Her hair is pinned up in a silver clip with a butterfly emblem on it. She’s wearing a single silver chain that hangs low in her cleavage, sparkling as the light catches it.
We walk into the venue, and I make sure she is tight against my side.My wife.Everyone who sees us arriving needs to know that she belongs to me.
“Good evening, sir, ma’am, can I offer you a glass of champagne?”
We are greeted at the door by a man in a black and white tuxedo, holding a tray of glittering crystal glass.
“Thank you.” Ulyana smiles sweetly and he hands her a flute of champagne.
“No,” I say, declining, preferring to get vodka at the bar.
He steps aside with a bow of his head, and I lead us inside.
It’s crowded, music thrumming over the pulse of conversation. Women are dressed in elegant gowns, men are dripping in Gucci and Dolce and I’m already bored of the conversations that haven’t started yet.
Never mind the fact that I have to be on high alert for what I say; I also have to be on high alert to make sure Ulyana is comfortable and not having conversations with anyone who might try and trick her into talking about the wrong things.
People are always hungry for information in Las Vegas. I learned long ago to say as little as possible.
I’m talking to a group of business associates and Ulyana is standing nearby, talking to a man I only know in passing. He’s asking her very pointed questions, and to my surprise, she’s answering without saying anything at all.
She’s laughing, charming and confident—and giving absolutely zero information away.
I’m distracted as I watch her, curious about how and when she learned to be so efficient at dealing with the bratva world. Perhaps Nestor didn’t keep her as sheltered as he thought, perhaps she learned a lot along the way.
She’s street-smart in this world and it impresses me, helping me relax a bit more.
What I don’t like, and have very little control over, is how the other men are staring at her. Ogling, practically drooling.
All I can do is move closer, letting them know she belongs to me.
Ulyana, standing at my side, sees me take my last sip of vodka and takes the empty glass from my hand. “Let me get you a refill.” She smiles sweetly. The perfect wife.
“Thank you,” I reply, stealing the moment to lean down and kiss her while we have so many people around us. She acts as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I think to myself as I watch her walk away from me, why can’t she be like that at home, too?
Her hips sway as she moves through the crowd towards the bar.
“That’s Nestor’s sister, isn’t it?” Ardalion says, arriving at my side.
I groan inwardly. I’m not in the mood for this asshole.
“Ardalion. Good to see you,” I say without conviction. “How is business?”
“Better than yours. I hear you can’t even keep your employees safe—you let someone deliver a bomb right into your warehouse.”
“You might want to show more respect to the men who lost their lives in that attack,” I growl angrily.
He snorts mocking laughter and takes a sip of his beer. “You might want to hire a better security team. I can give you some contacts if you need. Or better yet, I can give you some tips. My territory in Los Angeles is running smoothly.”
My blood boils as I think about punching him in the face. I want to wipe that smug look away.
Instead, I shove the anger down and do my best to ignore it.
“Have a nice evening, Ardalion,” I snap, turning away from him.
That asshole has the audacity to grab my arm and pull me back to face him.
“Get your hand off me,” I snarl with a dangerous warning in my voice.
