Page 2 of Daddy's Reluctant Queen

We get to the double doors leading into the ballroom and he stops, turning to me. He straightens his jacket and lifts his chin. “I look good, right?”

“You’re as pretty as a picture, little brother.”

He smiles. It’s only a half smile, but it makes his face glow. “Thanks.”

We walk into the ballroom. The minute Adam opens the door and I walk through, the smell of the party greets me first. Wine and perfume mixed with cologne and the faint, hearty scent of food being served to the guests. When we were kids, we were strictly forbidden from being in this room unless invited. Thatdoesn’t mean that Adam and I didn’t sneak in here as much as possible when we were young.

It always looks regal in here. The gold wallpaper, textured with little diamond shapes in the center, and the smooth, black marble floors with risers on the far side of the room, where bands and DJs usually play. A large crystal chandelier hangs above us, right at the center of the room, and fills the space with a warm amber glow.

Tonight, Papa has tables that surround the section of floor where people are dancing to the big band music playing coming from the musicians on the risers. The tables all have linen cloths and beautiful floral centerpieces. Waiters walk around carrying trays of wine and food for the guests.

It’s lovely. Just the kind of pomp and circumstance that my father enjoys. And he should have it all. It is his birthday.

I spot him on the other side of the room, surrounded by some of his men. They’re laughing and talking, drinks in their hands and my father puffing a cigar. He’s sixty years old today, but he doesn’t look much older than a man in his fifties. Not to me, anyway. His face isn’t very wrinkled and his dark, shiny hair is still free from any gray, and his blue eyes shine like diamonds with every laugh.

It’s a good night. And as we walk in, heads turn and the din of conversation drops to a rumble. The son and daughter of the Pakhan are here… and they look stunning.

“Told you the dress was too much,” Adam mutters to me as we walk across the room.

“How do you know they’re not talking about those three lonely hairs on your chest?”

“They can see less of my chest than yours,” he shoots back. “Come on. Let’s have a drink before we find our seats for dinner.”

The bar is on the other side of the room near the door leading to the kitchen. Adam orders two glasses of Merlot for us and as we wait for our drinks, he gazes over at our father. The conversation he was having was coming to an end and now he’s making his way over to his table.

“We should have shown up after dinner,” he says. “Maybe gotten something to eat beforehand.”

The bartender hands us our drinks. I notice he purposely looks at the glasses instead of at me, trying to avoid being perceived as staring, no doubt. To my brother, I say, “You have a real problem with this whole idea of being the next Pakhan, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer me. He just drinks his wine.

“It’s a great honor, you know. I’d kill to be in your shoes.”

“Hopefully, it’ll never come to that,” he says smartly.

I follow his gaze and see that our father has found his table. He pauses to kiss my aunt on the cheek before he sits down next to her. That table has our aunts and their husbands sitting there. No doubt, on purpose. I glance over at the table next to his and see the top brigadiers of the Bratva. They’re all talking among themselves. A few of them steal glances our way.

I’m sure some of them would kill to sit at Papa’s table. I know they’ve noticed that two of the chairs are empty. Seats reserved for Adam and me. I wonder if they’re plotting on convincing my father to give one of them up.

Adam sighs and says, “I’m going to make the rounds, then we can go over there. Want to come with?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “You know where to find me.”

He nods, then starts his walk around the room. I sit down at the bar and watch him, nursing my glass of wine. One of these days, he’s going to have enough nerve to run this whole place. I’ve got faith in him.

“Excuse me?”

I glance over to my right. A man with long, silvery hair and a well trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard is drinking a glass of what looks like whiskey or scotch. He smiles at me, and I get a flutter in my chest.

He’s older, maybe close to my father’s age… but he’s easily the most handsome man in the room. He sits up and turns to me, and I note the tattoos around his collar. The one at the center of his neck looks like a spider, but the others…

He’s Bratva. But nobody I’ve ever met. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to say that you are the most beautiful woman in this room right now.” Hazel-gold eyes drift down to my cleavage. He shamelessly leans to the side to get a better look at the rest of my body. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” I say. “I believe I’d know it if we had.”

“Mmm. One would think so.” He nods and as his eyes meet mine, I have the distinct feeling of being caressed with rough hands at the small of my back. Whoisthis man?