***
The charity gala is in full swing by the time we arrive. Beside me, I hear Lilibeth gasp. “It’s beautiful.”
When I look over at her, she’s taking in her surroundings with childlike wonder, her eyes moving from the ice sculptures to the champagne towers to the myriad of beautiful people and floral structures.
I watch as her eyes track the movements of a group of stick-thin models, and she bites her lower lip. It’s her nervous tell; I know that by now. For a brief moment, I wonder why she’snervous, but then her eyes move to yet another pair of women, tall and similarly sickly thin.
Lilibeth Orlov doesn’t realize that she may stand shorter than most women in attendance, but her curves are a dangerous weapon in their own right. I can’t tell her that, though; we simply don’t have an equation where boosting her confidence is somehow my responsibility. So, what I can do best in this situation is distract her wholeheartedly.
“Drink?” I suggest.
She looks up at me with relief, those blue-green eyes drowning me in their depth. “Please,” she whispers.
I move through the crowd when usually, I’d have been the one making my way through the periphery. But things are different now, aren’t they? I’m here to kill two birds with one stone. In our world, money doesn’t count for much. Everyone’s got plenty to show and throw around. But tonight, the check I’ve cut for charity is beyond generous, but it’s not the statement on my wealth I’ve come to make. It’s a statement on my positionand power.
I’m now married to an Orlov—one of the most feared Bratva groups across America and Eastern Europe. There isn’t a single person here who doesn’t bow down to an Orlov.
I move along to the bar, creating space for Lilibeth to follow, and as I do, I notice curious and confused looks directed my way. People literally part to make way for us, and I know exactly what they’re thinking. What does Agafon Letvin have that compelled the Orlovs to give him a sister’s hand in marriage?
I grab two glasses of champagne and hand her one when I hear Dmitri Kozlov’s grating voice. Once upon a time, I would have been eager to speak to him. But that was before I marriedLilibeth. Kozlov, a mid-level player who refused my calls three times in a row in the month prior to our wedding, slaps his hand on my back as though we’re brothers long lost.
“Agafon Letvin! What an unexpected pleasure!” He grins in my direction.
“Kozlov,” I give him a nod. His eyes slide from me to Lilibeth, making calculations. That opportunistic bastard, I think to myself. He used to treat me worse than a fly beneath his boot, and now he claims seeing me is an unexpected pleasure? It shouldn’t surprise me. I married an Orlov to gain power, didn’t I? But I never expected our marriage to lead to such sudden shifts in how people treat me.
“Ms. Orlov,” he stammers, bowing slightly. “I heard congratulations are in order.”
This is the first time I’ve seen Kozlov speak to a woman with respect since I’ve known him. Usually, he’s more interested in adding them to his list of mistresses. Then again, the Orlov name carries weight that even he won't ignore. I've watched men like him spend years trying to secure even minor connections to her family.
“Well, if you’ve heard congratulations are in order,” says Lilibeth coolly, “then you must refer to me as Mrs. Letvin.”
Kozlov pales at her words. “O…of course, Mrs. Letvin,” he concedes.
I snap my attention to her, noticing the way she presents this united front. As I do, I notice her gaze turn from my clenched fists back to Kozlov. She noticed how he put me on edge, and for that, she put him in his place.
Once again, I’m reminded of just what a firecracker she can be.
Kozlov turns to me, red in the face. “I guess, I’ll see you around, Agafon.”
I nod. Agafon, he called me. Like we’re friends now or something.
Lilibeth’s gaze follows him until he’s out of earshot before turning back to me with a sly grin.
“Do I get bonus points for scaring off the pests?” she quips, taking a delicate sip of her champagne.
The corner of my mouth twitches slightly at her audacity. “He isn’t a pest,” I say, just to test her.
She shrugs. “Your shoulders and fists said otherwise. Besides, I know Kozlov is an opportunistic bastard.”
Once again, she surprises me. I raise an eyebrow. “You know him?”
“I know most of the faces here. Two years away, don't erase twenty-two years of attending parties with this same old crowd.”
Two years. So that's how long she was gone. I'd known she'd disappeared, had resources tracking her general whereabouts and travels, but exact timing wasn't something I'd paid attention to.
“Yet you didn’t give a flicker of recognition to Kazlov’s way,” I inquire out of curiosity. “Why?”
“Growing up, I observed these people from the sidelines. But I pretend not to remember some of them. Some of them, men like Kazlov,” she whispers as she leans closer, scanning the crowd around her, “don’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing an Orlov remembers them.”
