Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(104)

We’re sitting in the second row of seats at the Fendi runway show, right behind Victoria Beckham. To my left is Nat, the black-haired beauty engaged to the head of the Bratva in the US. To my right are Sloane and her younger sister Riley, arguing the merits, or lack thereof, of French couture.

They bicker constantly, but the love between them is obvious. Over the past three days since we arrived in Paris, they’ve fought as much as they’ve hugged each other.

We watch the final model strut down the runway, then stand and clap with the rest of the audience when the show is over and the designer walks out to thunderous applause. Then we make our way through the crowd, headed to the after-party at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs.

We’re followed by no fewer than two dozen bodyguards.

Armed and eagle-eyed, they’re spread out across the room, moving through the well-dressed patrons like sharks through water. The protection was a nonnegotiable condition all our men insisted upon, though not the only one. The list was long.

A girls’ trip to Paris is much more than a simple getaway when the “girls” belong to four of the most powerful, dangerous men in organized crime.

Men who hate each other.

They probably hate it even more that there’s no stopping us once our minds are made up.

But all it took was a single conference call between the four of us to convince us that a girls’ trip was exactly what we needed. If these men of ours are going to be at each other’s throats for the next forty years, we’ll be the glue that holds this shit show together.

And we’re bonding the glue in Paris, buying haute couture and eating haute cuisine.

Nobody ever said politics had to be conducted in dreary surroundings.

Chatting about the show, we travel to the museum in a convoy of armored SUVs with blacked-out windows. We enter through a private elevator in the back of the building. Once we’re inside, the bodyguards spread out again, keeping their predatory gazes trained for any hint of danger.

The after-party is held in the nave of the museum, an elegant three-story space of carved arches, white marble columns, and glossy marble floors. Displays of mannequins clad in designer frocks are clustered on raised platforms. The walls glow with purple washes of light. Uniformed waiters pass champagne and canapés on silver trays. I spot four celebrities within the first five minutes of our arrival.

We gather around a tall cocktail table draped in linen at one end of the room and talk, eat, and people watch as more guests arrive.

Until Riley says suddenly, “Uh-oh.”

Chewing on a pear-and-gouda tartlet, Nat says, “What’s wrong?”

I’ve already spotted the problem. “Oh, just a little ticking time bomb over there.”

Nat and Sloane follow the direction Riley and I are looking.

On either side of the opposite end of the room, two pairs of men stand glaring at each other. On one side are Declan and Quinn. On the other are Kage, Nat’s fiancé and head of the US Bratva, and Malek, Riley’s fiancé and head of the Bratva in Moscow.

All four of them have their arms crossed over their chests and expressions of murderous rage on their faces as they stare at each other over everyone’s heads.

Sloane laughs. “Oh, look. The boys are here!”

Nat says crossly, “I knew they wouldn’t stay at the hotel like they agreed to. I think they’ve been following us around every time we go out.”

I say, “Of course they have. They can’t help themselves. All that big-dick energy comes with some serious caveman side effects.”

“Should we intervene?” asks Riley nervously. “I don’t like that look on Mal’s face.”

The look she’s referring to is directed at Quinn, who’s glaring right back at Malek with his teeth bared.

It’s no worse, however, than the look Kage and Declan are sharing, a glower of blistering hatred which could peel the paint right off the walls.

I say, “Don’t worry about them. It’s just saber rattling. They know better than to go at it with the four of us as witnesses.”

Sloane laughs again. “Right? They know what they’d be in for when they got home, the poor bastards.”

“They might be bastards, but poor they’re definitely not,” says Nat, turning to smile at me. “How many carats is that diamond necklace, anyway? Fifty?”

“Close, but no. And look who’s talking. How many carats is that ring?”

“Ten.” Nat beams down at her engagement ring, a huge chunk of ice that must’ve set Kage back millions of dollars. “But he thinks I need something bigger. When he saw Sloane’s ring, he got really mad.”

“Speaking of engagement rings,” Sloane says, elbowing Riley with a smile. “When are you and your giant Russian assassin going to tie the knot?”

“Probably not until after the baby’s born,” Riley says, caressing her stomach. In comparison to the rest of her petite frame, the small bump she’s growing looks big. “Though if it were up to him, it would be tonight. I’m not in such a hurry.”

“Why wait?”

She snorts. “Because gangster weddings are such calm and simple affairs, maybe?”

I smile. “Amen.”

Sloane waves that off and sips her champagne. “Then go to a justice of the peace or something. They do have those in Russia, I presume?”