Page 19 of Arranged with Twins

Leo

T he Ritz dining room buzzes with Manhattan’s elite. I adjust my cufflinks and scan the crowd methodically, cataloging faces both familiar and unknown while maintaining the appearance of relaxed conversation.

Sienna sits across from me, stunning in a midnight blue dress very similar to the one she wore for our engagement party.

It makes her gray eyes appear almost silver under the ambient lighting, and I wonder if Katherine selected it for her.

To everyone watching, we’re the picture of an engaged couple enjoying an intimate dinner. The reality is more complicated.

She’s been different tonight. She’s quieter than usual and more distant even in public.

When the sommelier offered wine pairings, she declined with a quick shake of her head, claiming she wasn’t in the mood.

Now, she pushes food around her plate with the same enthusiasm she might show for rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.

“You’re not eating.” I keep my voice low, conscious of the tables around us where conversations pause whenever we speak too loudly.

“I’m not particularly hungry.” She takes a microscopic bite of the Dover sole, chews it like it tastes of sawdust, then sets down her fork with finality. “The fish is lovely though.”

The lie sits between us with all the grace of a brick through a window. Sienna has always been a good eater, someone who appreciates quality food and isn’t shy about showing it. Tonight, she’s treating dinner like a chore to be endured rather than enjoyed.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice further. “Are you feeling all right? You seem...”

“I’m fine.” The words come too quickly and too sharply. She realizes this and softens her tone. “Just tired. Katherine has been particularly demanding with wedding preparations this week.”

The mention of wedding plans creates an opening I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Speaking of which, I should probably know some details about our own ceremony. Date, venue, and general expectations.”

Sienna’s laugh carries no humor whatsoever. “You’ll have to ask my mother for specifics about the merger. She’s handling all the arrangements since I apparently lack the sophistication to plan an event worthy of the Denisov name.”

The bitter edge in her voice catches me by surprise. I’ve grown accustomed to Sienna’s frustration with her parents’ control, but this sounds like something deeper. It’s resignation mixed with genuine hurt.

“It’s your wedding too.” The words come out before I can stop them, offering an opinion I hadn’t intended to share, since it violates the unspoken rules of polite, distant boundaries between us.

“Is it?” She meets my gaze directly, and I see past the careful mask she’s been wearing.

“It feels more like a business transaction with me as the asset being transferred, complete with a ceremony Mother can use to showcase her event planning skills to Manhattan society.” She shrugs.

“I’ll take a more active role when I get married for real sometime in the future. ”

I should let this conversation drop. We agreed months ago to keep things professional and maintain distance for both our sakes.

Instead, I find myself responding to the pain in her voice while wincing at her blunt assessment of a real wedding in her future, implying not to me, of course.

“What would you want if you could plan it yourself.”

The question seems to surprise her, but it’s no wonder.

That’s the most personal interest I’ve allowed myself to reveal in weeks.

For a second, her expression softens before the walls slam back up.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about family alliances and public perception, not personal preferences.

” She picks up her water glass, and her hand is steady despite the emotion in her voice.

“It’s a contract signing with some extra steps, and Mother knows best how to manage those considerations. ”

The dismissal stings more than it should. I tell myself her attitude makes everything easier and cleaner. If she treats this as purely business, then I can do the same without guilt or complications. Yet something about her resigned acceptance bothers me in ways I refuse to analyze too deeply.

My phone vibrates against my ribs. It’s a text from Ilya with a single word: “Perimeter.” That’s code for potential trouble spotted by our security team. I glance around the dining room with renewed focus, noting exit routes and the positions of our people stationed throughout the restaurant.

“Leo?” Sienna follows my stare, her voice carrying new tension. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing definitive. It’s probably just Ilya being cautious.” I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, both for her comfort and to maintain our cover. “Still, we should be prepared to leave quickly if necessary.”

She nods, understanding immediately. Whatever distance exists between us in private, she’s learned to read the signs of potential danger.

