Page 70 of Lord of the Underworld

Violet stops brushing her hair to stare at me. "Has Vadim ever said, I don't know, anything?"

"I'll have you know he is capable of more than single sentence responses," I say loftily.

"When?" Rose asks. "Like, in bed?"

Why am I still cursed with blushing every time sex is brought up?

Dasha's eyes widen as she points at me gleefully. "It is! He's a dirty talker, isn't he!"

"What does he say?" Rose asks. "Is it like, hot and dirty, whispered in your ear, or loud and commanding?"

Violet catches my mortified expression. "All right, you've tortured her enough. Though one day," she says, her tone turning thoughtful, "I would like to hear what tall, dark, and extra spooky sounds like- Sorry. No more!"

"Thank you," I say sourly as they smirk at me, clearly unrepentant.

"You can't blame us for being curious," Violet says. "It's not every day we can get a glimpse into the inner workings of the Angel of Death."

"No, Uncle Alexi is the Angel of Death," Ava corrects her, pushing past us and sitting down on the toilet without ceremony. "Vadim is the Angel of Death II. It skips a generation."

Everyone laughs, but it feels warm. There's no question that they're all intimidated by Vadim. I'm sometimes intimidated by Vadim. Their curiosity is more about wanting to know him better versus digging up terrible stories.

"Will someone please zip me up?" Caroline is the last of the cousins to enter the bathroom.

"This room is more crowded than the mosh pit at an Insane Clown Posse concert," Dasha grumbles, tucking in her elbows to make room.

Reaching over, I grab Caroline's zipper, pulling it up. "What happened?"

"I had to nurse the baby. Naturally, the little monkey would pick the moment I'm wedged into my gown to be hungry," she sighs, a little frazzled.

"Well, you look amazing," I say, fastening the little hook and eye at the top of her dress.

"Shall we dazzle the men with the grandeur of our beauty, then?" Ava says, and we free ourselves from the stifling confines of the bathroom to find the men in Violet and Roman's living room, lounging on the sofas, magnificent in their formal wear.

At first glance, one might think this was New York Fashion Week. The stellar height and handsomeness of these men, every one of them, is a testament to the Morozov genetic legacy. Closer up, though, it's clear that there is a cold edge, a vague, yet unwavering menace surrounding them all.

Vadim is patiently listening to Roman's story about blowing up half the harbor to get vengeance on one of the Italian mafias. He looks over Roman's shoulder and sees me, and his steady, flat gaze changes. His eyes are warm, and he leans forward. Roman turns around, trying to see what has captivated my husband.

"You're beautiful," my husband says, already standing in front of me with that unnatural speed that always makes me blink twice.

"And you, sir, have that rock star combination of a bad boy mixed with an unspeakably hot man," I sigh, smoothing my hands down the front of his tuxedo jacket.

"What would it be like," Alexsey says, "if we'd been born into a regular family, where everyone just hits the local bar, gets shit-faced, wearing those paper hats, and celebrating midnight by vomiting in the nearest gutter?"

"Well, when you say it like that, you make it sound so desirable," Nikandr says dryly.

Vadim is still looking at me as if there is no one else in the room, and it makes me feel like I'm glowing clear down to my toes. "Are you ready, moy svet?"

"Yes," I say decisively. "Let's go be magnificent."

"As you wish," he murmurs, just enough for me to hear before he kisses the tip of my nose.

The Bigs and the Bads party is pretty much what I expected, having endured an innumerable amount of them at home with my family. The ballroom at the Four Seasons glitters with a myriad of crystal chandeliers and sparkling, silver-white decor. It's hard to see any of it. Different crime families swirl around each other, puffing up and peacocking, to compete for who is the most feared. Bodyguards circle relentlessly. Clumps of arms dealers, drug importers, and like circulate gleefully in between, thrilled to have all of their clients in one room.

Everyone seems to be having fun, drinking a little too much, laughing a little too loudly. Just like a regular New Year's Eve party. Not that I've been to any of those.

"I have to go to the ladies' room," I not-quite shout to Vadim, trying to be heard over the cacophony.

"I'll take you," he says, his hand sliding to my elbow. The man he's been speaking with does not look happy about this.