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“Don’t be,” I replied. “I have no desire to see Uncle Misha prancing about, acting like this wasn’t everything he wanted.”
And there was the rub. Not only had I been informed of my father’s untimely death by a fuckingtext message,but I had also been told that I needn’t bother to show up for the funeral. That everything had been taken care of, thanks to my uncle.
For forty-five years, Fyodor Korolev had ruled the Bratva with an iron fist. For forty-five years, he had waxed polemic about the importance of family. Yet that was the same man who had sent me—his only son—to New York for ten years to carve my own bloody path. An exile in all but name.
Now he was dead, and by rights, I should be where he once sat as the Pakhan of the Korolev Bratva. But somehow, my uncle Mikhail—or as he liked to call himself, Uncle Misha—was the one giving orders instead.
Including the order that I marry Elia fucking Tarallo, of all people. The girl whose brother I had killed.What the hell was my uncle thinking? Or was this the secret work of my father that I was once again left in the dark about? Just like this entire decade in New York?
“Have you heard about my wedding?” I finally asked. “To Elia Tarallo.”
“Who hasn’t?” Boris asked back.
“I ran into her tonight,” I said. “Coming out of a bar, where she was accosted by a couple of guys looking to take advantage of her.”
“Never took you to be a white knight kind of guy.” Boris laughed. He was the only one that could talk to me like that, well, other than my sister. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding?”
“Don’t fucking remind me, Borya.” I turned away as the sun began rising above the skyline.
Still, his words made me think of Elia Tarallo and how she felt in my grip earlier. She was petite yet curvy, and her body had caused mine to react in ways I didn’t expect. In the moment that I held her close to me, all I thought about were her soft, alluring lips. The way her long dark hair had fallen over one shoulder in waves made me want to run my fingers through them. Her dark eyes were like the ocean at dusk, hiding a torrent of surging power underneath the surface.
I had nearly kissed her. I knew that, and she knew that.
It had taken all the effort in my body to pull away at the last moment. Because something told me that if I had even a taste of her lips, if I felt the hint of her tongue feathering against mine, then I would be powerless to stop myself until both of us were breathless and gasping right then and there.
She was a Tarallo. She was our enemy—myenemy. Yet I was ready to bury myself in her, all consequences be damned.
“So.” Boris’s voice snapped me from my reverie. “What did you think of her?”
She’s beautiful, far more beautiful than I imagined. And if I guessed correctly, a fierce hellcat with razor-sharp claws.
“She’s alluring,” was all I said instead.
“Alluring,” Boris repeated with a bark of laughter. “Who are you? Pushkin? That’s the best you can do? Try again, Alyosha. And be honest this time.”
“She’s fucking gorgeous, you animal,” I growled, handing him my whiskey as I made my way to the bar for a new one. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes and no. Truth be told.” He accepted the drink and joined me at the bar. “I want to hear what you think about this whole marriage. Because I don’t like it, Alyosha. We spent ten years putting Tarallo men into the ground, and you killed Ludovico’s only son. But now we’re supposed to kiss and make up? Like all that bad blood is just going to go away?”
“My uncle hasn’t told me any details.” I placed the bottle back on the shelf. “And I have no inclination to ask him.”
“How odd.” Boris swirled the whiskey, drained it in a single gulp, and poured himself a new glass. “Your uncle now calls the shots and sits where you ought to. Something smells rotten, and it’s not just the East River.”
“Exactly.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I can’t figure out if this is another one of my father’s cryptic orders, or if this is my uncle’s doing.”
None of this made any sense, and my father certainly wasn’t here to answer any questions I had.
“I’m not going to like this marriage,” I said slowly, looking at my glass. “There’s no love there.”
“Do you still even believe in love?” Boris asked. “After the lesson your father taught you?”
I stared angrily at Boris, and he stopped talking. Our friendship might be strong, but there were still lines. And right now, Boris was coming dangerously close to crossing that line.
“Apologies, Aleksey Fyodorovich,” Boris said after a few moments, switching to my patronymic out of respect. “It’s just that you look like you’re headed to your execution instead of your wedding.”
My lips lifted in a grin as I closed my eyes, scoffing. “Is there a difference?”
He shook his head, slapping me on the back. “Perhaps not. But if nothing else, at least you won’t have to close your eyes and pretend she’s someone better looking on your wedding night. Especially if your bride is, as you say, fucking gorgeous.”
