Page 7 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter Six

ILYA

Fuck.

This is like a waking nightmare.

I stare at her, wishing we were anywhere but in the middle of an exclusive restaurant. Not because someone may overhear us—we’re not close to anyone else, and we’re speaking Russian, as well as keeping our voices low—but because I can’t just up and leave. I can’t walk away.

Pretty Alina, who is perfect, and the perfect choice, waits for my answer.

I take her in. She’s sweet and feisty and so fucking right for all the wrong reasons, and she has backed me into a corner.

What am I meant to say? That I have major feelings for her, that she makes my knees weak and my heart tremble? That she makes me so damn hard that I’m filled with all the filthy thoughts for her when she gets too close or presses against me in a hug?

If I say that, or that I have a crush on her, or god forbid that I’m in love with her, then…what other excuse is there ?

If I go anywhere near that, I could lose her friendship, same as if I just say no and leave it there.

She’s fucking right. She’s spoiled, and I’m wrapped tightly around her finger.

I’m also fresh out of excuses.

“Silent, Ilya?” She tilts her head, her gaze moving over me, and she takes a small sip of her drink while hiding a tiny smile.

“I’m always silent. You talk too much,” I mutter, a snap to my voice.

“No, you know I’m right.” She sets down the glass and leans in. “So that’s it, then. You’re marrying me.”

I sigh. It’s a bad idea, and every way I can think to back out, I hear her countering it. If I rip into her, I may make her cry, and that idea is so horrendous, I can’t even seriously entertain it.

Alina’s been through enough tears in her lifetime. More than enough. Same with pain, same with heartbreak.

Not that her heart would ever break over me, but… I can’t hurt her.

“It’s a bad idea.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to risk your virtue.

Marriage in name only, clearly. And it’ll help me and you.

Men won’t bug me, and you’ll get what you want.

Your inheritance. Plus, if someone’s going to be poking around, we make sense.

We sound legitimate. Good friends turned lovers. ”

The word “lovers” tumbles through me and strokes my dick. But I shift my attention away, back to the situation at hand. The one she’s effectively backed me into.

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” she asks. “Give me one good reason.”

“Demyan.”

“Luckily, you’re not marrying him. ”

She’s playing deliberately obtuse. I knead the napkin on the table near my hand. It’s a terrible idea. I can’t stop coming back to that. But there’s no way out, not with someone as stubborn as Alina.

“It feels…sneaky.”

“Demyan, regardless of what he might think, isn’t the boss of me. He doesn’t decide things for me, and I’ll be honest—I’ll be happy to move back out, gain more autonomy again.”

I consider challenging that, but right now, so many things are flying fast in the air at me that I have to stick to one. Marriage.

But it is underhanded. I’d be agreeing to a surface marriage, one where she’ll have to spend time with me and at least look like she lives with me.

I wouldn’t put it past a will with that kind of stipulation to have things like checkups to make sure the marriage is “real,” as in living under the same roof, seen together in public, and the like. I’ve seen it before.

My grandfather, who went from trying to force my mother into an arranged marriage, to forcing a grandson he never bothered with to not only carry on the family business as the new pakhan, but to make it stronger through marriage, isn’t about to let me just pick someone and marry her and lead separate lives with separate homes.

It’s not how the old-fashioned pakhans work.

Hello, corner, meet my back.

All of this is so much worse, considering there’s a lie of omission to her about how I really feel.

Marrying someone I love is asking for trouble anyway.

Love screws things up. Demyan and Erin worked it out, but it nearly destroyed him.

Love makes a man vulnerable. Loving—if that is what I feel—Alina is the worst kind of trouble.

She makes me vulnerable tenfold. The fact she’s a Yegorov makes it worse.

For her, I’d burn down the world .

I’d happily die for her if I knew it would mean Alina was safe.

And I can’t tell her any of that. Especially not how I feel.

This is, in short, a fucking mess.

But I do know I need to keep Alina away from Santo. He’s bad news. The way he looked at her. How he was to me. I can’t let that slide.

And the thing is, him knowing who I am has bought time, but he doesn’t give up.

As an Italian, however, he does respect the ring from a powerful man.

The vows a woman makes to that man. If he thinks I’m just Demyan’s lackey, probably not.

But a new pakhan of the Belov Bratva? Yes. He’d respect that and keep away.

If I marry her.

Fuck me.

Alina finishes her whiskey and orders another and then two desserts to go.

The waitress smiles. “I’ll add it to Mr. Barone’s bill.”

