Emerald Malice - A Mafia Romance

NATALIA

"We're crashing your ex's wedding?!"

I don't even know which word of that nightmarish sentence to emphasize. They're all equally horrible.

I rub my wrist-it's burning where I just ripped it from my best friend's death grip. Katya turns to me with a painfully forced smile.

"Oh, come on, Nat! It'll be fun."

"We have very different definitions of what qualifies as 'fun.'" I squint around the glittering foyer of the Ritz nervously. As far as I can tell, no one has yet noticed that we absolutely do not belong here. "I thought you brought me here for your early birthday celebration. 'Drinks at the bar,' she said! 'Just some quality bonding time,' she said! 'No drama whatsoever,' she said!"

Katya grins sheepishly. "Aw, what's life without a little drama?"

I groan as Katya homes in on the bronzed bulletin board that proudly announces the Wedding Reception of Viktor Kuznetsov and Mila Obnizov.

"Kat, seriously... this is not a good idea."

In fact, it might be her worst yet-which is saying something. Katya has spent the vast majority of our friendship outdoing herself in the "bad ideas" department.

I'm a good girl by nature. I follow rules. I cross streets at the crosswalk, pay my taxes on time, and I always, always return my shopping cart to the front of the store.

And yet when Kat dreams up a new devilish scheme, I somehow find myself dragged along. The reluctant Robin to her Batman as she goes after vengeance or laughs or whatever the hell she wants.

Today is the first option. Vengeance.

Katya never forgets an insult. And especially not the insult of being "discarded like a pair of sweaty pantyhose"-her words, not mine-for "an imported Barbie with a botched boob job"- again, nothing I would ever in a million years say myself.

I have no idea if she's ever even seen the woman Viktor dumped her for. If I thought she could be logical about this, I'd say, Why waste your time and energy on a man who clearly didn't give a shit about you in the first place?

But the woman's got tunnel vision when she's wearing her revenge goggles, and they're certainly polished and ready tonight.

If only I'd clocked it a little earlier, I wouldn't be here, standing in a five-star hotel in Midtown Manhattan, in a dress I rented-yes, rented-specifically for the as-it-turns-out completely fabricated pre-birthday celebration Katya insisted was necessary to ring in her twenty-eighth lap around the sun.

"Actually, this is a bad idea." I snap my fingers. "Earth to Kitty: are you hearing me?"

"Mila Obnizov," Katya spits, clearly and pointedly not hearing me. "What a pretentious-ass name!"

"Your last name is Petrova, babes. You both sound like Russian royalty."

She rolls her eyes and tries to grab my arm again. "Come on, if we go up now, we can⁠-"

"We can what?" I hiss, pulling away from her. "Finish that sentence. What the hell do you want to do, Kat?"

"Nothing crazy, okay?" She sounds deceptively, eerily calm. It does not in any way match her constantly roving eyes. "This is purely a hate watch kind of thing."

"Which serves what purpose, exactly?"

"Closure," she says firmly. "I just need some closure, Nat. Is that so bad?"

"Katya..."

"Listen, I just wanna go up there and drink his open bar dry and ruthlessly mock every detail of his wedding, along with the skank he was cheating on me with. I know it's a petty form of revenge, but I'm a petty bitch, and that's not a crime."

"I'm so glad you brought up 'crime'-because isn't Viktor, like, a literal criminal?"

I'm hoping that, if nothing else, self-preservation will get through that thick, revenge-addled skull of hers.

My hope goes unanswered.

"Barely." She flicks her platinum blonde bob. "That was just a lot of talk⁠-"

"From Viktor himself!"

"Exactly." She nods aggressively, eyes huge, probably assuming that I'm not aware of how she's inching us towards the gilded elevators while we argue. "He was just trying to gas himself up to impress me. None of it is actually true."

"First of all, what does it say about you that illegal, shady shit turns you on?" I snap. "And secondly, what if it is true?"

She waves away my argument and presses the button to summon the elevator. "If it is true, are you really gonna leave me up there alone with all those big, bad criminals?"

Goddamn her.

The elevator dings. I stand rooted to the spot. I should stay here and leave her to her fate. As usual, this is her drama. My kind of drama involves True Blood rewatches with a tub of Ben & Jerry's (Cherry Garcia all day, every day).

