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Scowling, he leans back, sweeps an arm over the top of the couch, and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. “Marrying Bee means that I will inherit the Zanetti mafia. I’m doing this for me.”
My eyebrows pinch together in a scowl of my own. “I call bullshit.”
He looks annoyed that he has to finally look in my direction. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I call bullshit. I get that you need to maintain this big shot, alpha dog, Bratva don persona—but we both know that’s not why you’re marrying her.”
His lips press together in a thin line. “Don’t make the mistake of believing that I’m the good guy, Wren. You’ll only get hurt.”
“I know you’re a dangerous man. God knows you insist on reminding me of that as often as possible. But… you can be a good one, too.”
I turn away from him to hide my smile. Maybe Bee’s right; maybe I don’t need to know how this will work out.
Maybe I just need to trust that it will.
48
DMITRI
“The hell is taking Bee so long?”
“Wedding dress shopping takes time,” Wren replies coolly. “It’s a process.”
“It’s also a fake wedding.” I run a frustrated hand through my hair. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a shit what she’s wearing.”
“Aw, I’m sure Bee will be so touched by that heartwarming, romantic sentiment.” She shucks off her shoes, pulls her bare feet up onto the sofa, and wraps her arms around her knees. “You know you’re not required to be here, right?”
She’s got me there. Truth be told, the only reason I’m here at all is because of her. I spent most of the morning trying to keep my distance. That was a losing effort, as it turned out. I caved and came down, justifying my presence here as “extra security” and justifying the hundred-and-fifty miles an hour I drove here at as “not wasting my fucking time.” Aleksandr saw right through the bullshit, if that douchey smile he cast my way was any indication.
“Aleks has shit to do for the Bratva. I had to take his place on the security detail.”
Her eyebrows arch skeptically. She knows as well as I do that there are a hundred men I could have chosen to take Aleksandr’s place.
“How’re things at the office?” she asks instead.
I scoff. “Your friend gives me dirty looks every time I walk down her corridor.”
She laughs. Why does it sound like music? “Syrah’s just protective. But don’t worry: she’s all bark, no bite.”
“That’ll serve her well. Because I bite back.”
She scowls. “Just when I think you’re halfway decent?—”
I interrupt her with a cruel laugh and lean forward to scoop a strawberry off the platter on the coffee table between us. “I make no pretense about who I am. You’re the one who keeps insisting that I’m a good man.”
Wren’s face flushes red, but she doesn’t reply. She pulls out her phone and pretends to scroll for a while, though I’d bet every penny I own that her mind is a complete and total blank right now.
Grimacing, I get out my own phone and start scrolling through messages. “Motherfucker,” I mutter when a new email comes in.
“What?” Wren blurts before she can stop herself.
I glance up at her. “Nothing. Work things.”
“I work for you, you know,” she reminds me acidly. “Actually, ‘work’ is the safest conversational topic I can think of. Everything else is a minefield with you.”
She may have a point. I sigh and let my phone drop down onto my lap. “New client. Wants to buy up a string of warehouse facilities with port access, all cash, but he’s insisting I meet with him first.”
“Who’s the client?”