The moment the girl’s gone, Alina looks at me. “So, you’ll marry me?”

I hate it. I do. But if marrying her is the best way to keep Santo from bothering her, then I’ll swallow my pride and do it.

“Fine.” I sigh once more. “I’ll do it.”

She grins. “Such a chore.”

She has no fucking idea. “Alina…I said I’d do it.”

She squeals happily and hugs me tight. She then sits back and fans herself.

“We do have some logistic problems.” She glances at me as our drinks arrive—Alina is Alina, so she ordered two, not one—along with the boxed and wrapped desserts.

I cut off another sliver of cheese and top another cracker for her. “Like?”

She takes a bite, and after she swallows, she says, “Maybe not logistic, but a condition… Demyan can’t find out about this.”

Logistics is one way to put that clusterfuck. Condition is another.

But I laugh and lean back, taking a sip of the whiskey. “Fine by me. I’m not really looking forward to Demyan murdering you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, little one, he would. He’d murder me, too, give me CPR, definitely breaking more ribs than needed when he does so, then bring me back just so he could murder me all over again.”

“But we’re just doing this in name only.” She sighs and sits up. “I just meant I didn’t want him to think I needed help solving problems. I don’t want him thinking I have them. Or that I can’t look after myself. That’s all?—”

“Don’t worry.” I’m the one worrying.

We’ll have to come up with something to make it seem real and to keep it from Demyan.

Two months I’ve got.

And then he’s back.

While I’m his main source of US and Chicago news, people do talk. But then again, I’m not Demyan. I’m not known.

And there are pakhans who keep a low profile.

Shit.

“Don’t worry, I’m not saying a thing,” I say. “Obviously, I’ll have to tell Demyan about the Belov Bratva and my inheritance, but the less he knows about the conditions surrounding that, the better.”

Especially the part where I’ll be marrying his little sister.

My head spins at the thought, at how she steamrolled me into this.

“Take me to your place,” she says .

“Hell no.”

Alina looks at me calmly. “We can talk privately, and don’t worry. I told you. Your virtue is safe.”

“Lucky yours is, too,” I shoot back. “But my place? I’ll take you home, and we can talk there.”

“Not if we’re going to figure this out.” She finishes her drink and stands. “Come on.”

Fucking hell, this girl…

I down my drink, steal a piece of cheese, drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table as an added tip, and then I follow her out.

My duplex apartment’s always been a little too big. I still prefer my old one-bedroom I had in my early twenties, but Demyan and his sister are a lot alike.

Stubborn.

Willful.

Generous.

Oh, she’s softer and much readier with a smile. Her eyes are like her mother’s, but the way they change when she’s in a heightened emotional state is just pure Alina.

“Water?” I stand in the kitchen of my open-plan kitchen.

Upstairs is my study and the primary suite. Down here is the kitchen, living area, and two other bedrooms.

One I’ve set up as a guest room because occasionally a friend may stay over. The other is to work out in when I need to let off extra steam. I can run in the neighborhood if I choose, but I like the idea of stealing an hour or twenty minutes or whatever right here when I need it.

“Water?” she echoes.

“I’ve got OJ, water, tea, coffee, vodka, whiskey, and wine. I think there’s gin somewhere. ”

“I’ll have whiskey.” She looks around, her gaze on the big floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the large balcony and the view of Chicago.

Then she wanders off, going room to room like an inspector. She even goes upstairs.

When she returns, I’m on the sofa, her glass ready for her, the bottle on the coffee table, and the desserts—a tiramisu and some kind of wild-looking cake with berries, chocolate, cream, and a sauce—sit there as well.

Alina smiles, and I tuck it away inside me as she takes in the mini spread.

Her smiles, I learned since Max’s death, are some of the most precious things in this world.

There was a time when they were rare, so rare I feared I may never see another, at least not a real one.

I don’t give a fuck if her smile is in response to the dessert. It’s a real smile, full of happiness. It’s, in short, a treasure.

“This is a Yegorov building, isn’t it?”

A low beat of unease passes through me, and I sip the whiskey as she sits next to me, tucking her legs under her. She reaches over to take a bite of the chocolate and fruit thing.

Then she shoves a bite in my face.

It’s Alina, and though I’m not hungry, I dutifully eat it.

“Sooo good, isn’t it?” she asks. “And you didn’t answer me about the building.”

“I didn’t because you were shoving food in my mouth, malyshka .”

“Little one isn’t better in Russian, you know.”