Page 28 of Marrying the Mobster
I grit my teeth at the clear attempt to separate me from Elena. Oleg’s eldest son, Viktor, has roped her into conversation. Elena fidgets with her little purse, but smiles and engages him with the perfect amount of shy demureness.
“I’d love to see it,” I say, letting Nataly grab my arm.
She leads me to the other side of the room—which just so happens to be clear of any other guests. As she starts blabbering about the Barcelo painting, I glance over my shoulder to check on Elena. Viktor has retreated, watching with a tight frown as Elena chats with one of his sisters. She must have shut him down when he tried to flirt. Good. She’s doing well on her own, so I let myself relax and pretend interest in the painting.
We only need to make it through the next couple of hours. Things will go back to normal once we’re out of Oleg’s sight. How hard could it be to convince him that I’m head over heels in love with a woman who hates my guts?
14
Diego
The dinner party goes smoother than I expected. All my men and Oleg’s needed to find common ground was a selection of fine vodkas. The women clustered together near the piano while the men traded introductions and pleasantries. Once dinner is served, we walk into the spacious dining room with another set of windows offering a skyline view.
The seating is assigned strategically, placing Oleg at the head of the table and Galina on the other end. Viktor sits on his right, and I have the honored position on his left, across from the firstborn son. His other children are scattered down the table, with my lieutenants and Oleg’s mixed in randomly. As expected, Nataly sits at my side. The unexpected arrival of Elena threw a temporary wrench into the seating, and despite my insistence that I’d move to the other side of the table, Galina took over and shifted one of Oleg’s men to place Elena directly beside Viktor.
Vodka is traded for wine as the soup course is served, and the strained atmosphere of earlier seems to have eased. I observe the people around me with a critical eye, but can’t find any cause for alarm. Jovan is flirting with one of Oleg’s daughters, which seems to delight Galina. It wouldn’t surprise me to have Oleg press the issue of another marriage union in the near future. Marcella has the attention of some of the lower-rankingbratva, but threatening stares from me scare them into averting their eyes, leaving her to chat with Galina. My sister looks bored, but she knows her role in this game and plays it well.
“Tell me, Elena,” Oleg says with an indulgent smile. “What do you do?”
Elena’s face lights up with genuine passion as she tells Oleg about her boutique. I’ll admit I haven’t given much thought to the business she seems desperate to cling to, but I have to take notice now. Elena tells Oleg things I didn’t know about her—like how she’s been making her own clothes since she was elementary school, and that she holds degrees in business, fashion design, and fashion merchandising. Her boutique specializes in affordable ready-to-wear pieces for women, as well as high-end gowns. She takes the occasional custom design order and is planning to expand into a line of ladies’ swimwear.
I’m entranced, impressed by her resume and accomplishments. Because of my lifestyle, I am used to encountering women who went to college for ‘life experience’, their existemce revolving around influential marriages and social climbing. I was determined for Marcella to never be like them. She might not be closely related to my business, but she has a lot more to offer than her looks and status as my sister. In another year and a half, she’ll have earned her business and marketing degree. I give her five years before she’s running her own company and knocking down every man who gets in her way to do it.
Elena might not be from our world, but she’s still nothing like the daughters of the men who typically borrow money from me. Spoiled and vain, they are often part of the reason Daddy’s in financial trouble. Not Elena. She’s been independent for a while, and her own success happened despite Santiago and not because of him. That she just so happened to be in the house when I arrived to put her father down is Elena’s only crime.
It’s not lost on me that this is why I’m finding it so difficult to kill her. The night we met, then again both times she tried to escape … the niggle of guilt and repugnance shot through me. I want to believe I showed mercy because of Father Moya, but I’m lying to myself. When she knelt for me, I was holding my breath and praying that Elena would choose life—choose me over a bullet.
Her acceptance doesn’t mean anything, except that she still has a lot of fight left in her. And maybe it also means there can never be any end to this. There are only two inevitable ways this can be over, and one of them is me killing Elena. The other is her remaining my slave in perpetuity—something that doesn’t make me feel as guilty as the thought of murdering her. My reasons are selfish. In exchange for giving Elena her life, I can have whatever I want from her … all the things I wouldn’t dare consider when I thought her of as only a piece of collateral.
But she’s no longer a piece of collateral. Elena ismine.
As Oleg peppers Elena with questions about fashion, I notice that his son has also become engrossed with her. Viktor leans close, smiling and asking questions. My fingers tightening painfully around my spoon. She’s doing well, maintaining a polite aloofness and inching away when Viktor gets too close.
That doesn’t stop fantasies of murder from flashing through my mind. Inside, my vision is painted red, and Victor lays strewn in several pieces. His eyes keep dipping to Elena’s cleavage, so of course I’ll have to yank those out.
“I’m very proud of Elena,” I interject, drawing both hers and Viktor’s gaze to me. “She’s done well for herself. I’m a lucky man.”
Elena slips a hand into the one I extend across the table. I hold Viktor’s gaze while letting my fingers stroke along hers, a not-so-subtle warning emanating from my eyes. Oleg’s son is no pussy. He holds my stare with a smirk, lifting his eyebrow in a mocking challenge. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a quick, strong urge to kill someone without a bit of guilt. If it weren’t for Oleg, I’d tear Viktor’s head off right here and now.
“You’re so sweet,” Elena replies, her voice pulling my attention away from Viktor.
I flash her a smile, aware that we’re attracting attention. I toy with her fingers, lowering my guard enough to let her see what I’ve had the hell of a time hiding. I want her. The stroke of my touch on her hands is a substitution for what I really want to do to her with my fingers. As soft as her palms are, I imagine the insides of her thighs being even softer.
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, and she looks as if she’s in a daze. But she never looks away, communicating back to me. I don’t think I know her well enough to decide if she’s acting, or if what I’m seeing is real. In the grand scheme of my plan, it doesn’t matter. But plan aside, it does fucking matter.
The second course comes, forcing us to end our display of affection. As soups are replaced with salads, Nataly rests a hand on my forearm. I’d forgotten her presence entirely.
“Diego, are you fond of sailing?”
I blink at her, uncertain how to respond to a such a banal question. It’s like being asked my favorite color. The question as infantile as the woman asking it.
Hiding my true feelings with a polite smile, I turn on the charm. “I do enjoy being out on the water, Miss Yezhov … but I’m not much of a sailor myself. I prefer to enjoy the ride while someone else does the piloting.”
She looks at me as if my answer is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard. “Please, call me Nataly. Our families are soon to be one, aren’t they?”
I stiffen under her arm, knowing she isn’t just referring to the mafia side of things. She’s as pushy and desperate as her father. As she talks my ear off about her horses, sailing, and her favorite sport—ballroom dancing—I contemplate jamming my knife through my ear. Oleg thinking we would make a good match is laughable. She digs for compliments, offers surface-level commentary on whatever is being discussed, and tries her best to get and keep my attention.
But my eye is always drawn back to Elena, who’s watching us with a frown. Her nostrils flare when Nataly uses her napkin to dab at an imaginary drop of custard from the corner of my mouth during dessert. She gives me an annoyed look when I meet her gaze.
