Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (30)

“You better, or there will be hell to pay. Even big, powerful dons have to listen to their mothers.”

I grumble and give him the finger.

“Off to dinner with your new bride?” he asks, wagging his eyebrows at me.

I roll my eyes. “I need information from her.”

“If that’s your story,” he smiles. “You need to tell Mother she has a daughter-in-law.”

“She doesn’t.”

“I think you might be confused on the meaning of the word, brother.”

“I’m not confused about anything,” I snarl. “This whole thing is fake. Bullshit. An arrangement, nothing more.”

“Mhmm. Whatever you say, sir.”

“You are insufferable. You know that, right?”

He smiles wide. “Better than anyone.”





12





Isaak





I pace the grounds for a while and brood despite the rain. Or perhaps because of it. I’ll always prefer New York, but there’s something about London’s dreariness that suits me.

When eight o’clock nears, I step into my private quarters, shower, and change into a white button down shirt and crisp black slacks. I cuff the sleeves to my elbow, then make my way to the dining room.

I’m five minutes early, but she’s already there when I arrive. I freeze in the doorway.

“I take it you didn’t like the dress?”

Cami’s face is free of makeup and her hair is a rat’s nest piled on top of her head. She’s dressed in tattered jeans, a logo-free white t-shirt, and a pair of fuzzy pink flip-flops that I didn’t even realize I paid for.

She turns from where she’s standing by the windows. “Under other circumstances, it would’ve been fine,” she says. Her eyes spark with defiance. “But I don’t like being forced into things.”

My first instinct is to rage. But immediately, I realize that’s the wrong move. She probably planned this little rebellion from the moment I left her room. She wants me to get angry, to see how far she can push me.

I’ll bite back at the little kiska.

But on my own terms. Not hers.

“Shall we sit?” I gesture gracefully to the table.

She plonks herself down unceremoniously on the chair opposite me and tucks her hair back behind her ears.

It’s clear she’s taken pains to look as unappealing as possible, but the effort is laughable.

She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“You look lovely.”

She frowns. “You’re overdressed,” she says, eyeing my white button down.

“Wine?”

“No thank you,” she says brusquely.

I pour her a glass anyway. A moment later, the maids roll in the food trolley and start uncovering the silver cloches. One by one, the dishes are revealed and the room fills with savory scents.

“Help yourself,” I tell her. Her face is alight with hunger, although she’s trying not to tip her hand to me.

She shrugs like she doesn’t care about anything one way or the other. Then she takes a piece of grilled barramundi and drenches it in the accompanying sweet-chili sauce. I notice her eyes flicker towards the wine a couple of times, but she manages to resist.

If this is her “cooperating,” we have some work to do.

“We have a library in the manor,” I tell her. “You’re welcome to use it whenever you want.”

She nods.

“And the gardens cover about an acre. So there’s a lot to see there.”

Another nod.

“Is something wrong?”

Her eyes snap to mine. I’m met with green fire. “Oh, you mean apart from the fact that I’m a prisoner in this awful house and this fucked-up marriage?”

“You can leave,” I say. “Just so long as you’re accompanied by me or my men.”

“Jailers.”

“Bodyguards,” I amend.

“You expect me to be grateful that I’m allowed to check out your stupid books and your stupid gardens?” she asks bitingly. “Am I supposed to grovel at your feet and say, ‘Thank you, Master Isaak; you are so benevolent!’? Well, sorry, I’m not impressed.”

“Let me be clear: I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re impressed or not.”

She flinches back at my tone, but she manages to keep the fire blazing. “What did you do with Eric?”

“The Marshal?”

“Yes,” she practically hisses at me. “‘The Marshal.’”

I suppress my smile. “He’s fine. We didn’t hurt him.”

“I’m going to need proof of that.”

“At some point, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“You’re dreaming if you think I’m ever going to trust another man again for as long as I live.”

I cock my head to the side. “You seem to trust Eric.”

“Eric is different.”

“How so?”

“He’s the father I never had,” she blurts out. Immediately after she says it, regret washes over her face, giving her instant color. “Or, I mean—that’s not what I meant.”