"Let them watch," he says, his grip tightening. "I didn't bring you back for their approval. I brought you back for me. But right now, we will go around and play the devoted couple well.”
I roll my eyes. “Yay, fun time.”
He grins but doesn’t say anything as we naturally steer toward the crowd.
They catch the bait almost immediately.
"Morozov," an older man with a gray beard says, stepping into our path.
"Stepan," Mikhail says, his voice surprisingly casual. He pulls me a little closer to him. "You remember my wife, Irina.”
“Ahh yes! She is as beautiful as the rumors say! Why have you been hiding her?” He says in a booming voice and my lips curls in annoyance even as I force it back into a smile.
“That doesn’t concern you," Mikhail says.
"Nice to meet you, Stepan.” I greet because what else can I say?
We move on before he can start digging for details. We stop and talk to a few bankers and a captain from the North End. Mikhail is good at this; he keeps the conversation light while his eyes stay on the room, looking for any sign of trouble.
I can feel people whispering as we pass.
I see my father across the ballroom, standing near the big staircase with his guys. He doesn't come over to say hi. He just holds up his glass in a silent toast that makes my stomach flip. He’s just watching to make sure his "investment" is performing well, and I resist the urge to flip him the bird.
We’re finally heading toward the food when a guy steps right in front of us, blocking our way.
It’s Viktor. He’s one of my father’s lower-level associates, the kind of guy who always thinks he’s much more important than he actually is. He’s clearly had a few too many drinks, and the way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl.
"Mikhail Morozov!” Viktor slurs, leaning against a pillar. "The man of the hour! People are still talking about that empty altar. We thought you’d lost your touch. That maybe the little bird had flown too far for a Morozov to catch."
I feel Mikhail’s body go rigid. The hand on my back doesn't move, but the temperature around us seems to drop twenty degrees.
"The bird is home, Viktor," Mikhail says, his voice a low, terrifying calm. "I suggest you find a different topic of conversation before you say something you can’t take back."
Viktor laughs, a wet, unpleasant sound. He ignores the warning, his gaze dropping to the neckline of my dress. "She’s a beauty, I’ll give you that. But six months in Mexico... who knows what happened there? I wouldn't mind a taste of what the Pakhan's brother found in the sand."
He reaches out, his hand moving toward me.
Mikhail moves before I even see him. One second Viktor is reaching for my shoulder, and the next, he’s on the floor. The sound of Mikhail’s fist hitting his jaw is loud enough to stop the music.
Mikhail grabs him by the collar, dragging him up just to shove him back against the buffet table. Plates and glasses shatter as Viktor hits the wood, the sound like a dozen small explosions in the sudden silence of the ballroom.
"M-Mikhail… stop," I whisper, but I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of my heart racing.
Mikhail leans over Viktor, his face terrifyingly still. He picks up a broken champagne flute from the mess on the table and holds the jagged edge just inches from Viktor’s eye.
"No one touches her," Mikhail says. His voice is quiet, but it carries through the dead-silent room like a threat. "No one even looks at her without my fucking permission. If you ever talk like that to her or get within ten feet of my wife again, I’ll make sure you never walk again. Do you understand me?”
Viktor just groans, blood dripping from his split lip.
The entire room is frozen. I see my father watching us from across the ballroom, his face unreadable. Mikhail shoves Viktor aside like he’s nothing more than trash and turns to me. He wipes a bit of blood off his knuckles, his eyes still dark and focused.
He’s a madman. He’s a beast. And God help me, I can't look away.
"We’re leaving," Mikhail commands.
He grabs my hand, his grip bruising, and leads me out of the ballroom. We walk through the lobby, the photographers frantically snapping photos of the "reunited" couple covered in the evidence of a brawl. Mikhail ignores them all, his focus singular and terrifying.
The drive home is a silent storm. Mikhail drives the Aston Martin with a reckless ferocity, the engine screaming as we weave through the midnight traffic. I sit in the passenger seat, my hands trembling in my lap, staring at the dark red spots on the crimson silk.
