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“We’re signing a truce with the Russians,” he says and looks up at me. “And you’re getting married to one of Petrov’s men next week.”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll give them Milene.”
Nobody says a word. We don’t do arranged marriages in the Bratva. That was always an Italian thing, and nobody wants to be saddled with a Trojan horse.
“What, no one wants a pretty Italian girl?
“Bianca Scardoni, the middle daughter of Italian capo Bruno Scardoni, and up until recently, the prima ballerina of the Chicago Opera Theater.” I feel my body go stone-still. It’s not possible.
“I’ll take her,” I say.
“She doesn’t speak, Mikhail.” I stiffen and look at Roman, not sure if I heard him right.
“She isn’t deaf. There was a car accident when she was a teenager. I don’t have any details. It’s all Scardoni shared.”
“I don’t force women, Bianca. Is that clear?” I nod.
My actions are petty, I know, but I couldn’t control myself. No one gets to speak like that about my husband. We may have an arranged marriage, but he’s treated me better in the last twenty-four hours than some of my family members ever have. And I’ll be damned if I’ll allow my sister to say something like that without hitting back.
Mikhail’s hand enters my field of vision as he places a finger under my chin and tilts my head up. He turns my head slightly to the side, inspecting my cheek.
“Now, let’s clear up a few things,” Mikhail says. “You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak badly about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about hitting her ever again, I cut off your head. Am I clear, Bruno?”
I reach out and trace my finger down her cheek, keeping the touch light. Her skin is so soft and touching it doesn’t bother me. Just the opposite. I brush her cheek once more, with the back of my hand this time. The redness has vanished almost completely. I should have killed that son of a bitch anyway.
“Lenochka . . .” Mikhail says from behind me and steps inside. “Daddy!” The girl squeals in delight, her lips widening in a huge grin as she runs and jumps into Mikhail’s arms.
“This is my daughter, Lena.”
“Thank you, solnyshko,” he says and leaves the kitchen.
He places his finger on my chin and tilts my head up, his blue eye watching me. I find myself focusing on his lips.
“You take my breath away,” he whispers in my ear.
“Ty luch solntsa v pasmurnyy den’, Bianca,” he says into my lips, kisses me again, and slowly lowers me to the ground.
“Eyes off my wife, kid,” Mikhail says behind me.
19:52 Bianca: From now on, I expect a goodbye kiss too. Please keep that in mind, Mikhail.
“Jesus, baby, how can you even ask?”
“You’re twenty-one, baby.” Mikhail furrows his brows.
I grab her chair and pull it closer to me. “Baby,” I bend to whisper in her ear, “come sit on my lap.”
Mikhail passes me, wraps his hand around Marcus’s neck, and yanks him close enough that they’re nose-to-nose. “How dare you touch my wife!” he sneers through his teeth.
He looks down at me and holds my gaze for a few seconds, then looks back at Marcus. “If I see you near my wife again,” he barks and lets go, “you’re dead.”
Mikhail pulls himself onto his elbows and regards me with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Baby . . .”
“I am . . . so in love . . . with you,” I say, and the next second, Mikhail’s mouth crashes down on mine.
Caterina,
She nods, places her hand on my chest, and traces a shape of a heart with the tip of her finger. “I love you, too, baby.” I take her face in my palms and touch my nose to hers. “You can’t imagine how much.”
“Bianca, give me the gun, baby.”
