I resist the urge to respond with “Way ahead of you”, and just smile as I dip my chin.
“I understand what was destroyed is beyond monetary value. And I can’t put a price on sentimentality. But I do hope the check for twenty million dollars in that envelope can ease at least a little of the suffering we’ve caused.”
I get that this thing was important to their family, and old as fuck. But let’s be real: it’s not gold, or bejeweled. It’s fucking old bones. We looked up similar pieces for appraisal comparisons, and the thing was maybe worth a tenth of twenty mil.
Davit eyes the envelope. Then he raises his head and smiles. “Mr. Drakos, I appreciate the gesture. Please, consider any issues between our families settled, and the matter closed.”
Arian’s face goes livid.
“Father—”
“I said closed, Arian.”
His son’s mouth twists. But when he turns back to me, he nods stiffly. “It is as my father says,” he growls. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He turns and strides out of the room.
When we’re alone again, Davit sighs. “My apologies.”
“None necessary, Mr. Kirakosian.”
He smiles and grasps my extended hand, albeit with not much strength. My brow furrows.
“I do hope you’re feeling better soon, sir.”
“Oh, I’ll be up in no time,” he smiles back. “And I appreciate the visit. Pergezime on your wedding, Mr. Drakos.”
“All good with Davit?”
I accept the tumbler of whiskey Ares offers me and take a large sip before I nod.
“All good.”
My eyes scan the event as I take a second, more moderate sip. Yes, this entire thing is fake: we’re obviously just doing this to stop World War Three from erupting in the streets of New York. Yes, Davit came across as gracious and understanding just now, but I know for a fact that all would have gone in a whole other direction if I weren’t about to marry Bianca.
In our world, especially for the older generation, these “marriages of convenience” matter. A lot. No one, including Davit, is under any delusions that Bianca and I are two love-struck kids tying the knot. They all know what this is. But in matters like this, the end does justify the means.
I’m about to say something to my brother, when suddenly, something catches my eye, and I freeze. My pulse skips, and my jaw tightens as my eyes zero in on a figure who’s just floated her way into my field of vision through a gap in the milling guests.
My cock stirs in my tux pants, and the beast within me stretches awake.
There’s no denying that Bianca is beautiful. It might not be overt or flaunted, and she is usually in some combination of hoodie and yoga pants, no makeup, her long hair scraped back in a severe dancer’s bun. But she’s still obviously attractive.
When she slips into view now, I realize this is a side of her I’ve never seen before.
It floors me.
She looks like a fucking goddess.
She’s in a stunning sage-green sleeveless, off-the-shoulder gown that falls to the floor in sleek, silky lines that accent her every delicate curve and the athleticism of her dancer’s body. A slit up one side to mid-thigh reveals a glimpse of one of her long, toned legs. Her long hair is actually down for a change, braided and slightly curled into this long, Rapunzel-esque twist that hangs forward over her bare shoulder and one of her breasts.
She looks gorgeous. She looks elegant. She looks fucking amazing.
But mostly, she looks like someone I want to drag into an alley, gag with her panties and rip that dress from before I smear my cum across her face and fuck her like an animal until her tight little virgin pussy quivers and comes and bleeds all over my fucking cock.
Yes, I’ve tried therapy.
I suppose you could say it’s never worked.
My brow furrows as my gaze follows her across the lavish River Café, the Michelin-starred restaurant right on the East River that we’ve booked out for the evening. I watch the way the sage dress clings to her every curve, how it brings out the tan of her Mediterranean skin and the soft blue of her eyes.
But curiously, what really catches my eye, beyond her body and all the things I’d like to do to it, is the way she carries herself. The way the slightly mouthy, impulsive, magnet-for-trouble Bianca Sartorre, who I’ve usually seen when she’s completely out of her element, is very much in her element right now.
I watch as she smiles gracefully, even bowing a little when she greets Konstantin Reznikov, Gavan Tsarenko’s brother and co-helm of the Reznikov Bratva, who’s here with his wife, Mara, and their twin girls, Talia and Mila—toddlers in matching maroon velvet dresses who are stealing the show. I watch curiously as Gavan, his wife Eilish, and Callie roar with laughter at something Bianca’s just told them.
This is…strange.
I’d have expected Bianca to be graceful on stage, dancing. But everything I’ve seen from her, which is a lot, would have suggested the opposite in any other scenario.
As if reading my mind, Callie turns and catches my eye. She smirks a little, excusing herself from the group before she walks over to Ares and me.
“Hmm, interesting,” Ares muses.
Callie frowns. “What?”
“You just walked past two different waiters with trays full of Dom Perignon, and you didn’t take a glass from either of them.”
