Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
My mind whirs. “Right. What does Bianchi bring to the table?”
“Connections,” Mikhail says. “I agree with Kolya. We need to secure an alliance that fortifies our defenses. We need a lifeline.”
Aria nods. “Right. Also, you guys, we’ve looked at accounting, and while you are all still richer than God, some of your investments have gone belly-up. While you’ve all been hard at work establishing yourselves as the premier Bratva group here in The Cove, others have been trying to do the same.”
The Cove, nestled in the heart of New York, smack dab between Coney Island and Manhattan, is our stomping ground, the place we own.
I draw in a ragged breath as a chilling clarity cuts through my fuzzy haze of exhaustion. The burden of what happens rests squarely on my shoulders. We don’t have the luxury of time anymore. Every second that passes could mean my family’s demise.
“There’s no more time. My marriage to Harper Bianchi has to happen now.”
I hold Mikhail’s gaze and hide my clenched fists. I can’t put into words why the thought of a loveless marriage makes me want to hurl my laptop against the wall of his office. I thought by now I’d have gotten used to the idea. It isn’t the first time we’ve discussed it, but I thought I still had a few more months to warm up to the idea.
It’s only a wedding.
For life. To a woman I don’t love and haven’t even met.
But I owe this to my family.
I swallow the anger that boils inside me at the thought of what I have to do.
Mikhail’s still holding my gaze.
“Your loyalty to the brotherhood is admirable, Aleksandr,” he says softly.
I despise what I have to do to prove it.
I loved once, and once is enough for a lifetime. I know I’ll never love again. The least I can do is bring peace to my family.
I owe this to my brothers. To my family. If someone ever got to my sister Polina, or my mother, or, God forbid, Mikhail and Aria’s innocent baby… I’d never forgive myself.
I won’t make the same mistake twice.
My phone buzzes with a text. Mikhail nods, silent permission to check it.
I stare at the screen. “Speak of the fucking devil.”
CHAPTER TWO
Harper
“Lift your chin up. And for Christ’s sake, Harper, stop scowling.”
Ironically, my mother scowling at me for scowling doesn’t make me want to plaster on a grin. Still, I don’t want to listen to her criticism, so I lift my chin and force the smallest of smiles. The truth is, I’m not even scowling. I’m tired, and I don’t feel like being used for the hundredth time. I also don’t want to have to contend with her rage, so I deal. It’s a “pick your battles” kind of situation.
“There, that’s better,” she says, lifting my chin. I blink under the harsh glare of overhead lighting. “Harper, have you been eating dairy again? What did I tell you it does to your complexion? There’s only so much foundation and primer one can use, you know.”
I sigh and clamp my lips tight to prevent the powder she’s dabbing on my nose from going in my mouth, but there’s the added benefit of not having to respond. Internally I tell her that the occasional tiny, barely perceptible pink dots on my chin probably have more to do with stress than an ice cream cone, but whatever.
I close my eyes. I learned a trick when I was a little girl that if I close my eyes when she’s primping me, I can pretend I’m getting ready for the big screen. Pretend it’s your team preparing you for the set.
“Good. Hold still. Your eyebrows are coming in again. Jesus, I thought we just plucked them.”
I open one eye. While she’s normally high-strung and irritable, this is heading to an advanced level even for her. I flinch when she ruthlessly tweezes a few eyebrow hairs as if they personally offended her.
“Not too much,” I protest. “It will make the skin all red and red’s harder to cover up.”
Pursing her lips in a thin line, she stands back and admires her handiwork. She scrutinizes my brows, my hair, my makeup, then gives me a nod. “You look beautiful,” she says coldly, without a hint of warmth or actual appreciation. She’s only being pragmatic and admiring the work she did.
There was a time when I could’ve said the same for her, but the years of covering up my father’s backhands have taken their toll.
It’s only when I see her lower lip tremble that I really begin to think that something’s really off.
I look around the room.
“Where’s the ring light?” I ask. By now, she should have gotten the ring light, the camera, and everything set to record and film my next splash on social media.
“Mom?” My heart begins to beat faster. “What’s going on here?”