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)
“Lying won’t be tolerated either,” he says in a clipped tone. “I happen to know that the last time you ran was six months ago.”
My cheeks burn with indignation. How does he know that about me?
My brother shakes his head. “I already told them the truth and what he can expect. There’s a reason we’ve made a move to make this happen sooner than later.”
But there’s a reason why I “run,” and it has nothing to do with what they think.
I’m not a child. I don’t run into oncoming traffic.
I find a way to escape so I can visit in private. And then I always return home, like a bird flying back to her gilded cage.
I turn my head away and don’t look at him.
The stranger clucks his tongue. “You’ve spoiled her, Bianchi.”
My brother squeezes my arm. I bite my cheek to keep from snapping back. I’m not like the other Italian princesses. I don’t have a penny to my name. No credit cards. No allowance.
“Spoiled?” my father says with a forced laugh. “I like to think she’s experienced and maybe a little indulged.”
Hardly. Another lie.
“You’ve arranged a marriage for me with a wife who’s rebellious, flighty, and clumsy, her only merit being mediocre good looks. In Russia, she wouldn’t hold a candle to most women.” He shakes his head. “Do you have any other daughters?”
Oh yeah? Well he can take his high-and-mighty ass back to Russia as far as I’m concerned. My nose stings and my cheeks flame as they continue to talk about me as if I’m a mannequin on display.
“Oh, I’m his one and only, and believe you me, I’m not spoiled,” I snap. I clamp my lips together so I don’t speak again when my mother gasps and my father glares at me. I have to choose my words carefully.
Romanov looks mildly amused if the faintest twinge of his lips are any indication. “Hmm. I have no other choices, and maybe I’ve misjudged. I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have a future wife who would be so demure.”
Add sarcastic to the list. Excellent.
I cross my arms over my chest. “And I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have a future husband that was so gentle and kind. I did hope for mildly attractive, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
Fire burns in his eyes. “Life is just full of surprises, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“Right, right,” my father says, rubbing his hands together like the greedy asshole he is, ready to stroke the genie bottle and make his wish. “You say the offer is only valid for twenty-four hours, but we have no need. We’d like to move ahead with this arrangement.”
Would we, now?
I tell myself to wait until he leaves, then make my plan. Bite my tongue. Hold strong.
“Perfect,” Aleksandr says, briefly cutting his eyes to me. “We’ll leave immediately. Thank you for agreeing.”
Wait.
Immediately?
Even my mother looks shocked, her mouth agape and her posture stiffened, she flattens her well-manicured hand against her chest. “We, Mr. Romanov?”
He doesn’t bother looking at her when he replies. “Yes. I want to be married by the weekend. I’ll have my people draw up papers and send them to you.”
My mother blanches, but my brother nods. He knew this. He fucking knew this.
I can’t let him take me. If he takes me, there’s no hope.
“I haven’t packed anything. I’m not ready.”
I'm grasping for excuses, desperately trying to rationalize why I can't simply leave. An overwhelming surge of panic floods me like icy water in my veins as dread as heavy as lead settles in my stomach. I can’t leave.
“I packed her things,” Saul says.
“No need,” Aleksandr says, his accent thickening. “She won’t need anything from home. She’ll start fresh with me. I’ll have my driver come around now.” He lifts his phone to his ear and snaps something out in Russian.
Start.
Fresh.
I stare as he takes something out of his pocket. A… checkbook? Who uses checks these days?
My father’s watery eyes gleam as he stares at the checkbook, like a dragon eying a pile of gold, drawn to it as if his life depended on it. If Romanov thinks he’s actually going to get a dowry…
“I’ll write you a check for all wedding expenses, under the condition that she comes back with me now.”
“I don’t know if that works for me,” my father says, the lying, greedy bastard. He doesn’t care at all about me, he’s only trying to wheedle. “My daughter’s innocence, Romanov…”
I look away, my throat tightening. He’s painting me as a virgin. In the Italian mafia, virginity is practically a requirement for an arranged marriage.
But what about… in the Russian mafia? How does this work?
My father knows I’m not a virgin. It’s the very reason he despises me and wants to get rid of me. They’re tricking Romanov with damaged goods and when he finds out… and he absolutely will…