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Lilibeth, much to my surprise, is ready on the dot. She’s in the foyer by the time I descend the stairs, and when I see her, my neck clenches from the breathtaking view.

She looks absolutely stunning in that deep emerald wraparound midi sequenced dress. It’s cut low, too low, but the full sleeves balance out the curves. She’s got on a ruby necklace, a stunning piece that draws my eyes back to her curves.

I have to force myself to look away before she gets the wrong idea. Yes, she’s beautiful. But that doesn’t mean I’m falling on my knees at the sight of her. A man like me can appreciate beauty for what it is, without losing sight of himself.

“You clean up well,” she says with a wide smile in that annoyingly cheery way of hers.

“Thank you,” I mumble, taken aback by how civil she’s being after I derailed her evening plans to go out with my sisters. It’s only when I usher her out the door that I realize I never really complimented her back.

***

The charity gala is in full swing by the time we arrive. Beside me, I hear Lilibeth gasp. “It’s beautiful.”

When I look over at her, she’s taking in her surroundings with childlike wonder, her eyes moving from the ice sculptures to the champagne towers to the myriad of beautiful people and floral structures.

I watch as her eyes track the movements of a group of stick-thin models, and she bites her lower lip. It’s her nervous tell; I know that by now. For a brief moment, I wonder why she’s nervous, but then her eyes move to yet another pair of women, tall and similarly sickly thin.

Lilibeth Orlov doesn’t realize that she may stand shorter than most women in attendance, but her curves are a dangerous weapon in their own right.

I can’t tell her that, though; we simply don’t have an equation where boosting her confidence is somehow my responsibility.

So, what I can do best in this situation is distract her wholeheartedly.

“Drink?” I suggest.

She looks up at me with relief, those blue-green eyes drowning me in their depth. “Please,” she whispers.

I move through the crowd when usually, I’d have been the one making my way through the periphery.

But things are different now, aren’t they?

I’m here to kill two birds with one stone.

In our world, money doesn’t count for much.

Everyone’s got plenty to show and throw around.

But tonight, the check I’ve cut for charity is beyond generous, but it’s not the statement on my wealth I’ve come to make.

It’s a statement on my position and power.

I’m now married to an Orlov—one of the most feared Bratva groups across America and Eastern Europe. There isn’t a single person here who doesn’t bow down to an Orlov.

I move along to the bar, creating space for Lilibeth to follow, and as I do, I notice curious and confused looks directed my way.

People literally part to make way for us, and I know exactly what they’re thinking.

What does Agafon Letvin have that compelled the Orlovs to give him a sister’s hand in marriage?

I grab two glasses of champagne and hand her one when I hear Dmitri Kozlov’s grating voice.

Once upon a time, I would have been eager to speak to him.

But that was before I married Lilibeth. Kozlov, a mid-level player who refused my calls three times in a row in the month prior to our wedding, slaps his hand on my back as though we’re brothers long lost.

“Agafon Letvin! What an unexpected pleasure!” He grins in my direction.

“Kozlov,” I give him a nod. His eyes slide from me to Lilibeth, making calculations.

That opportunistic bastard, I think to myself.

He used to treat me worse than a fly beneath his boot, and now he claims seeing me is an unexpected pleasure?

It shouldn’t surprise me. I married an Orlov to gain power, didn’t I?

But I never expected our marriage to lead to such sudden shifts in how people treat me.

“Ms. Orlov,” he stammers, bowing slightly. “I heard congratulations are in order.”

This is the first time I’ve seen Kozlov speak to a woman with respect since I’ve known him.

Usually, he’s more interested in adding them to his list of mistresses.

Then again, the Orlov name carries weight that even he won't ignore.

I've watched men like him spend years trying to secure even minor connections to her family.

“Well, if you’ve heard congratulations are in order,” says Lilibeth coolly, “then you must refer to me as Mrs. Letvin.”

Kozlov pales at her words. “O…of course, Mrs. Letvin,” he concedes.

I snap my attention to her, noticing the way she presents this united front. As I do, I notice her gaze turn from my clenched fists back to Kozlov. She noticed how he put me on edge, and for that, she put him in his place.

Once again, I’m reminded of just what a firecracker she can be.

Kozlov turns to me, red in the face. “I guess, I’ll see you around, Agafon.”

