Page 10 of Stolen Beauty

Went home to get ready. Still have the car.

A second message:

Eat a dick.

At least she plans to show up tonight. She might be willing to humiliate me, but she wouldn’t do that to Vlad. I close my messaging app and see a notification from American Express.

FAO MR A NECHAYEV: Please review your spending and notify the fraud department of any concerns.

I swipe to open my internet banking.

Jesus fucking Christ. Forty thousand dollars on a Christian Dior Atelier dress. Ten thousand on shoes and lingerie. Seven hundred dollars on perfume and candles at Jo Malone. Jewelry from Cartier has me down a quarter million and makeup a relatively modest two thousand. She capped off her spree with a handful of Martinis at Nellos on Madison Avenue and, hilariously, takeout from Wendy’s.

I break into a shit-eating grin. Lilyana spent over three hundred thousand dollars in a matter of hours. She’s a true bratva princess, and I have no doubt she did it to annoy me, but little does she know I’m thrilled. Any decent husband should spoil his wife. She can swipe that Amex until it fucking melts.

I step into the shower, envisioning the lingerie Lilyana might have bought. The thought of her delicate pussy concealed by a whisper of silk makes me hard as a rock, but as much as I want to jerk off, I decide against it. I need some self-control; I can’t succumb to lust every time I think of her.

I have two roles to maintain: one where our relationship appears genuine in public and the other where it’s a sham for Vlad and the family. Faking a marriage shouldn’t be too tricky, but concealing my true feelings is another matter.

Lilyana despises me, yet my body aches to possess hers, and although she won’t truly be mine beyond a name, I’m struggling to give a fuck about that. It’s only a matter of time before I smash down her defenses and taste the sweetness that has me in a chokehold.

I have to get myself in check. Tonight is about portraying a dutiful and devoted man, not one who would tear his heart out and eat it if his woman asked him to. That’s the kind of passion that gets people killed in our world, and Vlad would be first in line to end me if he knew how I truly felt about his cherished little sister.

I dress and down a shot of vodka to sharpen my senses.

Showtime.

8

Lilyana

Imake my way to the terrace, my steps heavy as if dragging lead blocks. Arman will be here by now, waiting for me. How did everything escalate so quickly?

I spent the day running around Manhattan with Heidi, spending Arman’s money. I’m about to attend another party, but this one is in my honor, and there’s nowhere to hide. All eyes will be on Arman and me.

I’ve always felt like an encumbrance, the shame of the Kislevs. Stupid, slow Lilyana. Now I’m getting married, and I can’t embarrass Vlad by losing my composure.

As much as I hate Arman right now, I don’t want to make him look a fool, either. It’s not in my or the bratva’s best interest if our pakhan’s respected right-hand man is humiliated in front of our associates and rivals. I’ll have to fake it until I make it.

The roof terrace of my family’s riverside mansion is as elegantly adorned as the guests. Golden lanterns hang everywhere, and intricate floral arrangements grace the tables. People mill around, socializing while a string quartet plays a classical medley. Vlad spots me and quickly comes to my side, guiding me to a table.

I wish I could retreat to my room. My dress is stunning, and my hair cascades in flawless old Hollywood waves over one shoulder, yet I can’t shake the feeling of inadequacy.

I had hoped that the expensive outfit would make me feel valuable, even if it were just in terms of its price tag. Despite the glitz and glamour, I’m still just me—the youngest, useless Kislev, only suitable as a man’s plaything. My father assured me I’d never be worth even that much, so at least this marriage will prove him wrong. It’s a small comfort when I feel like a child compared to the polished princesses of the mafia and bratva, who exude the confidence that comes from belonging.

Arman wants what I represent, not who I am. He might be eager to bed me—why not, right? But that’s not love. It’s not even close. I’d prefer a sham marriage with a stranger over the friend I once trusted with my life.

Arman gazes out over the river but turns around as we approach. He’s dressed entirely in black, his silk shirt casually loose at the neckline. I glimpse his chest tattoo and drag my eyes to his, keen to avoid giving myself away.

“Dobryy vecher, tsvetok,” he murmurs. “You’re a vision.”

Vlad glances from me to Arman, then gives him a firm shove on the shoulder.

“You don’t need an Academy Award nomination, bratan,” Vlad snaps. “Just smile and play the part.”

Arman nods, but his gaze lingers on me, his eyes tracing my curves through the shimmering molten gold of my gown. With some effort, he tears his focus away and addresses Vlad. “Sure. No need to be a dick about it. I’m doing you a favor here.”

I’m not some consolation prize. How dare Arman talk about me that way?