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Niles knew in two minutes what it took my father until… well, until never to realize: the Sokolovs are not to be trusted.
I know he’s once again right about Francia.
But that doesn’t change what has to be done.
“I don’t want to deal with Francia in my house any more than the rest of you. I’m the one who has to fucking marry her. If she is ever on fire, I’m probably the one who lit the match.”
His brow furrows in concern. “There has to be a way out of it. You deserve better than her. You deserve…”
His voice trails off, but we both know what he was going to say.
Cora.
I’m flattered he thinks so. The trouble is, after the fuck-ups I’ve made the last couple days, I’m not so sure Cora deserves me.
She deserves safety. Protection. Things I can no longer offer her.
“What any of us may or may not deserve doesn’t matter. Francia is moving in today. That is the decision I made. Now, I need you and everyone else to figure out how to make it work.”
Niles stiffens. I see his sense of loyalty fighting against his honor. He really might rather quit outright than serve Francia.
Then, finally, his stiff posture relaxes just a fraction of an inch. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Your best has been good enough so far.” I clap him on the shoulder and turn towards the door. “Help her get settled and—”
“She can’t stay in Cora’s room,” Niles interrupts. “She can live in this house if you allow her to, but I will not put her in my mistress’s room. Not after what she has done.”
His loyalty is a testament. To Cora’s influence, but also to the man himself. The old coot will have a home in my Bratva for as long as he wants it.
“She’ll sleep in the East wing,” I agree. “I’ll leave it to you to choose her room.”
Finally, Niles shows a sign of amusement. Whatever he has planned for Francia, I know she won’t like it.
But all work and no play isn’t good for my household staff.
I’ll let them take their vengeance where they can.
* * *
I make sure I’m not around when Francia arrives. I hear the crunch of wheels on the pavement outside and the shuffle of movement deep in the house, but I stay in my office. She can carry her own ass across the threshold. Fuck knows I’m not going to do it.
The only time I’ll carry Francia anywhere is to an exit. Preferably in a body bag.
As the minutes tick past, my fingers itch to do something. To stay busy. I want to text Yasha about anything he may have found out about Marcus St. Clair in the ninety minutes since we spoke, but I know it’s too soon for that. Besides, I don’t want to do anything that Francia could walk in and see. The bitch doesn’t need any more leverage.
So I dig through my top drawer and find the Save the Date mock-ups Anya sent me last week. Actually, she dropped them unceremoniously on top of my laptop and said, “Pick your favorite.”
I swiped them away. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she complained. “Testosterone may make you an unbearable asshole, but it does not make you incapable of having an opinion about design. So pick your favorite and then I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
I stacked them up and handed them back to her. “My favorite is the one you choose for me.”
She’d love to walk through my office door and see me flipping through them now. Unfortunately, when my door opens, it isn’t my sister in the doorway.
“This is ridiculous!” Francia shrieks.
I keep my eyes down. The first Save the Date looks like the announcement for a baby’s baptism. There are winged cherubs and laurel branches and cartoon white roses around the edges. I loathe it.
