my throat like a caress. The way his touch on my bare skin makes heat wash over me. The way my heart picks up its pace whenever he’s close.
She takes another couple of shots, changing the angle, moving around. Scorpion presses a kiss to my temple, and my clit pulses. It must be the wine going to my head. Making me susceptible to him.
I try to shrug away, but his fingertips press into me in warning.