Leave her to it. This is not your fight. Just turn around and walk a⁠-

As she walks into the elevator and turns to face me, her left eyebrow arches. That's never a good thing. It's the left one that signals she's about to whip out the big guns. "You know, Natalia, if you stopped being so damn afraid of everything, you'd realize that life is an adventure, not just an unrequited love triangle with Ben and Jerry."

Did I also mention that, apart from being a vengeful bitch, Katya can also be a straight-up, in-your-face, bitchy-ass bitch? One who knows exactly which nerves to hit?

Because that's an important detail.

"Oh, screw you." I scowl as I join her in the elevator.

She giggles triumphantly and wraps me up in a hug that I do not return. "I promise, this is gonna be fun."

"For whom? Definitely not for Viktor. Definitely not for Mila. Sure as hell not for me."

She just winks. "You look hot as sin, by the way. Green really is your color."

"You don't have to lay it on so thick. I'm already in the damn elevator."

Ping. Katya steps out on the fifth floor with a confident strut. I follow with a sigh.

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

We emerge into a sweeping ballroom. White-clothed tables range on all sides, a gleaming wooden dance floor in the center. Crystal chandeliers cast gauzy light on the ogre-sized floral arrangements lining the walls. There's no way they spent less than fifty grand on florals alone.

But the obscenely lavish decor is nothing compared to the guests. All of them sparkle like human diamonds in their floor-length ballgowns.

As I try to keep up with Katya, who's apparently become an Olympic track star since our last nearly fatal spin class, I count a who's who of New York Fashion Week's most beloved designers.

Earlier tonight, my rented vintage dress with its flowy midi skirt and a daringly sexy open back-daring for me, at least-made me feel like I was giving Atonement-era Keira Knightley vibes.

Compared to these people, I feel more like Fiona from Shrek. And not the human version.

Oh, Jesus, where's Kat?

I catch a glint of sequins as she whips a sharp right between two hulking men who look more like bodyguards than party guests.

Which, as I think it, is when I realize they are bodyguards.

The serious-looking kind.

The earpiece-wearing, indoors-sunglass-donning, I-can-murder-you-with-one-pinky kind.

"Katya!" I reach out and snag her elbow before she slithers from my reach. "Where the hell are you going?"

"I thought we'd do a little recon," she explains as though we stumbled our way into some sort of bizarre spy movie. "Let's split up and⁠-"

"'Split up'?" I nearly shriek. "Have you seen, like, any horror movie ever?"

She pinches my arm. "Lower your voice! We're trying to go incognito here."

"I've got news for you," I say, dabbing my forehead with the back of my hand. "We're the only ones in here with knockoff dresses and costume jewelry." Instinctively, I clutch the small gold pendant that used to belong to my mother. "We're gonna be noticed."

"Not unless we do something dumb! It's all about confidence. You need to look like you belong."

"First of all, this whole thing is 'something dumb.' And as a matter of fact, I don't belong here. I can't believe I let you rope me into another one of your⁠-"

"We don't have time for another Nat Lecture. Let's split up and compare notes later." Before I have a chance to respond, she gives me a wink and shimmies into the crowd.

"Okay," I mutter under my breath as I try to avoid eye contact and find a spot to hide until this is all over. "This is good. This is fine."

"Ma'am?"

I whip around and find myself looking up at one of the scary bodyguards. This one has a knotted scar across his lower jaw and a nose that looks like it's been broken several times in each direction.

Not good. Not fine at all.

I try to smile, but all I manage is a wince. "Er, yes?"

"Can I see your invitation?"

I take a quick, panicked survey of the rest of the wedding guests. None of them seem to be holding anything apart from bespoke clutches and glasses of champagne. They look perfectly at ease.

I, on the other hand, am sweating like a whore in church-and it's very, very obvious to my new friend here that I do not have an invitation.

Instead of going through the indignity of being caught out as a gatecrasher, I go for what seems to be the most graceful of my limited options.

I run.

Admittedly, not one of my finer moments.

This dress deserved a better night out. Hell, I deserve a better night out. A better best friend, too, now that I'm compiling a list.

For the moment, I'd settle for a better sprint time than the burly security guard on my tail.

Thankfully, I've got an advantage. The security team following me at a brisk pace across the ballroom seem unwilling to break into a full run so as not to ruffle the invited guests. It gives me enough time to slice through the hall and make it to an elevator.

God must finally be done playing mean tricks on me, because for the first time tonight, I get lucky-one set of doors opens just as I arrive.

I plow into the elevators and start smashing the button that will take me down to the ground floor and to freedom. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, you bastard..."

