Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
"Ollie’s right. It's way too dangerous. We know there are eyes on you. It's why we're here, isn't it?" Aleksandr smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. I suppose he’s right. I look over my shoulder, half expecting a crazed maniac wielding a gun behind me.
Of course, there's no one actually here. Not where I can see them, anyway. I know they're here. Carlos told me he would be.
Polina chimes in, her eyes still wary. "Do you have any preference on what we eat?"
I perk up slightly at the mention of food. "I love all sorts of foods. Maybe some traditional dishes from Colombia."
"I don't want anything from Colombia," Isabella says. “Nothing that nods to Carlos. I love Colombian food, but right now, I want nothing to do with my homeland." Isabella gives me a strange look, playing with the food on her plate but not actually eating it.
“It’s her wedding,” Ollie insists, sitting up straighter. Lev growls under his breath, but Ollie is undeterred. “She can decide what she fucking wants.”
“Oh yeah?” Isabella asks, her eyes flashing. “What if she—”
"I want dessert," I say suddenly, interrupting. “I like dessert. I want dessert.”
"Since when? You're always watching your carbs," Isabella says.
“The old me did,” I say with a shrug. “But the new me doesn’t mind fattening up.”
Ollie’s lips curve into a lewd smile. My cheeks flame.
Lydia, Viktor's wife, grins at me. "We had a great selection of cakes at our wedding, and there's a local place that can provide them for us. No time for anything custom, but they have good stock. We can buy them out."
"Done," Ollie says. "Thank you, Lydia."
"I'm more concerned with who's going to be there. I don't care what we eat, or what kind of music we have, or the venue. It matters who is there. It matters who knows that we're getting married."
I know what he's saying is true, but there's only one person who really needs to see that I'm getting married, and he already knows we will.
As the conversation continues, I contribute where I can, but I'm still guarded. Despite the efforts of the women to include me, part of me is constantly glancing around, expecting Carlos to appear out of the woodwork. Ollie hates me. Would he really protect me?
After we split up to handle different tasks, Harper and Polina walk over with their phones, showing me various gowns. I just shrug, and Ollie has a conversation with them. "That one," he says in a low voice. "Can you get that one?"
"We may not be able to get that exact one, but we can get one like it. What do you think?" Polina asks, her eyes sparking.
"I told you I was picking, Polina. Why are you doing this?" Ollie leans in, his voice a rumble. "You know you're next."
His already pale sister blanches. "Don't be an asshole," she whispers. "You know you were always my favorite. Don't do this now."
"Then don't fucking interfere," he snaps. "I told you I'm picking her dress. And she will like it. If you can’t handle that, get the hell away from her."
Oh, I will get to this asshole if it’s the last thing I do. You can’t tell off a man of the Bratva or shake him until his teeth rattle or slap his perfect face. But you can get under his skin and persuade him. It’s times like this when I wish I’d had a mother growing up, a woman who could’ve shown me the methods of female persuasion.
"It's beautiful," I interject. "Thank you, Polina."
She narrows her eyes at him, though she's talking to me. "We'll have it here within the hour, and we'll try different sizes. There's no time for adjustments, so we will find one that works."
Ollie turns to talk to Aleksandr, effectively dismissing any dress conversation.
One of the waiters comes up to me, discretely pushing a folded piece of paper into my hand.
I unfold the paper in my palm, distracted by talk of the wedding.
When I open it, I immediately recognize Carlos’s handwriting.
I'm watching. Don’t fuck me over. Remember your place. You think you can run away and marry into that family? I know who you are, and I know where you came from. I’m watching. Don’t forget your loyalty.
My hand shakes as if I'm holding something on fire. I take a breath, trying to steady myself.
"I have to use the restroom," I say, rushing away from the table. But of course, Ollie is glued to my side. He snatches the paper from my hand.
"Of course he's here, the fucking coward. Doesn't have the balls to show his face to me, does he? Who gave this to you?"
"The waiter. He just rushed up to me. He was a younger guy. White, brown hair."
Ollie scans the restaurant and walks straight to the desk. "Which waiter came into this room?" he asks.