Page 22 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
I follow suit, letting the alcohol do its work. Around us, the club pulses with manufactured energy. The music is so loud thinking becomes difficult. People dancing, touching, losing themselves in the kind of temporary oblivion I’ve never understood.
“You need to get laid,” Oleg says, loudly enough that I’m certain the neighboring tables hear him.
“I don’t need relationship advice from you.”
“Who said anything about a relationship? I’m talking about basic human needs. When’s the last time you even looked at a woman?”
“This afternoon. My secretary.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Marina is sixty and would cut your balls off if you tried anything.” Oleg gestures expansively toward the main floor. “I’m talking about women. Plural. Options. You’re forty, not dead.”
“I’m aware of my age.”
“Are you? You act like a monk who took a vow of celibacy.”
Felix snorts. “He’s not wrong.”
I glare at both of them. “My personal life is none of your concern.”
“Your personal life is nonexistent,” Oleg counters. “Which makes it absolutely my concern as your favorite cousin.”
“You’re not my favorite anything.”
“Ouch.” He doesn’t look remotely hurt. “Still. When’s the last time you went home with someone? Or let someone go homewith you? Or even had a conversation that lasted longer than closing a deal?”
“Leave it alone, Oleg.”
“Why? You clearly need—”
“I saidleave it.”
The edge in my voice finally penetrates his alcohol-fueled enthusiasm. He raises both hands in surrender.
“Fine. Fine. For the record, you’re miserable.”
“Noted.”
Felix settles beside me, scanning the crowd with the same analytical focus he brings to everything. “Relax. For once in your life, just relax.”
I try. Take the drink Oleg hands me, let the alcohol burn smooth down my throat, watch people dance and flirt and pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist.
It doesn’t work.
My mind is already elsewhere—reviewing the timeline for the Battery Park acquisition, calculating how much pressure to apply to the holdout tenants, considering which official needs reminding of their obligations. Work is simpler than this. Work has rules, clear outcomes, measurable success.
This—people moving without purpose, touching without meaning, talking without saying anything—makes no sense to me.
Then I see her.
The woman is across the club, near the main bar. Dark hair instead of chestnut, but the same length, the same way it falls across her shoulders. She’s laughing at something her companion said, head tilted back, and the gesture is so familiar my chest tightens.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
“Dimitri?” Felix’s voice, questioning.
