Page 51 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
Sometimes, our eyes meet, and I find my heart racing. When he breaks into a grin, I find my hands go clammy.
After Faddey cuts the cake, I find myself playing hostess, helping Lilibeth cut out slices and pass them around. For some reason, it feels totally natural.
By the time evening comes around, I find myself heading to the bar for one last glass, when to my surprise, I find Ilariy already there.
He’s behind the bar, which is now entirely empty since the crowd has dwindled and the remaining people have taken their drinks and bottles over to the porch.
Ilariy meets my gaze over the bar and smiles. “Need another?” He points at my glass.
“Yes, please,” I say, and hand it to him. When our fingers brush, a heat shoots down my spine.
He pours himself another beer and crosses over the bar to meet me and hand me my champagne.
“Come with me,” he says, his fingers intertwining with mine. “I want to show you something.”
It’s not out of curiosity that I follow. It’s from the simple fact that I just now realize how much I missed him this afternoon.
He leads me away from the garden, through a side exit, down a winding stone path that leads up to a pretty bench.
I giggle as I sit, and Ilariy takes a seat beside me. “Why is there a bench in the middle of nowhere?” I laugh.
“Faddey tends to want to escape the chaos our family is. He tried to keep this little nook hidden forever, can you imagine?” he gasps in mock horror, and I pretend to look equally horrified.
We sit there in silence for a while, our hands still intertwined, our backs bent against the bench. I take an occasional sip of champagne, and I feel completely light, completely happy, completely at peace.
“You had a good time?” Ilariy speaks first.
I answer honestly. “I had a lovely time. Your family, they’re truly lovely, Ilariy.”
He raises an eyebrow and gives me a wink. “You sure we’re talking about the same people?”
I twist my body to face him and smile, squeezing his hand. “Yes!” There’s a defensiveness in my voice. “It’s amazing how openly you all love each other.”
Ilariy sips his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. “What can I say? We’re a demonstrative bunch.”
“Is that normal?” I ask the question that’s been burning inside me all day. “For Bratva families, I mean. Are they all like yours?”
His expression turns serious, concerned as he searches my face as though he’s wondering why I’m asking. “No,” he says softly. “Not all of them.”
“So what’s the difference? Between yours and others?” My voice sounds small, unsure.
“I don’t know, Arina,” he sighs. “Some, like ours, put family first. Violence is a last resort, only to be used to protect and defend. But the others, I sometimes feel like they’ve forgotten why we build legacies in the first place. In their greed, they begin to hurt people, including their own.”
I bite my lower lip. “But everyone here, they’re not like that, right?”
“No, they aren’t.” He shakes his head. “The Zolotovs, The Orlovs, us. We aren’t cruel. But others, like Viktor, know no bounds.”
I suddenly feel the blood gush into my ears at the mention of Viktor’s name. I know I was the one to have asked, but a twig of anger forms in my heart.
Ilariy looks like he spoke too much. “I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly. “I shouldn’t have.”
But then, a strange moment of clarity passes. What am I doing? Asking questions and not wanting answers.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You shouldn’t have.But you must. I’m done hiding under a rock, Ilariy. You once suggested that my brothers were Bratva, and I thought you were speaking from a place of pettiness. Was that true?”
“Itistrue,” he insists, gently.
“And you’re saying Viktor wasn’t like you? And my brothers?”