She tenses slightly but doesn’t pull away from my touch.

I allow myself a moment to savor the feel of her soft skin against my rougher palm before shutting down that line of thought.

The past nine weeks have brought escalating pressure from Adrian’s organization.

Shipments belonging to Vincent’s legitimate businesses have gone missing, always with just enough plausible deniability to avoid direct confrontation.

Port Authority records show the cargo was loaded correctly, but somewhere between departure and arrival, containers disappear.

Two weeks ago, someone hit a weapons cache belonging to the Kolnaykov family. It was professional work utilizing inside information and no witnesses. The stolen guns haven’t surfaced in any of the usual markets, which means they’re being held for a specific purpose.

Adrian’s signature is all over both operations but proving it requires evidence we don’t have. He’s too smart to leave obvious trails and too careful to expose himself unnecessarily. The attacks feel like probing, as if he’s testing our responses and defenses.

Tonight’s dinner was meant to show a normal routine and demonstrate the recent pressure hasn’t affected our operations or public presence. Adrian needs to see his tactics aren’t working, and Leo Denisov remains untouchable and unworried.

“Mr. Denisov?” A waiter approaches our table, silver tray balanced in his left hand with a cocktail sitting on it. “Compliments of the gentleman at table twelve.”

I follow his gesture toward a corner table, where a man in an expensive suit raises his wine glass in our direction. He’s someone I don’t recognize, which immediately puts me on alert. Unknown faces at social gatherings require careful evaluation. “Thank you, but we’re not accepting?—”

He moves his right hand quickly, and a blade appears from beneath the linen napkin draped over his arm. The steel catches the chandelier light for a split second before he lunges forward, aiming for my chest with deadly precision.

Training takes over before conscious thought.

I shove Sienna’s chair backward with enough force to send her tumbling away from the table while simultaneously throwing myself sideways to avoid the blade’s path.

The knife scores across my ribs instead of finding my heart, and it tears through my dinner jacket and the shirt beneath.

The dining room erupts into chaos. Screams, breaking glass, and the crash of overturned furniture fills the air as guests scramble for exits. I grab the attacker’s wrist to twist until I hear bones snap, and the knife clatters to the floor while he cries out in pain.

He recovers faster than I expected, throwing a wild punch that connects with my jaw hard enough to make my vision blur. I return the favor with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet before slamming him down onto our table, sending crystal and china exploding across the marble floor.

Security swarms the area within seconds, with restaurant personnel and my own people closing in from multiple directions. The fake waiter struggles beneath my grip, his face flushed and desperate as he realizes his plan has failed completely.

“Sienna?” I look around frantically until I spot her pressed against the far wall, her face pale but uninjured. Relief floods through me with surprising intensity. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, pushing off from the wall to move toward me despite the continuing chaos around us. “You’re bleeding.”

I glance down at my torn shirt, where blood seeps through the fabric along my ribs. The cut burns but doesn’t feel deep enough to be dangerous. “It’s superficial.”

Ilya appears at my elbow, his expression grim. “The exits are secure. Police are en route , but we should move before they arrive. If they want to interview you, I’d prefer we control the scenario.”

I nod in agreement. “The attacker?”

“He’s unconscious and restrained. Restaurant security is holding him for police questioning.” Ilya’s voice drops lower. “He was armed with more than just the knife. There was a gun tucked in an ankle holster.” He discreetly pats his pocket, which conveys he now has possession of the gun.

I process this information while watching Sienna approach cautiously, her gaze fixed on the blood staining my shirt. The attack wasn’t random. It was planned, coordinated, and designed to be a public spectacle.

“Let’s go.” I reach for Sienna’s hand, noting how her fingers tremble slightly as they close around mine. “We’ll discuss details in the car.”

The Ritz staff efficiently clear a path to the service exit, away from the main dining room where guests and media are undoubtedly gathering. My driver waits with the engine running, Ilya having coordinated our departure while I dealt with more immediate threats.