Page 32 of Hunted Bride

Operated.

Past-tense.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that we buried my father a few hours ago. Put him into the ground. Buried what was left of him.

A car bomb tore his body apart so badly that we couldn’t even have an open-casket funeral.

A lump forms in my throat.

The gorgeous blond in a tight red dress kisses a man’s knuckles. “For luck,” she purrs, gliding away. The guy’s eyes follow the sway of her hips as she moves down the table and expertly shuffles a deck of cards.

“How do I know you’re not tilting the game to favor him?” another man calls out. It’s flirty, but there’s an edge to his tone that says he’s pissed about her display of favoritism. This man’s face is highly recognizable. He’s been plastered on billboards and movie screens across America. One of the most famous actors in Hollywood has a serious gambling problem. He owes my family millions of dollars in unpaid losses.

Why did my father keep letting him come back?

The lady in red bends over the table to deal cards, displaying her impressive rack. Her breasts spill indecently out of the red fabric. You can get tits on full display downstairs in the strip club, but there is something more erotic about the way she keeps her breasts covered, even if it’s just barely on the side of decency.

I drag a chair out from the table and take a seat. The other men stare at my tattoos. I wave to the cocktail hostess for a drink. She knows what to bring me.

“Sorry to hear about your father,” the actor says. I hate the little smirk in his voice. He thinks he’s getting out from under his debts because my otets is dead. He will soon learn that the Orlovs do not let go of things that easily.

“Thank you.”

“When is the funeral?” The actor asks.

“We buried Konstantin this morning.” It’s public information.

“I’ll send a condolence card,” the actor lies. He won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. His brain is fried from years of heavy cocaine use. He’s getting too old to still be playing a superhero. Not that Hollywood generally cares about the reality of it. As long as women fantasize about the actor, he’ll keep getting work—and spending his royalties here at my father’s casino. He can’t afford to quit us now.

Cards whisk across the table.

The woman in red flashes a megawatt smile. It dims slightly when shining on me. Wariness creeps into her whiskey-colored eyes.

I’m a sucker for a brown-eyed blond. Her nails are long pink talons. I imagine them raking down my tattooed back as she screams my name.

Bidding starts high and immediately goes higher. The actor brazens his way through huge losses on his way to even bigger ones. I hold a winning hand, but I don’t play it. I lose on purpose. The optics of the casino owner’s son taking high rollers are bad. I’m just here to have a word with our famous debtor.

But first, I’ll give him a bit more rope to hang himself with.

He’s not the only one at this table who owes my family money. Two other famed actors and a billionaire they pal around with are also taking hits. Who’s winning is like a Ferris wheel—one goes up, another comes down. Losing to these clowns takes effort on my part. I have to work to make sure I stay toward the bottom of the pack. Doing so makes the coked-up actor even more arrogant and careless. It’s good business.

I can run the Orlov family business. Honestly, my oldest brother, Maxim, is such a blowhard that he’s liable to get us noticed by the Feds.

It should be me. Or my identical twin brother, Ilarion. But he’s never shown an interest in running the show. He cares more about stalking our business partners’ daughter than operating an organized crime ring. He thinks I don’t know. Just because I haven’t said anything doesn’t mean I’m unaware.

Now, our mother has given me a fighting chance to win control. All I have to do is find a wife.

Too bad my latest girlfriend exited my life a month and a half ago. She’d have volunteered to become Mrs. Orlov in a heartbeat. Which, frankly, is why we’re no longer together. She wanted love. Marriage. Kids. The white picket fence and the American dream. Things no bratva heir could ever give her.

Love is a trap.

Love makes you vulnerable.

I have no use for it.

But when the woman in the red dress comes around to collect our cards, I certainly feel something. A tightening of my cock.

Maybe what I need to escape the oppressive grief of losing my dad is to bed a beautiful woman.