funeral. Now that I’ve been through my father’s papers and talked to his business people, a few things are clear. He transferred property to Xander shortly before our shotgun marriage, and I’m still trying to come to terms with that. Xander was no white knight—he was a bought-and-paid-for mercenary. And honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about that. When I’m with Xander, I feel safe. I know he wants to take care of me and our chemistry is off-the-charts good… I just don’t know if that is enough for me anymore.
Xander know that too. He keeps his distance at the funeral. He watches me, scanning our surroundings for potential danger. I know he wants to stand by me, to take me in his arms—but he also understands that I need to do this on my own. He’s the one who gave me the idea, after all, that I could take over the Petrov family. I’m more than a property deed on legs to him. So now I’m trying, and strangely, Delia Zakharova and I have become friends of a sort. She came to the funeral—all of the Miami families did—but then she sort of stuck around. She’s irreverent, bold, and takes shit from no one. I kind of love her already.
When she first walked into our—my—house, she grinned when she saw all of the flowers. “Monday they want to kill you, but Friday they send flowers. It’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
I laughed my ass off, and it felt so good. Then she’d gone through the cards and told me all the gossip about each sender. There was a hidden lesson there as well—she’d told me more about who the players were in each Family than I had learned in years. Liam sent me an enormous bouquet of roses—and an even larger cactus in a pot. I think he had a message of his own to share. Xander sent lilies so dark red that they were almost black. If there is a language of flowers, he’s speaking Greek.
Today when she comes in, Delia immediately kicks off her heels and flops down on my couch. She always wears something expensive, the kind of shoe you see in a magazine picture of your favorite movie star on the red carpet. She promises to share her closet with me “because we girls need to stick together.”
“I don’t know how you can walk in those.” I snag the Louboutin from the floor. It’s a work of art from the sweet black curves of the upper to the red heel, but Delia waltzes around like the four-inch height merely makes it an orthopedic support shoe.
She winks at me. “Much practice.”
“How many pairs do you own?”
Her grin gets wider. “All of them. They’re my signature piece. My little fuck you and the horse you rode in on message to the Russian mafia. We should find you one.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “It’s a male-dominated industry, and they like to think that girls are just a piece of pretty pussy. I may be decorative, but I’m as tough as they are. I do what has to be done and I protect what’s mine.”
“So the shoes are a feminist statement?” I know I sound doubtful.
Delia laughs. “I like the shoes, so I wear them and fuck them all. How is your big, sexy Russian lover?”
“Xander?”
Delia winks again. “You have more than one? Go, you.”
“He hasn’t come by,” I admit. “He was at the funeral. Everyone was.”
“And now everyone knows that you are Mrs. Volkov.” Delia shrugs. “He will have to come so that the two of you can sort that out. If you don’t live together, there will be many questions. Xander is a powerful man and he has worked hard for his place in our world.”
That is business and not personal. My thoughts must show on my face because Delia sighs and pats my hand.
“When he was younger, he was not so hard, but he was also not in charge. Now he is the head of his family, and he has responsibilities. You know what this is like—you have the Petrovs. I have my own challenges.”
“So it’s stupid to hope for something more with him.”
Delia pats my hand again. “Tell me about the sex with him.
Xander know that too. He keeps his distance at the funeral. He watches me, scanning our surroundings for potential danger. I know he wants to stand by me, to take me in his arms—but he also understands that I need to do this on my own. He’s the one who gave me the idea, after all, that I could take over the Petrov family. I’m more than a property deed on legs to him. So now I’m trying, and strangely, Delia Zakharova and I have become friends of a sort. She came to the funeral—all of the Miami families did—but then she sort of stuck around. She’s irreverent, bold, and takes shit from no one. I kind of love her already.
When she first walked into our—my—house, she grinned when she saw all of the flowers. “Monday they want to kill you, but Friday they send flowers. It’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
I laughed my ass off, and it felt so good. Then she’d gone through the cards and told me all the gossip about each sender. There was a hidden lesson there as well—she’d told me more about who the players were in each Family than I had learned in years. Liam sent me an enormous bouquet of roses—and an even larger cactus in a pot. I think he had a message of his own to share. Xander sent lilies so dark red that they were almost black. If there is a language of flowers, he’s speaking Greek.
Today when she comes in, Delia immediately kicks off her heels and flops down on my couch. She always wears something expensive, the kind of shoe you see in a magazine picture of your favorite movie star on the red carpet. She promises to share her closet with me “because we girls need to stick together.”
“I don’t know how you can walk in those.” I snag the Louboutin from the floor. It’s a work of art from the sweet black curves of the upper to the red heel, but Delia waltzes around like the four-inch height merely makes it an orthopedic support shoe.
She winks at me. “Much practice.”
“How many pairs do you own?”
Her grin gets wider. “All of them. They’re my signature piece. My little fuck you and the horse you rode in on message to the Russian mafia. We should find you one.” When I don’t say anything, she continues. “It’s a male-dominated industry, and they like to think that girls are just a piece of pretty pussy. I may be decorative, but I’m as tough as they are. I do what has to be done and I protect what’s mine.”
“So the shoes are a feminist statement?” I know I sound doubtful.
Delia laughs. “I like the shoes, so I wear them and fuck them all. How is your big, sexy Russian lover?”
“Xander?”
Delia winks again. “You have more than one? Go, you.”
“He hasn’t come by,” I admit. “He was at the funeral. Everyone was.”
“And now everyone knows that you are Mrs. Volkov.” Delia shrugs. “He will have to come so that the two of you can sort that out. If you don’t live together, there will be many questions. Xander is a powerful man and he has worked hard for his place in our world.”
That is business and not personal. My thoughts must show on my face because Delia sighs and pats my hand.
“When he was younger, he was not so hard, but he was also not in charge. Now he is the head of his family, and he has responsibilities. You know what this is like—you have the Petrovs. I have my own challenges.”
“So it’s stupid to hope for something more with him.”
Delia pats my hand again. “Tell me about the sex with him.
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