Page 25 of Prince of Control
Baron lifts me into his arms again and carries me outside, still kissing me.
“Baron.” Leo interrupts in a low but urgent tone.
Baron breaks the kiss and looks at his bratva soldier, who slightly lifts his chin in the direction of a sleek gray electric car parked across the street.
Baron’s gaze follows as the car pulls away from the curb and disappears. He and Leo make eye contact for a moment and some communication passes between them.
Someone was watching us.
Someone witnessed our marriage. A member of the Chicago Bratva checking up to make sure Baron completed the deed? Most likely.
A cold chill brings me back to reality.
I just married an extension of my father. A gilded cage in the form of a soldier. A pakhan in the making. No amount of charm or good looks or perfect kisses will change that.
Chapter Seven
Baron
She let me kiss her.
I keep reminding myself of that fact as Lara downs more and more champagne in the living room of Baranov House.
Her phone started ringing with calls from Brash about five minutes after that svoloch who asked her to have a drink last night drove away. He’s Brash’s spy, I’m sure of it.
She didn’t take Brash’s calls, but she turned cold again after that, refusing to sit up front with me on the drive home. Phoenix offered to drive, so I could ride in the back with her, which I reluctantly agreed to. I don’t like to be the guy riding in the back, subject to someone else’s driving, but the situation seemed to call for it. I opened more champagne, and Lara drank–thirstily.
When we got back to the house, Emma had set out a spread of hors d’oeuvres–I guess someone told her I was getting married–and the whole rest of the house was gathered with more champagne bottles and proper glasses for a mini-reception.
I gnash my teeth, wanting to carry her upstairs to our room and figure out how to get back to the place where she let me kiss her. But that moment is gone, and the boisterousness of my friends seems to be a welcome distraction for her.
Leo leans over to speak in my ear. “Melinda Tracy is outside.”
Fuck. I don’t need this right now. Melinda had texted me this morning while I was taking Lara on the campus tour, and I hadn’t bothered to answer.
She’s not my girlfriend. I owe her nothing.
I shake my head. “No entry.”
“I told her. She insists on talking to you. Says she won’t leave until you come out.”
Blyad’. I know what she wants.
“I’ll take care of her,” I murmur, glancing at Lara.
She notices. She’s tipsy but not drunk.
On the front stoop, I find the daughter of Illinois Senator and Vice Presidential hopeful Gabe Tracy.
I lean in the doorway, barring her access to the house.
I instructed the members of my house not to give her entry this year because the last thing we need is the press or Secret Service following her here or doing background checks on any of us. Not that we personally have records. Still, I’m fairly certain our deep bratva roots will come up in their system.
She throws her hands out in an exaggerated question stance. “What’s the deal, Baron?”
Melinda’s irritated with being refused entry, but she wants what I have to offer more than she cares about being mistreated. Of course, mistreatment is always on the table with her. “Baron–Ben–please.” She uses my real name rather than the moniker most everyone at Thornecroft calls me to infer intimacy. “Don’t be a dick. I need this.”
I don’t allow drug addicts to hang out at Baranov House, but Melinda’s drug of choice is pain. And she knows–intimately–how our house got its nickname, “The Gulag.” She’s taken more trips to our dungeon than any other non-house member on campus.
