Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“God, you’re hot.” She fans herself. “I feel so special.”
“Not more than I do.” I reach out and stroke the back of her hand, and her smile widens. “Did I mention that you look stunning tonight?”
“Yeah, a few times, but I don’t mind if you keep repeating it. Gotta look my best on nights like these.” She motions at the food. “Now, let’s see if this tastes as good as it looks.”
Finally, we dig in. Or she does, commenting on the level of spices, how well it’s cooked, and whether or not the ingredients are high quality and fresh.
If it’s not obvious, her dream is to become a food critic—and eat at the most high-end restaurants while at it.
Her family is well off enough, but her father’s business has been struggling for the last few years, and to my knowledge, he might have to close down his New York office and relocate to Seattle.
I know it’s been weighing heavily on her, especially since she was used to an extravagant lifestyle that’s now being cut off. So I pay for her wardrobe as well as fancy dinners and expensive shows.
And I love providing for her. I don’t really spend a lot of money personally, but funding Danika’s lifestyle gives me a sense of accomplishment.
Dad’s always said I have to take care of the woman I love. Put her ahead of everyone and everything. Always go the extra mile for her.
And I love Danika. I’ve loved her since the day we got together four years ago when she told me we’d make a great couple.
We do.
She’s stunning, with long legs and huge brown eyes. Her thick dark hair falls in waves to the small of her back, and tonight, she’s wearing a shimmering gold dress that complements her sun-kissed skin beautifully.
We picked it out together last week in preparation for this dinner—or more like, she picked and I paid. Not sure why she keeps asking for my opinion about clothes when everything she wears looks fine to me. But then again, I don’t really care for picking clothes for other people.
She was ecstatic when we left the boutique with the dress, and I’m happy to see her de-stressing a bit, considering everything with her father’s business. I believe tonight is perfect for getting her mind off things.
“Gosh, this is amazing.” She takes a sip of her mocktail, releasing a long sigh of contentment. “The food’s ending too soon.”
“Eat however much you want. I’ll order more.”
“No, no, I’m not sacrificing my flat tummy, even if the food is amazing. Thanks, though. For everything.” She reaches out and holds my hand. “I mean it, hon. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t by my side.”
“I’ll always be by your side.” I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it, inhaling the floral notes from her skin.
I mean it.
Danika is the perfect person to be my wife. She’s smart, beautiful, and handles crises pretty well, which is a must in our world. Sure, she’s not as savvy as my mom, but many people aren’t. Danika is pretty involved in our world, though. Her dad has ties to the Bratva, and she grew up knowing he dealt in money laundering for the mafia.
I’ve asked Dad if we could invest in his business or offer a bailout of sorts, and he said he’ll look into it. Being my father-in-law comes with certain perks.
And he will be my father-in-law.
Danika and I will get married after we graduate from college. We might be too young, but we’ve been together for years, and she’s my perfect match.
My only match.
We’ve even talked about children. Danika wants at least two, and I’m fine with that, not because I’m thinking of kids at this age, but because I want to be a responsible, protective, and fun-loving dad, just like my parents are to me.
My friends, specifically Killian and Nikolai, say I was born with an old man’s brain, but they never lived under the weight of expectations and responsibility like I have.
They don’t understand.
No one does.
I’m about to drop Danika’s hand when loud laughter catches my attention.
Familiar laughter with an edge of huskiness that I can pick out amongst a crowd.
My body stiffens, my skin breaking into a sweat, as if this is a full-on lethal attack, but my eyes are scanning the entrance.
My throat closes.
Donatelli, the owner of the restaurant, stands by the front door, welcoming his guests for opening night.
No way.
I must be imagining things.
And yet as Donatelli shakes the laughing maniac’s hand, asking his staff to take the basket full of wrapped goods and the bottle of alcohol that one of the guards is holding, I feel the earth swaying beneath my feet.
Yulian Yaroslavich Dimitriev.
What the hell is Yulian doing here?
This is neither his territory nor the place he should be.