Mafia King’s Bride

21. Ana

TWENTY-ONE

ANA

I take Dmitri’s hand as I climb out of the limo, trying not to faceplant in these ridiculous heels. Nothing says “Bratva wife” like eating pavement at a fancy party, right?

The night air hits me, and I resist the urge to shiver. Next time I’m bringing a jacket. Or better yet, staying home with Netflix and sweatpants.

Dmitri insisted on being “fashionably late,” which I’m pretty sure is code for “I wanted to make an entrance.” I half expect a spotlight to shine on us as we cross the street.

He offers me his arm like we’re in some period drama.

Who is this guy, and what has he done with my usually detached husband?

I take it anyway, because hey, if he’s playing nice, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

The security outside looks like they eat steroids for breakfast. Their suits are probably bulletproof too, unlike my flimsy dress.

Dmitri doesn’t need to show an invite. Of course, he doesn’t. He probably owns half the city by now. He gestures for me to enter first, all gentlemanly. I’m half waiting for him to announce, “After you, m’lady.”

I can’t help but smile as I walk in. This new, attentive Dmitri is nice. Weird, but nice. A week ago, he told me he has feelings for me.

In his own way, of course, but still, I heard him loud and clear.

Part of me wants to believe him, but the other part is waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is Dmitri Orlov we’re talking about. The man who basically blackmailed my father into giving me away.

I push those thoughts aside as we enter what looks like Richie Rich’s playground. No foyer, just instant opulence. Chandeliers, artwork, people dripping in diamonds. I suddenly feel underdressed in my measly Vera Wang gown.

“Dmitri!” a voice that could shatter glass calls out. A blonde in a dress that probably costs more than my college education is heading our way. Great. With my luck, she’s probably one of Dmitri’s exes.

To my surprise, Dmitri takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. I glance down, half expecting to see our hands burst into flames from the unexpected contact.

Blondie air-kisses Dmitri, gushing about how she never thought he’d show. Apparently, she’s married to an actual Sultan. Because, of course, that’s perfectly normal.

“Grace,” Dmitri says, “this is my wife, Anastasia Orlov. She’s the reason I’m here.”

I’m the what now? I must have misheard. There’s no way Dmitri “Ice King” Orlov just said that.

Grace gives me a once-over that makes me feel like a secondhand car. “Good evening,” I manage, plastering on my best “please don’t eat me alive” smile.

She tugs on Dmitri’s arm, eager to show him off like a prized poodle. To my utter shock, he doesn’t budge. “I need to get my wife a drink,” he informs her.

Who is this man, and what has he done with my husband?

As Grace saunters off, I try to reclaim my hand. “You didn’t have to use me as an excuse,” I mutter.

“You weren’t an excuse,” he says, leading me to the bar. “I meant it. Now, what would you like?”

I stare at the selection, suddenly forgetting every drink I’ve ever known. “Uh…”

Dmitri smiles—actually smiles!—and orders something that sounds more like a spell than a drink. As the bartender gets to work, I find myself wondering if I fell and hit my head on the way in. How can this be real?

Only time will tell, I suppose. But for now, I might as well enjoy whatever bizarro world I’ve stumbled into.

The bartender returns with what looks like liquid sunshine in a fancy glass. The saffron drink arrives in a chalice . It’s so blinged out, I’m half expecting it to start singing.

“Cheers,” Dmitri says, raising his glass. “This night belongs to us.”

I clink my glass against his, thinking, “Y eah, and I belong in Crazy Town .”

But you know what? I’m starting to dig it.

Fast forward to who-knows-how-many drinks later, and the world is a lovely, swirly place. We’re leaving the party, and I’m grinning like I’ve won the lottery. Grace is trying to convince Dmitri to stay, probably hoping I’ll turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

Sorry, honey, this Cinderella’s keeping her prince.

Dmitri helps me into the limo, which suddenly feels like it’s made of marshmallows. So comfy.

“How do you feel?” he asks, sounding suspiciously sober.

I give him an OK sign that probably looks more like I’m trying to catch a fly. “Like a champ!” I announce proudly. “How ‘bout you, Mr. Orlov?”

He smiles—still weird—and pulls me close. “I’m fine. You can sleep if you want.”

“Nope!” I declare, popping the “P” like it’s bubble wrap. “I wanna talk. Hey,” I poke his lips with my finger, because apparently that’s a thing I do now, “why’d you bring me? You coulda gone stag. I wouldn’t have minded.”

He looks at me all serious-like. “I wanted you by my side. To show you off.”

I blink owlishly. “Show me off? Like a trophy?”

He chuckles, guiding my head to his shoulder. “Sleep, kotyonok . I’ll wake you when we’re home.”

I try to argue, but then he kisses me, and suddenly, my brain goes all fuzzy and warm. What was I saying? Oh well, doesn’t matter. Sleep sounds good.

And just like that, I’m out like a light, dreaming of saffron rivers and Dmitri.

What a night.