Page 19 of Bound By Ruin

Rage

TakingCelia’s mother out to lunch wasn’t part of the original plan. Celia and I were supposed to meet with her gala clients today, spend a few evening hours unwinding with my brothers at her house, and end the day with a nightclub appearance—the two of us on stage while Celia sits on my lap in the skimpiest lingerie possible, her hot lips on my ear while I finger her cunt beneath a spotlight. The goal is exposure—use Celia as bait to lure out our father. When people see us together at the club, word of mouth will spread like wildfire. Secrets are meant to be kept atMidnight, but I’m not stupid. I know that people talk.

Especially when there’s a gorgeous woman on display.

But when Celia’s phone rang a half dozen times this morning, all of which being from her mother, I improvised.

Mrs. Monrovia wasnothappy when I picked up the phone, much like I wasn’t happy with her tone.

Like Heather Hanson said, the bitch can be venomous when it comes to her children, and the news about Celia’s boutique going up in flames didn’t go over well with her.

But…

Imagine how lethal she could be when it comes to hergrandchildren.

By the time Celia and I arrive at the French cafe Adella Monrovia favors, it’s bustling with activity as mother and daughter duos and groups of women purchase dainty sandwiches or pastries to go with their tea and coffee. The lunch crowd doesn’t pay much attention to Celia on her own, but the moment I lace our fingers together and bring her knuckles to my lips for a kiss, it doesn’t take long for the whispers to begin.

They’re not used to men like me stepping into their establishment.

A few of the women, I recognize, chief of whom being Mrs. Monrovia herself. All of the bratva women have laid claim to the far side of the cafe, taking up every single window seat in existence. The thing with bratva women is that appearances matter to them. It’s important for others to see who they are dining with, what connections are being made between family lines, and which ones may cross over into business relations—usually, all of them.

In essence, the women’s emphasis on appearances is the opposite of what their men need. Thepakhanis the exception since he’s the face of the bratva, but the rest of us slithering through the underbelly of the city take more clandestine measures with our meetings and operations. I’m not used to having business lunches in broad daylight—I’m used to dragging some sorry sack of shit into a back alley and talking with my fists.

This is different, but different might be good for me.

Rebel’s voice cuts through our comms unit. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Noted.

Celia walks in her mother’s direction on instinct, hardly looking in the elder woman’s direction before her feet begin moving. She cuts across the dining room like she owns the place, not sparing a second glance at any of the other diners. In her eyes, there’s only one woman in the room.

One glance at Adella tells me that the feeling is mutual.

I pull out Celia’s chair and push it back in for her before taking my own seat at her side, to Adella’s right.

A chainsaw couldn’t cut through the tension in the air.

“Mom, this is Rage.”

Adella doesn’t spare me a glance. “When were you going to tell me that you returned home, Celia? I’ve only been throwing Russian men into your path for the past six months. The least you could do is tell your mother that you’re not interested in her choice of men. Not because you’re still sad, but because you’reseeingsomeone.” She sniffs as she unwraps her cloth napkin and places it in her lap. “I could have spared myself the indignity of telling all of those bachelors that my daughter was still grieving.”

Celia’s lips press into a firm line. “You didn’t tell them that.”

After a server delivers a bowl of lemons for our table, Adella replies, “No, I didn’t.”

This turn of conversation is interesting, and not at all what I’d expected. Celia hasn’t exactly said much about her relationship with her mother, so it was easy to guess that they weren’t close. I’m not sure why—most bratva women stick together like they’re glued at the hip—so animosity between Celia and her mother is a puzzle I have yet to solve.

Rebel comments on the conversation in our ears, and I catch Celia’s flinch. “What is there for her to grieve?” he asks, scoffing.

Although I couldn’t agree more, unlike my brother, I understand that Mrs. Monrovia won’t see it that way. A loss of a husband to death is one thing—but losing him to divorce? It tarnishes a bratva woman’s reputation, regardless of Celia’s ex-husband’s status as a normal citizen and not a bratva member.

Celia has been fighting an uphill battle with bratva tradition and societal expectation since she turned eighteen, if not even earlier.Sixteen, maybe, with how early girls are betrothed.

Not my daughter, I silently vow, clenching my fist under the table.Fuckan arranged marriage. I won’t have my future child become a bargaining chip for some fat fuck to use as leverage for a grab at Baranova bratva power.

If Mikhail has any balls, he won’t stand for it, either. Not for his future nieceornephew.

I lift my other hand from beneath the table and take Celia’s hand in mine, carefully wrapping her fingers in mine and setting them on the table in a public display.

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