Chapter 24

Laura

I’M TORN between horror and the urge to laugh. It’s like watching a comedy sketch unfold in real time, except the joke is my life.

Victor, to his credit, doesn’t even blink. He just calmly hands Ser a napkin as if he’s used to people spewing beverages at his dining table.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ser wheezes, dabbing at her streaming eyes. “Contracted? Married? Bratva? What the hell is a Bratva?”

“Bratva means… Russian mafi—”

“WAIT. Don’t tell me!” she hushes me when I try to explain.

I snap my mouth shut so fast that my teeth clack together.

“I know what Bratva means. It means Russian mafia,” she says slowly. Like she’s trying to process the words as they leave her mouth.

I mutter something unintelligible, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. Maybe if I stare at it hard enough, I can disappear into its weave and escape this whole situation.

“Oh, well, that clears everything right up!” Ser throws up her hands, her voice rising with each word. “Lu Lu, what the actual fuc-fish?” she corrects herself abruptly, her eyebrows shooting up as she catches a glimpse of Lucas.

“Honey! Don’t say the f-word in front of Lucas.” James quickly covers Lucas’s ears.

“So, sorry baby,” Ser reaches out to stroke Lucas’s cheek, but her hand is shaking so badly she nearly pokes him in the eye.

Lucas, blissfully unaware of the tension, just giggles and tries to grab her fingers.

“What happened?” James turns, looking from me to Victor.

“Well, to cut through the crap,” I start, “David—no, Dave—he, uh…”

Victor jumps in, “Let me break it down, kiska,” giving me a quick nod before turning back to James and Ser, who looks like she’s about to have a brain aneurysm. “Laura was basically sold to the Morozov Bratva by Dave, who stole two million from us.” He pauses, letting that sink in.

“David… He stole two million… from the mafia?” James gasps, looking like he’s just seen a ghost riding a bike.

“Which, by the way, isn’t even his real name. It’s Dave Jankowski,” Victor adds.

Ser’s face screws up like she’s trying to do mental math after five shots of vodka. It’s clear she’s about to go detective on us for the whole story.

“And I agreed to marry Victor for a year,” I say quickly, “so he could become Pakhan. In return, he sorts out the bookstore and my debts…”

I’m glossing over the nastier bits—no need to throw Ser into that mess.

“So let me get this straight,” Ser says, turning back to Victor. “You’re telling me that you, a Russian mobster, have basically bought my best friend? And if she doesn’t play along, what? You’ll kill her?”

Victor takes a slow sip of his wine, his expression unreadable. “In normal cases, we would start with threats. Maybe a little light torture. And if that doesn’t work…” He shrugs, setting down his glass. “Well, let’s just say I’m very good at making problems disappear.”

I laugh, the sound high and brittle in my ears. “Okay! So, Ser, how’s that new book of yours coming along? The one about the, uh, the thing with the stuff?”

Ser stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Are you seriously trying to change the subject right now? Lu, you can’t just drop a bomb like ‘Surprise, I married a mafia boss’ and then ask about my book!”

“It’s a really good book,” James offers weakly. “The, uh, the thing with the stuff is really compelling.”

Victor leans forward, sudden interest sparking in his eyes. “You’re a writer, Serena?”

Ser blinks, clearly thrown by the question. “Uh, yeah. I write paranormal romance. You know, werewolves and vampires and… Why are you looking at me like that?”

Victor’s gaze flicks to me, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Laura never mentioned that her best friend was a writer.”

“Well, you, we… didn’t exactly have time for a heart-to-heart about my social circle, did we?”

Wait! You freaking used my best friend to threaten me into marrying you, you bastard! Of course I didn’t give you her life story!

But I bite my tongue. No need to air that particular grievance in front of Ser and James.

“James is a writer, too!” I blurt out, desperate to steer the conversation away from the glaring elephant in the room.

As if on cue, the servers choose that moment to start bringing out the food. James’ eyes widen as a plate is set in front of him, piled high with something that looks like it belongs in a modern art museum rather than on a dinner table.

