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We were. We were used to, by necessity, large, overbearing events.
In our world, we lived fast and died young.
The goal, of course, was to die young without someone else’s blade in your heart.
“I still hate them,” he replied with a shrug, and I appreciated the little tidbit, the insight into his mind.
“Why?”
“Want to use it against me?”
The suggestion had me laughing a little. “How can I do that? Should we go on a safari so you can be stampeded by a herd of wildebeest? Because, let’s face it, this crowd is probably more dangerous than them.”
“Huh?”
I figured that would stump him, so I grinned at him, and the sight had his eyes darkening from chocolate brown to almost black. My visceral response to that was unnerving, so I ducked my gaze, and muttered, “Never mind.”
He surprised me by grunting. “I don’t like bullshit.”
My brow puckered. “Does anyone?”
“I have less patience for it than most.”
I thought about that for a second. “You’re a—” I cleared my throat. “The things you do, they require patience.”
“And silence… I’m good with that.”
He broke off the conversation by glowering at a server who tried to pour some more wine for him. I hadn’t even realized someone was nearby, but he had, so I took the chance to study him. I had a lot to learn about my husband, but I was willing to.
Funny how, as I got out of the limo this morning, traipsing into a church that was bedecked with a thousand flowers and more ornamentation that didn’t suit my style but declared to the world how wealthy our families were, I hadn’t wanted to know him at all.
Had wanted to go out of my way to irritate the man who’d avoided me for years since the betrothal contract between us had been signed.
He could have eased me into marriage, courted me.
But he hadn’t.
He’d kept it as a business deal, telling me what he thought about me without even having to look at me, without even having to whisper a painful word.
Then he’d seen my bruises, then he’d dislocated my father’s arm, and I’d known my husband was no ordinary mobster.
How did that not deserve a truth? Some trust? Some gratitude?
So I blew out a breath. “He wants me to tell him things.”
My voice was low enough for not even Veronika, who I could imagine was trying to eavesdrop, even if her English was shit, to hear a word.
Hell, my statement was soundless, especially over the sounds of “New York, New York” playing in the background.
“And are you going to tell him anything?”
“My loyalty comes with a price,” I informed him.
“How high a price?” I saw distaste flutter into his eyes, and his mouth curved into a quick, derogatory flash that told me what he thought of that answer.
Simply, I told him, “You already paid it.”
He tensed, then his gaze drifted from my eyes and over my shoulder to where our families were sitting at the tables nearest ours—his to the right of him, mine to the left of me—and when his lips curved softly, I knew he saw my father wearing a sling formed of black silk that aboyevikhad run out to purchase for him.
