Page 6 of Vicious Secrets
“So, let me see if I have this straight,” I say as I stand up again, this time to clean up the tray table. “You’re cool with faking our relationship but still want to do all your husbandly duties. So, you’re willing to trade for them?”
Siro nods. “I was born into this. You weren’t.”
“So does that mean I can negotiate on a case-by-case basis?”
“Fine.” He grinds his back teeth, disapproval clear on his face. Siro shoves himself off the exam table and grabs his suit coat.
The tension in the room hasn’t dulled a bit.
“This weekend is the bride test,” he says with his back to me as he fixes his coat.
“Bride test?” I do my best to hold in a snort, but my voice has an unmistakable mocking tone.
“Yes, ask your mother. I doubt you’ll like my… phrasing,” he grumbles over his shoulder.
“Does getting to keep my job count towards the test or—”
“No.”
“The wedding night?”
“No.”
Stunned, I smile to myself. “Jesus, you’re a sweetheart.”
Siro turns slowly to face me. My skin burns under the weight of his stare. Siro looks at me like I’ve grown an extra set of limbs right before his eyes. I can’t help but smile brighter. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Mom did tell me all Cosa Nostra men take honor and loyalty seriously. So far, Siro matches that description perfectly.
“Do you want to talk again before the test?” I offer, morbidly curious. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
Siro looks me dead in the eye and says, “It’s quiet today, huh?”
My shoulders sag, hands drooping against the tray as I watch my future husband walk away shrouded in a storm cloud of God-knows-what.
But his use of a four-word curse does nothing to reduce the relief of discovering my husband might not be as awful as I fear.
Chapter 3
Siro
Twoweeksback,Iran the Bratva dealers off the Strip by kidnapping them directly off the street mid-deal and depositing them in Cartel territory. The Bratva received the message loud and clear. But that didn’t stop them from retaliating.
Their attacks are suspiciously well-coordinatedandunderfunded. The motherfuckers keep bringing knives to gunfights. These Bratva soldiers are nothing but cannon fodder, and they act like they’re dying honorable deaths for their bosses.
It’s as baffling as it is insulting.
In the middle of a midnight meeting with one of my Enforcers, a fight finds Ari and me.
The next Russian idiots in line to die jump off the top of a cargo container. One collides with my back, his arms wrapping around my torso as I stumble forward, bent at the waist. The skin of my back crawls, and the hair on the back of my neck raises. Bile burns my throat like liquor and every muscle the attacker makes contact with tenses. Not from strain—from disgust.
No one touches me. Those who do don’t live long enough to regret it.
Gunshots ring out ten feet in front of me but sound a mile away—Ari’s taken care of two others and tussles with a third. Not a single strand of his bleach-blond hair is out of place, and his expression is as calm as a professional poker dealer’s.
I throw my body backward and slam my attacker against the wall of a container. A crunch and thewooshof a forced exhale sound staticky to my ears. He doesn’t release me. He holds on tighter, adding his legs to the mix, and attempts to stab me in the gut. Sucks to suck; my suit coat doubles as a stab vest.
It’s August in Vegas; why the fuck else would I be wearing it?
My vision blurs red, and my mind goes blank as a raging fever cooks me from the inside out. I know I’m fighting back and winning—my knuckles are split, there are crackling pops of bone and muscle as teeth bite into the backs of my fingers, and blood runs down my arm—but I’m not in tune with myself.
