She doesn’t belong to the bratva, but she’s wormed her way in. Father must think she’s useful enough.
“It’s not even clever,” Roma says from the chair beside me. His hair is longer than mine and sticks up after raking a hand through it. I don’t know why he’s more nervous than I am.
For the past three years, he’s distanced himself from the family. I’m shocked more by his appearance at my wedding than Marissa’s matchmaking scheming. Then again, our mother probably dragged him here, and if there’s anything we can agree on it’s trying to be nice to her.
“What does she get out of this?” Roma messes with his tumbler of whiskey, barely drinking from it.
Taking off his jacket, Dad shrugs, before rolling up his sleeves and sitting down.
Despite what Marissa thinks, we were expecting something. That’s always the way with these things. Did she want a reaction? She didn’t get one despite the party outside full of gossiping guests and an open bar.
I’d met her daughter a few times. A mousy, untalkative girl, whose dark eyes appear as soulless as mine. Completely unlike the little thing wrapped up under layers of some lacy veil meant to hide her identity. She trembled when I lifted it over her head.
Show nothing.It’s how I was raised. It’s how I live.
I turned to the priest and married the girl.
Elijah refills his glass. “You know you could divorce her.”
Dad scoots a glass toward him. His son obliges, filling it up. “We don’t divorce.”
Elijah slams the bottle down. “Archaic!”
Dad takes a sip, his eyes on the ceiling, possibly praying.
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Elijah continues. “If the man wants a divorce, let him divorce.”
Roma wiggles in his seat, spiking my annoyance. He doesn’t need to be worried on my behalf.
Dad notices. “You’re taking this awfully calmly.”
Music filters in from the party outside. An hour ago I got married. I probably should feel something other than apathetic.
“She’s good looking.” Dad drinks his whiskey.
“She’s fine.”
Brown hair, hazel eyes. The definition of average. She’s not as curvy as I prefer, but I like the way she trembled when I pulled the veil over her head.
Oh, you think you’re trapped?Welcome to the club.
I pick up my glass, draining it.
“You could always put a bullet through her head,” Elijah suggests.
“Elijah!” Roma snaps.
My brother, or rather half-brother, doesn’t care. Sometimes our father doesn’t know what to do with him and that’s saying something. But Elijah is the type of guy who could drink a glass of whiskey while those in front of him are slaughtered. I imagine the police would arrive and he’d pretend to pick a piece of lint off while asking, “What do you think happened?”
He takes nothing seriously, while simultaneously taking everything too seriously. It’s all an act, my brother. What appears to be silly is ruthless. He’s five steps ahead because he planned the entire game out.
For a long time, I assumed Dad let Elijah get away with anything. But really it’s because the great Lev Zimin, the man who brings other criminal syndicates to their knees, doesn’t actually know how to deal with his own son.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I say into my glass before remembering it’s empty. I slide it toward him, silently asking for a refill.
“Death before divorce.” The liquor splashes into the glass before he pushes it back. “Our family’s greatest motto.”
“I don’t think this is the best man speech Max wanted,” Roma mutters.