“Uh, what exactly am I looking at here?” he asks, poking at a delicate swirl of foam with his fork.

Sergei, who has apparently materialized out of thin air, launches into a detailed description. “That, sir, is a deconstructed lobster bisque, topped with a saffron foam and served with a side of liquid nitrogen-frozen caviar pearls.”

James blinks. “Of course it is. Silly me.”

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing at the look on his face. It’s the same expression he wore when Ser tried to convince him that kale smoothies were delicious.

Victor, seemingly oblivious to James’ culinary confusion, leans forward with interest. “So, James, you’re a writer as well? Is that how you and Serena met?”

I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to me as he asks the question. It’s not just idle curiosity. He’s trying to piece together the puzzle of my life, one friend at a time.

Don’t fall for his tricks, Laur.

But even so, there’s no denying that I’m enjoying every moment right now, thinking back to those long nights in college, hunched over laptops with Ser and James, our eyes bleary from staring at screens and our veins buzzing with caffeine. We’d talk for hours about our dreams, our plans, the stories we wanted to tell.

But that was a long time ago. Before my dad made it clear that writing was a “frivolous waste of time.” Before I put away those dreams and resigned myself to a life of practicality.

“Laura used to write too,” Ser says softly as if reading my mind. “She’s brilliant. Her children’s stories… I’ve never read anything like them.”

I duck my head, sudden tears pricking at my eyes. “That was a long time ago,” I mumble. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters,” Victor says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Talent like that should be nurtured, not squandered.”

I look up at him, startled. Is he really encouraging me to write? The man who just casually threatened murder over appetizers?

But as I search his face, I see nothing but sincerity. And maybe, just maybe… a glimmer of understanding.

“Laura’s father didn’t approve of her writing,” Ser says, a hard edge creeping into her voice. “He thought it was a waste of time. Just like he thought pretty much everything Laura did was a waste of time.”

Victor’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I’ve met George; he’s a real piece of work.”

I flinch at the mention of my father, my fingers tightening around my fork.

Images flash through my mind—my mother’s tear-stained face, the bruises on her arms, the way she’d flinch at the sound of my father’s voice. The way he’d sneer at me, telling me I was worthless, that I’d never amount to anything.

“Writing? Don’t make me laugh, Laura. You really think you’ve got what it takes to make it as a writer? You’re nothing special. Just a silly little girl with her head in the clouds.”

His words echo in my head, as sharp and cutting as they were the day he said them.

I take a shuddering breath.

You’re in control, Laur; he’s not your problem anymore…

Then I raise my eyes to meet Victor’s.

My face flushes as Victor’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes dark and intense. His hand slides along my back, his touch searing through the thin fabric of my dress.

I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies connect—the press of his thigh against mine under the table, the way his fingers splay across the small of my back, the heat of his breath ghosting over my ear as he leans in close.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. I want to lean into his touch, to let myself drown in the sensations he’s evoking. But I also want to push him away, to put some distance between us before I do something stupid.

Like kiss him senseless in front of my best friend and her husband.

I shift in my seat, trying to subtly ease away from his hand. But Victor just follows the movement, his palm sliding lower, his fingers grazing the curve of my hip.

Fuck.How does he do that? How does he unravel me with just a simple touch?

I take a shaky sip of my wine, trying to cool the heat simmering under my skin. But it’s a losing battle. Every nerve ending in my body is attuned to Victor’s presence, to the magnetic pull of his body next to mine.

It’s maddening. It’s exhilarating.

It’s dangerous as hell.

Suddenly, I feel a wave of nausea crash over me, so intense it takes my breath away. The wine I just swallowed threatens to come back up, and I can feel my stomach churning ominously.

Oh God. Not now. Not here.

But my body has other plans. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, the cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.

I lurch to my feet, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. Every head at the table swivels toward me, but I can’t focus on their concerned faces.

All I can think about is getting to a bathroom before I humiliate myself even further.

“Excuse me,” I manage to choke out, my hand clamped over my mouth. And then I’m running, my heels beating a staccato rhythm as I frantically search for the nearest restroom…