I nod. Agafon, he called me. Like we’re friends now or something.

Lilibeth’s gaze follows him until he’s out of earshot before turning back to me with a sly grin.

“Do I get bonus points for scaring off the pests?” she quips, taking a delicate sip of her champagne.

The corner of my mouth twitches slightly at her audacity. “He isn’t a pest,” I say, just to test her.

She shrugs. “Your shoulders and fists said otherwise. Besides, I know Kozlov is an opportunistic bastard.”

Once again, she surprises me. I raise an eyebrow. “You know him?”

“I know most of the faces here. Two years away, don't erase twenty-two years of attending parties with this same old crowd.”

Two years. So that's how long she was gone. I'd known she'd disappeared, had resources tracking her general whereabouts and travels, but exact timing wasn't something I'd paid attention to.

“Yet you didn’t give a flicker of recognition to Kazlov’s way,” I inquire out of curiosity. “Why?”

“Growing up, I observed these people from the sidelines. But I pretend not to remember some of them. Some of them, men like Kazlov,” she whispers as she leans closer, scanning the crowd around her, “don’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing an Orlov remembers them.”

This, I believe, is the exact moment I realize just how cunning Lilibeth can be. She’s cheerful and sweet and all that, yes, but she’s got a razor-sharp sense of observation. It’s impressive; I’ll give her that.

“Brutal.” I lean closer and hiss in her ear. Suddenly, we’re standing so close and the room around us quietens. I feel her shiver as I pull back.

She takes a moment to collect herself before turning to a moving waiter, who replaces her now-empty glass with another one.

***

We move deeper into the room, and I observe how the crowd continues to part for us—for me—in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I know why they do. They part for her. The Orlov sister's return to society hasn't gone unnoticed, and her marriage to me has become the talk of the town.

With each introduction, I watch her brighten like the star attraction she is.

She throws in a compliment here, a reference to shared history there.

She asks the Belgian art dealer about his daughter's ballet recital, and suddenly he's inviting us to a private showing next month.

She mentions a specific vintage to the wine importer, something she tried on her travels through Italy, and he's offering to send a case to my home.

She has this way about her, where even though she hasn’t been a part of this Bratva scene in over two years, she fits right back in.

I watch as Mrs. Popov tugs at her husband’s arm.

“Darling…” she urges silently with her eyes.

Her husband pulls away his arm, and I watch Lilibeth furrow her brows ever so slightly.

Mr. Popov has been talking to our group for quite some time now, ignoring his wife’s silent commands.

From the looks of it, he’s barely involving her, and she’s feeling left out.

The next thing I know, Lilibeth slides over to Mrs. Popov’s side. “Dear god, your glass is empty!” Her cheerful voice carries over the crowd, and heads turn to see who the Orlov girl is lathering with attention. “I must bring you another.”

“Oh no, dear, I really mustn’t.” Mrs. Popov blushes as her husband now turns his focus to her glass and insists she refill it.

“So,” Lilibeth asks, her eyes darting between the couple, “how ever did you two meet?”

As Mr. Popov strolls down memory lane, he slides an arm around his wife’s waist, and I watch Mrs. Popov’s face light up, any mention of leaving completely forgotten.

I see what Lilibeth did there. She led by example and showed her husband where his priorities should lie. She flipped the conversation from being the center of attention to getting Mrs. Popov to talk about herself instead, allowing her to feel like she belongs.

As a crowd gathers around the couple, Lilibeth extracts herself and makes her way over to me with a smile. She barely reaches my side when Anton Yakov, my most irritating rival, walks up to us.

“Letvin,” he says through a drunken gaze. His gaze lingers inappropriately on Lilibeth's curves. “I see you've brought fresh blood to our little gathering.”

I hate the way he looks at her, and I am about to talk him away when Lilibeth extends her hand. “Lilibeth Orlov. Not fresh blood at all, I assure you. My family has been cleaning up messes in this city since before either of us was born.”

Yakov's smile freezes at her name. “You…you—” Of course, he’s no fool. The Orlov-Zolotov alliance could wipe out his entire life’s work within an hour.

“My wife,” I say with a pleased growl, and give Lilibeth my arm. To my surprise, she takes it and levels an ice-cold stare at the very surprised Yakov before I lead her away.