Page 7 of The Arrangement

“Pussy.” She smirked as he coughed under his breath to hide the surprise that flitted across his features. “He likes to chase it. How many whores does he have on the side?”

Boris considered his passenger for a quick moment. “You will have to ask him those questions. He does not lack female attention, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Great.

“Do you think—”

“I am not paid to think about what Anton does behind closed doors,” he interjected sharply. “I am a brigadier—your equivalent to a capo. You, girl, are my boss’s … betrothed. That is all.”

“I am not marrying him!”

“Discuss that with Anton.”

She swallowed back her anger, wanting to keep him talking. “He’s a little young to have reached his ranking, no?”

“His grandfather prepared him well. He was a made man—a vor in our terms—at eighteen, never finishing his studies formally but still well versed and intelligent. He’s quick, cunning, and knew what he was doing because growing up, he had watched more than he spoke. The little Russian prince, his grandfather called him. They all called him that. It’s in his blood, girl, what he was meant for. Most of us respected that, and when it came time, Anton was the best choice to take over, given his own father was too sick by that point.”

“You don’t think taking me after my father was killed for striking that deal with Nicoli Avdonin is bad leadership?” Viviana snorted, crossing her arms and turning to look out the window. “He’s practically declaring war between the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra.”

“Perhaps that is what he wants; have you considered that?” Boris asked. “His decisions have to be approved by the other Pakhans who may have issues because of his desires. There were reasons his grandfather and your father thought you two would be a good match. Besides the obvious reasons why they wanted the families to join in certain aspects, you have to know it was about more than just money.”

He shrugged and added, “You shouted about not being Russian back at your dorm because the Cosa Nostra demands full-blooded Italians when joining. We do not, and any boys you birthed for Anton would still be eligible to join the Bratva, should they be what we’re looking for when they become of age.”

“My children would—”

“Not your choice to make,” he interrupted swiftly with a raised brow. “You know this, girl. You were raised in this life. You avert your eyes and ears. Walls do not speak, and windows do not see. And if your husband wishes for you to know things, only then will he tell what he considers safe for you to know.”

Viviana felt her jaw clench at his words. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not marrying him.”

Boris chuckled. “You’ve forgotten then, little Vine, what it was like nine years ago when you were a young sixteen and he only eighteen. You didn’t know he was already a dangerous man, but you knew he would be. It did not bother you, and you were both willing to fulfill the arrangement, happily.”

He’d shocked her speechless. Again, Viviana’s memories were filled with years long past. Of a time when she was young, dumb, and head over heels for someone she didn’t even know, not really. For years, her father had repeated words, conditioned and prepared her for a marriage that was simply understood—accepted—because he said it was so. While arranged marriages were rare in the modern mafia, it sometimes happened to gain more power or wealth, but it was never spoken of publically. Roman had made the mistake of celebrating Viviana’s openly after she turned twenty, and it resulted in his death. Not that it would have made a difference when it came time for the actual marriage to take place.

The Italian daughter of a mafia Don had no business marrying the Bratva prince, they said. She should have been picking from the many sons of the Cosa Nostra batch. They would have been better suitors.

Sure …

“I was only sixteen; I couldn’t have known any better! And, anyway, how did you know that?”

“You don’t remember me, but I was always there as a bull of sorts for Anton. While he worked under his father and grandfather, I was there with him, ensuring he did what was correct and what we expected of him.”

“You were there.”

Viviana’s breathing halted for a split second, taking in what he said. That meant he probably knew what it had been like during the only two meetings between Anton and her, how happy the families had been that they took so well to one another as young children, and then when they were older, how they had fallen in …

“I didn’t … didn’t love …” She couldn’t finish the sentence as shame pulsed through her core and ached from the inside out. The words would be a lie because she had. And if she were an honest woman, Viviana would have to say those feelings never really went away. How could they when in her life there was only one person who was supposed to be just hers? “I didn’t.”

“You did,” Boris replied quietly, his hand reaching out to open the glove compartment. There, yet another small handgun sat atop a package of tissues. “Wipe your face, but do not touch my gun.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “It was a good match—still is—if you want it to be, Vine. Anton is taking major risks here. You were right in that assumption, but he is doing it for more than just the Bratva, too.”

“I don’t want to be his wife!” Not bothering to reach for the tissues, she slammed the glove compartment closed with a kick. “And I’ve been doing just fine since my parents died, without Anton or the Russians. Eventually, my uncle would have let this whole thing go.”

Boris didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. “Eventually, he would have killed you.” Clicking his tongue chidingly, he muttered, “Probably would have made it look like a suicide. Do not act so stupid, girl. He cares nothing for the blood you share.”

The truth in his words were a harsh reality that only added to her fear. Viviana wished she had grabbed for the gun in the glove compartment and turned the damned thing on him, but she knew it likely wouldn’t have made the situation any better. Not wanting to cry again, she steeled her emotions, sitting up ramrod straight in the passenger seat and staring ahead at the miles of highway they still had to travel.

“Where are we going?”

“A safe place. More specifically, a place in Brooklyn. It’s where Anton has always lived, and where we work out of, as you already know. Settle in, it’s a long drive from Toronto.”