He sounds genuinely pleased at that, and as always, it surprises me how much Viktor seems to care for his children. In my experience, men in this world seem to view their children as commodities, pieces on a much larger chessboard. Boys to inherit or hold ranking positions, girls to marry off and strengthen bonds, more children to fill those roles in the future. They’re not little people to be loved and cherished. They’re pawns in a greater game.
But Viktor doesn’t seem to think of his daughters that way. Whatever else I might think of him, he seems to really love his children. It makes a small part of me wonder what he’ll be like withourchild, what it would be like to see him hold our son in his arms. It almost makes me want to soften towards him, to give him more of a chance, and I have to pull myself back from that thought. Viktor might be a surprisingly good father, but that doesn’t change the core of him.
Something that, as Olga said, can’t be changed. He’ll always be Bratva, always be a brute deep down. A man without the same kind of honor as the men I grew up with. A man looked down on by other men, who took his power by force and violence.
I know he’d say that so many of my family, and the other Italian families, did the same. But from all I know of the Bratva, it’s different. It always will be.
“It’s good to be out,” Viktor says, surprising me when he breaks the silence again. “I haven’t gone out much in a long time.”
“No?” I glance at him. “I suppose it loses its shine after a while.”
“I wanted to be with the girls as much as possible after their mother died.” He sounds pensive, and I watch him curiously, wondering why he’s saying so much. Viktor isn’t the type to open up, or at least not from what I’ve seen of him so far. And certainly not to me, based on what I’ve seen so far as well.
“You’re a good father.” The words slip out before I can stop myself, and I can see from the expression on Viktor’s face that it surprises him as much as me.
“You think so?” His face is carefully blank. “I would think a good father would have made sure that their mother lived.”
I feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. There’s no emotion in his voice, no way to tell what he means by that. My only consolation is my deep-held belief that Luca would never have given me to a man who murdered his own wife. Still, there’s always the lingering question in the back of my head—what if he didn’t know?
There’s no point in letting your imagination go wild,I tell myself firmly as I fold my hands over my clutch in my lap, watching the city go by as the driver makes his way through downtown Manhattan towards the concert hall. There’s certainly nothing I can do about it now, except to be careful.
In more ways than one. Setting aside my concerns about how his first wife died and my deeply ingrained hatred of the Bratva and all they stand for, I find Viktor more than a little intriguing. He’s a more complicated man than I’d thought he would be, with layers that I find myself wanting to uncover, even as I tell myself that at his core, he’ll be nothing but a Russian thug.
That’s not the man that I see at home, though. Not the man who loves his daughters, who seemingly has regrets about the past that he can’t keep from slipping out, even though I know he wants to keep his distance from me.
A man who could give me pleasure if I’d let him. But as much as I want to think I can keep my body and my heart separate, I’m not so sure that’s true. If I give Viktor my body willingly, and then see him with his children,ourchild, eat dinner with him every night and see his small kindnesses, I’m afraid that my heart might follow where I’ve given my body. I’m so scared that I might want this to be arealmarriage, not just a bargain.
I’m terrified that I might actually fall in love with a man who is everything I should never want to love.
I can feel his gaze on me as the car winds through traffic, running over my bare arms, my cleavage in the deep neckline of the red gown, the nape of my neck just below where my hair is swept up. I force myself not to think about how his lips would feel there, brushing over the soft fine hairs, down the back of my neck to that spot between my shoulder blades that he kissed on our wedding night, back when he was trying to pretend that this could be more than it is.
Viktor isn’t a man capable of love, of a real marriage. How could he be? I think if I asked him, he’d say the same. So I have to protect myself. And the only way to do that and be sure is to remain cold to him in every way.
I just hadn’t thought it would prove to be so difficult.
I sneak a glance at him and see him turned away, his profile silhouetted in the passing streetlights. It gives me a chance to look at him, just for a moment, without him noticing, to take in his features. His strong jaw, lightly stubbled, the silver at his temples, the lean, hard lines of his body in the tux. He’s an astoundingly handsome man, with a cold elegance that’s all the more attractive for the way I’ve seen it melt and burn on our one night together. And I suspect that was only the barest glimpse of what Viktor would be like in bed if we ever both let ourselves go entirely. I felt how leashed his control was, even then.
“We’re here,” Viktor says as the car pulls up to the curb, and I look away quickly before my husband can catch me studying him. He remains still until the driver comes around to open the door. Then he slips out, reaching for my hand to help me as I slide across, careful not to let the slit on one side of my skirt fall open.
I let him take it. My hand feels small in his, and I suck in a small breath as his broader hand wraps around mine, sending a shiver down my spine. I can’t tell if he noticed. His face is as carefully impassive as ever, but I can feel my skin prickling, my heart starting to beat faster as we walk towards the concert hall, hand in hand.
So much pretending.I force a smile onto my face as we walk up the steps, trying not to think about how warm his hand is around mine, the calluses that I’ve always been curious about rubbing against my skin. Ranking men in the mafia don’t have callused hands. It would detract from the elegance, the sophistication that the Italian men cling to with such fervor. What does Viktor do to have those rough spots on his fingers and palms?
I remember how they felt, running over my skin, and it sends a quiver through me that I hope he doesn’t notice. When his hand slides to the small of my back, pressing against my bare flesh as he guides me towards our seats, I know he can’t help but feel it.
When I dare a glance at his face, I expect to see mocking humor in his eyes, amusement at the fact that his touch is affecting me like this. But instead, all I see is heat in those blue eyes, melting the ice in them until I can feel the warmth of the desire in his gaze all the way down to my toes. I swallow hard, looking away from him as I take my seat between him and Luca.
Get yourself together,I shout in my head, clenching my teeth as I smooth my skirt out.Nothing good can come of you mooning over him like a schoolgirl. You’re supposed to hate him, resent him at the very least, not get damp between the thighs because he put his hand on your back.
“Caterina!” Luca’s voice is warm and pleasant as he looks over at me. “Sofia is going to be so glad that you came. I’m so happy to see you here. And you, Viktor,” he adds, with just enough emphasis to make it clear that his pleasure at seeing Viktor comes a far second to seeing me.
“I wouldn’t miss the chance to show off our newfound friendship,” Viktor says, with that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that always chills me because it’s hard to know what’s lurking behind it, if there’s something darker than even I’m aware of. I can’t help but feel that there’s something to him that I don’t know about, something that would make all the stories I’ve heard about him and the Bratva make sense. Because right now, the man I see and the man I’ve heard tales about don’t match up.
“I hope congratulations will be in order for the two of you soon,” Luca says, glancing at me. “Sofia and I are so excited for our own child. Nothing could cement the bond between our families more than a child of the Bratva and the mafia coming together.”
Viktor smirks. “We’re doingallwe can to hurry that along,” he says coolly, and I can hear the veiled threat beneath his words. If he wanted to, he could complain to Luca that I’m not doing my duty, that I’ve demanded we take a more complicated route. Then, of course, I’d argue that forcing me to his bed constitutes harm, and it would be up to Luca to decide who is in the wrong—Viktor or me.
I’m not entirely sure, in that situation, whose side he would take. The last thing I want Viktor to do is suggest to Luca that I’m not fulfilling my part of the arrangement.