Page 64 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“I feel like I should be going to some terrifying Upper East Side dinner where everyone pretends not to notice someone’s husband is having an affair with a Pilates instructor.”

Aleksander’s mouth twitches. “Those are easier than bratva dinners.”

“That’s deeply concerning.”

“It should be.”

I turn slightly, watching the silk move.

“This feels expensive enough to have its own tax bracket.”

“It probably does.”

I don’t argue with that, just file it away alongside the coffee cup at the market and the hand at my back and the fact that I’m still here.

His gaze remains fixed on me in a way that makes me too aware of my own skin. Not lust exactly. Attention—the kind that doesn’t look away.

And that feels more dangerous.

“You’re disturbingly good at this,” I mutter.

“At shopping?”

“At seeing things people are trying to hide.”

His face changes briefly, not pain. Memory.

“Elena used to say that too.”

The name lands gently this time instead of sharply.

“She had good taste?” I ask.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “She thought black cashmere was a personality trait.”

“That’s because it is.”

That finally earns a quiet laugh from him. Warm. Brief. Unexpected enough that I feel it somewhere beneath my ribs.

I look away first. The silence that follows is different from the others.

“Was it fast?” I ask.

Aleksander doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops briefly toward the middle distance—not avoiding the question. Locating the answer.

“Not at first,” he says. “Then all at once. Acute myeloid leukemia. Thirty-five percent survive. She wasn’t one of them.”

He gave me the number like he’d said it before. Like at some point knowing the odds precisely was the only thing that helped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Not harsh. Just precise. “She hated being mourned while she was still alive. I think she’d hate it now too.”

A pause.

“She sounds difficult,” I say.

“Extraordinarily.” He says it with the private warmth of a man who has earned the right to complain about her.