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But even those thoughts can’t make me tear my mind away from what I found last night: Eden standing before that painting,her eyes filled with wonder and questions as she examined it, blissfully unaware of what she had really found.
Eden isn’t quite what I expected. Innocent, yes, but there’s a wicked and wild determination in her. Every hour, I wonder if my brigadiers could be mistaken about her and her father. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I can smell the smoke and cordite from the explosion that nearly claimed my life and my sister’s. The explosion that denied a more stable future for the Bratva and claimed both Gaspar and Izzie’s lives.
I cannot be distracted from my goal: to keep Eden by my side until I can draw her father out into the open.
The Lanzzare swear that they weren’t responsible for the bombing, and I believe them. They won’t lie when there’s a chance to gloat.
That means there’s no one elsebuther father who can claim responsibility. Yet the man refuses to surface.
Budanov … I muse. The name haunts the edge of my memories. It sounds familiar, yet I know nothing about him. The only ones who might know are my brigadiers, and they prefer to keep me in the dark.
Which means Eden is my only hope. But she remains tight-lipped as ever. I’ll need to find another way to pry her open and have her reveal the secrets that shemustknow.
I watch as Eden wanders around the gallery, her gaze flitting from one piece to another. She’s trying to distract herself from what happened between us.
I shouldn’t have yelled at her. But seeing her in that space triggered something in me. And had it not been for Dominikastanding outside of her door like a loyal guard dog, refusing me entry, I would’ve ripped the door off the hinges.
It wouldn’t have been right. But in that moment, I didn’t care.
And that’s what sends waves of shame surging through me every time I look at her. In a single moment of weakness, I nearly became my father.
I nearly became a monster.
Eden stops before an abstract painting, her eyes narrowing as she studies it. The image clashes on the canvas like a lightning storm, sending out bolts of color. It was painted by Kuzma Fedorov, a dissident who—like so many others—died in a Siberian gulag. I wonder what draws her to that particular piece.
Her head tilts to the side, and in the soft light, I notice a spray of faint freckles across her nose that I hadn’t seen before.
“Dobry den, Nikolai Gennadyevich,” Nina Orlov, the wedding planner, says as she enters. Her voice is melodic, but there’s an edge to it that’s hard to ignore, and it takes me away from my thoughts.
“Dobry den, Nina,” I greet her in response.
Nina’s wedding business caters to the Bratva exclusively. There are countless ostentatious weddings a year to make her financially successful at what she does. Her brief stint in the military ended due to a leg injury, opening an unexpected but lucrative door.
She understands delicate and volatile situations that other wedding planners wouldn’t understand or want to handle.
“If you could have a look at these invitations?” She hands me a binder.
“Of course,” I reply.
I make a face when I see one full of gold flourishes. Gold is gaudy. Gold is loud. Gold is for pretenders who want to project the image of wealth. I pick up one as opposite from that as possible. It’s elegant, refined, and better suited to my tastes.
Nina lifts her chin and then sweeps her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss?” she asks, sensing my unease.
“Actually, yes.” I glance over at Eden, who’s still quietly observing the same painting. A vague smile forms on her soft lips, and briefly I wonder what those lips might taste like. What they might feel like.
I turn back toward Nina, forcing myself to focus on the matter at hand. “I want you to convince me there won’t be any gatecrashers.”
“It all depends on venue, but I assure you that no one will be able to get into the wedding without an invitation, Nikolai Gennadyevich.” She flips over one of the invitations to reveal a QR code on the back. “And your brigadier, Gunsyn Bolotov, will also be on-site with additional security to ensure nothing goes wrong.”
I nod, but a nagging feeling in my gut won’t go away. Will it be enough? “I also want to talk about?—”
“Discretion? But of course,” Nina interrupts, giving me a knowing look. “Have you met Dima Kuznetsov’s third wife?”
I tilt my head. “I didn’t know he married again.”
“Neither did his ex-wives until the honeymoon.” Nina smiles coolly. “May I suggest a destination wedding, Nikolai Gennadyevich?” Nina glances over at Eden with interest and curiosity. “Many islands in the Caribbean have GPS spoofers on site and are patrolled by full-time armed staff and?—”
“Actually, Nina.” Now it’s my turn to interrupt her. “I want to talk about the wedding shower.”
