Broken Whispers (Perfectly Imperfect #2)(3)

Opening a drawer in his desk, he takes out a burner phone, and slides it across the desk toward me. “You will message me everything you learn. Every single thing. Do you understand, Bianca?”

Everything makes more sense now. What a perfect setup he has made: get rid of his problematic child, and get into good graces with the don by sacrificing one of his daughters to the Bratva, all while making sure he’ll be the one getting the inside information on the Russians. Brilliant, really.

“I asked you a question!” He snarls.

I tilt my head to the side and regard him, wishing I had a gun and imagining pointing it between his eyes and pulling the trigger. I wouldn’t miss. Over the years, my brother made sure my aim is impeccable by secretly taking me with him on his shooting practices. I’m not sure I’d have the guts to kill my father, but imagining it definitely felt good.

I nod, collect the phone from the desk, and leave the office, catching the sight of his satisfied smile from the corner of my eye. Let him believe whatever he wants. I might be marrying into the Bratva, but I’m doing it for my sister, not because he ordered me. And I am not playing his spy. I am not dying because of him, again.





When Roman Petrov, Bratva’s pakhan, enters the dining room, everybody stands and keeps standing until he takes a seat at the head of the table. He leans his cane on his chair and nods for us to sit back down. The first chair on his right remains empty. His wife probably feels unwell again. I thought pregnant women only had sickness in the morning, but based on what I heard in the kitchen, Nina Petrova has been vomiting nonstop for weeks.

Roman turns to the maid and motions with his head toward the door. “Leave and close the door, Valentina. I’ll call you when we are done.”

She nods quickly and rushes out of the room, closing the double doors behind her. It looks like we’ll be discussing business before dinner. Roman leans back in his chair, and I wonder what kind of bomb he’ll be dropping on us today. The last time he called us all in, he informed us that he secretly got married two days after meeting his wife.

“As you already know, we’re calling a truce with the Italians,” he says. “They agreed to my terms, I agreed to theirs, and the only thing left is to organize a wedding to seal the deal.” He raises his eyebrows. “So, who would like to volunteer to be the lucky groom?”

Nobody says a word. We don’t do arranged marriages in the Bratva. That was always an Italian thing, and nobody wants to be saddled with a Trojan horse. That’s what that woman would be, and everybody knows it. I wonder who he’ll pick. It won’t be me, because Roman knows my issues too well. It won’t be Sergei, either. No one in his right state of mind would trust that lunatic with a toaster, let alone a human being. Maxim is too old, so I’m betting on Kostya or Ivan.

“What, no one wants a pretty Italian girl? Maybe this will help change your mind.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, takes out a photo, and passes it to Maxim. “Bianca Scardoni, the middle daughter of Italian capo Bruno Scardoni, and up until recently, the prima ballerina of the Chicago Opera Theatre.”

I feel my body go stone-still. Not possible.

“They really want this alliance.” Roman smiles. “The most beautiful woman of the Italian mafia is up for grabs.”

Maxim passes the picture to Kostya, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at Roman. “What’s the catch?”

“Why do you think there would be a catch?”

“The Italians would never give up a capo’s daughter, especially one who looks like that, to the Bratva. No matter how much they want an alliance. There must be something wrong with her.”

“Well, there is one small catch, but I would rather call it a bonus.” Roman smirks.

I take the photo Kostya passes me and look down at it. She’s even more beautiful with her loose hair framing her perfect face, while her light brown eyes are smiling into the camera. Grinding my teeth, I pass the picture to Ivan. Just thinking about one of my comrades getting her makes a wave of rage come over me, and I grab the arms of the chair with all my might so I won’t end up hitting something.

Ivan looks at the image, his eyebrows raised, then nudges Dimitri with his elbow and passes him the photo.

“She doesn’t look . . . extremely Italian.” Dimitri nods at the photo in his hands “I thought all Italian girls had dark hair. Was she adopted?”

“Nope. Maternal grandmother was Norwegian,” Roman throws in.

Sergei is next, but he just passes the photo to Pavel without even looking at it.

“Fuck me, she’s hot.” Pavel whistles and shakes his head. “Do you have another photo? Preferably with fewer clothes.”

Focusing on the wall across from me, I squeeze the chair even harder, trying to control the urge to get up and punch Pavel in the face or do something worse, like claim her for myself. Pavel keeps looking at the photo, and for a moment, I imagine him placing his hands on her and my control disintegrates in a fraction of a second.

“I’ll take her,” I say.

The absolute silence fills the room as all eyes focus on me, surprise and disbelief visible on every face. I turn to Roman who regards me with his eyebrows raised.

“An interesting development,” he says. “I was planning to give her to Kostya if no one volunteered. He’s closest to her age.”