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Twenty-Nine.
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Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty.
MariaI don’t dare speak on the car ride back to the penthouse. The Mercedes is filled with boxes and bags from Bergdorf’s, Saks, and Bloomies. My wedding gown sits on my lap in a huge rectangular box that feels heavier than a boulder, dragging me deeper into the depths.Larissa and Naomi talk nonstop about people I don’t know, and from the sound of it, people I don’t want to know. It’s safer for me to say nothing.I hope my stupidity doesn’t get Mercy into trouble with Dad. Her opinion of me is right. I don’t know anything about being on my own. I glance over at the two women who are making it seem so easy. Say the right thing. Wear the right clothes.But it’s not so easy when I do it. And it’s not like I had a crash course on how to live the Mafia life.Pedestrians cross in front of the car at the red light. One man looks exhausted from his long day. He wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his white shirt as he carries his jacket in his hand. I wonder if he knows how lucky he is to b
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-One.
MariaIt isn’t until morning that I hear someone knocking gently at my door. At first, I don’t answer. But whoever is knocking is persistent and doesn’t leave. It can’t be Mikhail, I reason, because he has a key to the room. And I get the feeling that if I don’t answer, things will only go from bad to worse for me.So, I make my way over to the door and, with a trembling hand, pull it open to reveal a concerned-looking Dominika on the other side.“Is everything all right, koshka?” she asks when I open the door.I shake my head without looking directly at Dominika and watch her from the corner of my eye.She pauses, staring at me intently as if to gauge my response, but I refuse to acknowledge her. Just go away, I think. If she goes away, then I don’t have to deal with whatever the hell else Mikhail plans on doing to me.But she doesn’t. Instead, she shuts the door gently behind her and walks over to me. I steal another look, and there is concern in her eyes. She gestures at the bed and
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Two
MikhailToday was supposed to be a peaceful day of reckless and obscene spending, but not after what Maria did last night. I keep thinking about the solid steel doors that she breached, and my thoughts turn to the secrets she discovered.The secrets that no one else can ever be allowed to know.We wait in silence in the Tatiana Gallery, where we are meeting with our wedding planner. The well-guarded space is situated on the tenth floor of the Waverly Trust building. A bomb left outside would not touch us, but I'm alert to anything out of place. There's nothing.It's filled with timeless works of Russian fine art and relics that once adorned the walls of the aristocratic palaces. Today, their beauty masks the hidden darkness, but I can sense it.It's something profound, something dark. Something that speaks to my own turbulent thoughts.But even those thoughts can't make me tear my mind away from what I found last night: Maria standing before that painting, her eyes filled with wonder
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Three
MikhailI look over at Maria, and she wanders off into the gallery as soon as Nina leaves us. Her gaze moves from one piece to another, but she stops in front of the Kuzma Fedorov again, her eyes narrowing as she studies it intently.I approach her and stand by the painting. Like it or not, she has to start speaking to me again.She stares at me, maybe surprised I'm still silent, but then a tiny smile tugs at her lush lips. Like she knows a secret that I don't."Did you know," she starts, tilting her head, "that this painting is upside down?""Is it now?" I scoff, impressed with her bold claim. Standing beside her, I look at the painting with her. "Why do you say that?"I expect a scowl, but Maria smiles beautifully, lighting her face up with joy. Her voice assumes a confident tone instantly, and Maria stands a little taller as she points toward the canvas."Do you see this line here?" she asks. "See how it curves? And then these two small dots below it? And the long line with two cur
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Four
MariaThe sheer curtains stretch across my bedroom window, concealing Manhattan below. I don't care what's going on outside. My attention is on the painting Mikhail has hung on the wall across from my bed.It's the same Kuzma Fedorov from the gallery.I smirk, noticing it's turned right-side up. In this orientation, I can see that there's more than just a face. The splotches of purple and blue that had been unrecognizable against the green background now transform into a field of wildflowers. And the face, previously upside down, now smiles at the view.I lean in close and close my eyes, imagining I can smell the flowers, even though they're strokes of paint.There's something strangely appropriate. It's like a part of me is trapped within the canvas, forever pictured sitting by a window while staring wistfully outside ever since my world was turned upside down.Yesterday, I watched Mikhail talk to the wedding planner from the corner of my eye. He didn't say it, but he wanted to be al
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Five
MariaSlowly, I notice a man alone across the room, seemingly engrossed in a display of armor in a tall case. But there's something off about him. Each time I glance away from a display, he's there in my periphery. Not close but visible, sending the occasional furtive glance in our direction. He never lingers too long in one spot or gets too close to the other visitors."Who is he?" I ask, my pulse quickening. "Are we in trouble?"Mikhail hesitates, then leans in close so only I can hear. "Lanzzare.""Who?" I ask in confusion. I've never heard of a name like that."I'll tell you later.""Why is he watching us?" I ask, trying to keep my voice low and steady. "Will he hurt us?""He won't dare," Mikhail reassures me. "Not here. But stay close, Maria."Mikhail touches his phone, and in a few minutes, our driver, Anton, appears. He lets the man see him. No words are exchanged, but the man gives a curt nod before he walks away. That's when I realize he's not alone.Another man—one of Mikhai
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Six
MikhailI never should have kissed her.Kidnapping Maria was a necessary evil. Or so I tell myself. But deep down, I know I crossed a line that I can never uncross.Sunlight streams through the wide windows, casting a bright light into the room. The clear morning is in stark contrast to the storm brewing around me. No, within me. The light illuminates a painting hanging on the wall—an abstract piece with swirls of red and black, like blood mingling with shadows. I get up to close the blinds to protect my collection, and I feel like an ogre hiding my treasures. I glance toward the spiral staircase, half-hoping to see Maria descend. But she doesn't.A princess in a tower. How appropriate. But I'm no prince. The real prince died years ago.What if ...A new disturbing thought takes shape in my mind. I don't dare let it finish.I can't deny the feelings that Maria is invoking inside of me. They complicate things in more ways than I want to admit. Lust is not love, I tell myself.But what I
Arranged To The Bravta King Thirty-Seven
MikhailZhanna turns to face me, ready to lace into me again, I suppose, but her expression changes to alarm. Her pale blue eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. At first, I think she's having a stroke until I turn quickly to see what caused it.Maria is descending the spiral staircase.Her eyes meet mine briefly, filled with questions and concern, before focusing on Zhanna, first with curiosity and then with a hint of apprehension.Zhanna lifts her finger and points at Maria. "Who is this?" she demands in Russian."She's my fiancée," I reply in English as I step between them to shield Maria from Zhanna's piercing gaze and sharp tongue. "Maria.""Maria ..." she whispers the name as she rises from her seat.Zhanna's haughty countenance crumples at the sight of Maria, revealing an unfathomable sadness. She looks at Maria with a gloomy look edged with tiredness, as though seeing an old friend after years apart. A friend she regrets not treating like the good friend they were. Her gaze dr
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