Page 9 of Cruel Romeo

The Sidorov Bratva is a small, weak sideshow in the grand scheme of things. But her daddy wants the protection I offer, and I need the legitimacy of a marriage to solidify my newfound position.

On top of that, we both have problems with the Danilo scum crawling into our territory. We both lost people to them. Lastyear in particular was a massacre. I’m tired of playing defense, and I know Boris Sidorov is, too.

So, when he offered me one of his daughters, I accepted.

If not for those reasons, I never would have done something as stupid as taking a wife, let alone commit to a child. But it wasmy father’s will, both figuratively and legally. He wanted his successor to be married, his bloodline to continue. So much, in fact, that he put it in writing the day Dimitri was born.

It was never me who was supposed to wear the crown. To continue the Gubarev legacy. It was Dmitri.

But he’s half-dead in a hospital bed right now, breathing through a fucking tube. So it falls to me to carry us forward.

I couldn’t give less of a shit about legacies. All I care about is what I need to do next: secure the throne and then wipe the Danilo name off the map for what they did to my family.

That’s what this whole wedding charade is about. Not some misguided delusion of affection, butblood.

Honoring mine.

Spilling theirs.

So, no, I don’t care that my bride is bawling her pretty eyes out. This isn’t a love story—it’s a goddamn contract.

But I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Or embarrassed. Or that I regret in any way that my bride decided to no-show one hour before we were supposed to speak our vows.

Because I didn’t want to marry her, either.

I still need a bride. But honestly, anybody will do. Polina can ride off into the fucking sunset for all I care.

Just as I’m thinking that, my fingers find something other than gumdrops and half-eaten snacks inside Sima’s bag.

Her laminated ID card.

I turn it over between my fingers and focus hard on the words stamped on the front.

Banks, Samantha.

Suddenly, I think of her nametag. Of the letters swimming before my eyes. I couldn’t make the words out then, too busy focusing on other things, but now, I remember.

It said“Samantha”on there, too.

But that’s not what she said to me. When I pressed her for her name, she blurted out, “Sima.” That can’t be right. It’s Samantha, Sam, or Sammi—butSima?That’s a wholly different name.

Which can only mean one thing.

“… She lied to me.”

Lev frowns. “Who, Polina?”

“No. The wedding planner.”

He buries his face in his hands. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?!”

“It haseverythingto do with it.”

As if to confirm my suspicions, my gaze darts to Sima’s listed birth year. I do some quick math. Thirty-three, according to this.No fucking way. She doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five, tops. Either she’s aging backward, or she’s lying about more than just her name.

I stare at the ID, piecing it together. My mind clicks through every face, every name I’ve ever filed away. No, no, no…

Wait.There.