Mafia King’s Bride

25. Ana

TWENTY-FIVE

ANA

I jolt awake, fumbling for my phone like it’s a lifeline. No messages from Dmitri.

Fantastic.

“Come on, you brooding idiot,” I mutter, scrolling through my empty inbox. “Give a girl a sign of life.”

I’ve spent the night tossing and turning, my mind conjuring up increasingly ridiculous scenarios. Maybe he’s joined a secret underground knitting circle. Or he’s been abducted by aliens who needed a crash course in scowling techniques.

As I drag myself to the shower, I catch my reflection. I look like I’ve been hit by the worry truck. “Please don’t be out murdering someone,” I plead to no one in particular.

Because that’s a totally normal concern for a wife to have.

Welcome to the Orlov family, folks!

Downstairs, the house is quieter than a library run by mimes. My phone buzzes—it’s Viktor, with a cryptic “gotta run” message.

“What is this, the Great Bratva Disappearing Act?” I grumble, heading out the door.

At work, I’m a bundle of nerves wrapped in a pantsuit. When my office phone rings, I nearly break my neck sprinting to answer it.

“Hello?” I say, breathless.

“Ana.” It’s Dmitri, sounding like he’s been gargling gravel. “Anastasia.”

“Oh, thank God,” I breathe. “Are you okay? You left in such a hurry last night, I was worried sick!”

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice softening. “I’ll be at your office in ten minutes.”

Before I can process that, he’s here, looking like he’s been through a sexy war. His shirt’s half undone, there’s a cut on his cheek, and his eyes are blazing with fury.

“What happened to you?” I blurt out. “Did you join an underground fight club or something?”

He doesn’t crack a smile. “I need to speak with you, Ana.”

I lean back, trying to look nonchalant. “Okay, shoot. Wait, don’t actually shoot. That was just a figure of speech.”

He doesn’t smile at my clumsy joke. “My shipment was burned. All of it.” His jaw clenches. “I might need you to help me frame someone for murder.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

“I’m sorry, I think I just had an aneurysm. Did you say frame someone for murder?”

He nods, deadly serious. “I think I’d prefer you helping me with my affairs if the need arises than you stop working altogether.”

“Dmitri, husband ,” I say, my voice rising, “I defend people who fudge their taxes, not...not this! I wouldn’t even know where to start!”

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out,” he says, like he’s asking me to pick up a carton of milk.

I laugh, a touch hysterically. “Oh sure, let me just Google ‘How to Frame Someone for Murder 101.’ I’m sure that won’t raise any red flags at all!”

Dmitri leans forward, his eyes intense. “Ana, I need you to trust me.”

I throw my hands up. “Trust you? I’m all for working, but framing someone for murder? Dmitri, that’s not exactly like asking me to pick up the dry cleaning!”

“I know it’s a lot,” he says, his voice low. “ I don’t need you to do anything right now. I just want to know you will have my back.”

I snort. “Oh, well that makes me feel so much better.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I just need you to agree in principle. Can you do that for me?”

I stare at him, aware of my rapidly crumbling moral compass. “In principle? That’s like being a little bit pregnant, Dmitri. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Ana, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me pause. “I need to know that you’re all in.”

I close my eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “Fine. In principle, I agree. But I reserve the right to back out if things get too crazy. And believe me, my bar for ‘too crazy’ is getting lower by the minute.”

Dmitri’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you. I promise, if the time comes, I’ll explain everything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I just hope I don’t end up explaining myself to a jury someday. And if it blows up in our faces, I’m changing my name and moving to Tibet to become a monk.”

Dmitri actually cracks a smile at that. “Deal.”

As he stands up to leave, I slump in my chair, wondering if it’s too late to change careers. Maybe I could be a professional cat herder. It’d probably be less stressful than this.

Just another day in the life of Anastasia Orlov, reluctant Bratva wife.

“Before I go,” Dmitri says, suddenly looming over me like a very sexy thundercloud.

I tilt my head back, ready to make some quip about neck strain, when his lips brush against mine. His hand cradles my face, and suddenly, I’m melting faster than ice cream in July.

The kiss is soft but deep, and by the time he pulls away, I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Who needs oxygen when you have Dmitri Orlov?

“Have a good day, Ana,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone, leaving me feeling like I’ve just run a marathon while riding a rollercoaster.

I press a hand to my chest, half expecting to find my heart trying to escape. “Down, girl,” I mutter to myself. “He’s your husband, not a chocolate lava cake.”

But that’s how it always is with Dmitri. One touch, and I’m a mess of hormones and want, like a teenager with her first crush. Except my crush is a dangerous Bratva boss who just asked me if I’d be willing to frame someone for murder. In principle.

Totally normal, right?

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Alright then,” I announce to my empty office, “back to work. Time to see which scoundrel I get to save from going to the guillotine.”

I turn back to my computer, wondering when my life turn into a soap opera crossed with a crime thriller. And more importantly, why am I kind of enjoying it?