The doors slowly groan closed. Through the gap, I see the security golems rumbling towards me.

"Close faster, goddammit!" I cry out. "You have one job!"

The guards come closer.

The doors keep closing.

The guards come closer.

The doors are almost closed...

I'm on the verge of letting out my pent-up exhale-there's only an inch left before I'm scot-free-when, suddenly, a huge hand shoots through the gap.

I can only gape in horror as the doors reverse course and the owner of the hand steps in.

The good news is that he's not security.

The bad news is that I'm pretty sure he's much, much worse.

"At ease, gentlemen," he says to the onrushing horde of guards, who promptly freeze at attention like toy soldiers. "She's with me."

Then the doors glide closed.

He's tall, dark, brooding-a dreamboat plagiarized from every single fantasy I've ever had. He's wearing a tuxedo, so he's probably a legit wedding guest, but the scowl on his face says he's not enjoying himself any more than I am.

"Going down?" His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Raspy and low like distant thunder.

"Trying to."

"It might help if you pressed the right button." He reaches over and smoothly plucks my wrist to redirect my hand to the adjacent switch. His fingers are surprisingly gentle on my bare skin, though they burn like he's on fire.

"Oh." My cheeks go red like they're on fire. "Yeah. Thanks."

The doors seal smoothly like they were just waiting for this guy to grant them permission.

"You're sweating."

"You're just full of useful observations, aren't you?" I mumble.

I immediately regret it-he's not the reason I'm in this mess to begin with, so he doesn't deserve my misplaced anger and anxiety.

But if he's offended, he shows no sign of it.

"Here." I blink at his outstretched hand. He's offering me a pristine white handkerchief.

"Thanks," I mumble again, face still flaming. I take it and dab the sweat from my forehead.

"Friend of the bride?" he asks as I give it back to him.

"Uh, sure? Something like that." Deflect. For the love of all that is holy, change the subject now! "What, er... what about you?"

The answer comes immediately. "Andrey Kuznetsov. Brother of the groom."

Shiiiiit.

I'm saved from figuring out what the hell to say to that by another, much worse, problem. Because it seems God isn't anywhere close to being done toying with me.

The elevator grinds to a halt.

I gasp, grabbing the rail of the elevator as it lurches to an abrupt, jarring stop. The shock makes me forget I'm not supposed to be making eye contact. I look up and his eyes snap onto mine.

God help us all.

Those eyes are too ethereal to be human. The irises are a light silver, rimmed with charcoal gray. Or maybe they're blue? There's sort of a bluish, predawn hue, like...

But I can't quite decide what to call it before my attention is stolen by the rest of his face. The straight, proud nose. The sharp, hollow cheekbones. The diamond-carved jaw, sporting just the faintest brush of five o'clock shadow.

Each feature is a standalone actor in its own right-but the ensemble... Muah. Chef's kiss.

Someone stole this man directly from my spank bank...

And then trapped me in the elevator with him.

"Oh my God." I fall back on my initial strategy of attacking the foyer button like a manic woodpecker. "Oh my God, what's happening? What's⁠-"

I freeze when his hand comes down on mine for the second time. "Once again, you're missing the target." He redirects me to the emergency bell in the bottom corner.

I push it and it turns red. Then...

Nothing.

"What now?"

"They'll get to it." He couldn't sound less concerned.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering what kind of fee the dress rental place is gonna charge for excessive sweat stains. But even that worry fades away, because I'm starting to get light-headed, too. And this time, it has nothing to do with him.

"When?" I croak. "When will they get to it?"

"Are you alright?"

No! I want to scream. No, I'm not alright at all. My best friend is a lunatic and I should absolutely not be in this place and you are way too good-looking to be real and my throat feels like it's closing up on me and are the lights getting dimmer or is it just me and is it getting hotter and hotter in here or is that just me...?

I stumble back and my ass hits the wall and I scream before I can choke it back. "I-I-I... don't do well in confined spaces," I manage to stammer.

"You're claustrophobic?"

"I do believe that is the technical term, yes." I feel giddy and insane as I fan myself with one hand. "My Lord, it's hot in here. Are you hot?"

I can't tell if he's amused or completely disgusted by me. "You need to stay calm. Breathe."

"The whole thing about being claustrophobic is that you can't breathe when you want to."

The emergency bell button suddenly flashes. There's some static and then a voice comes through, high and reedy. "Apologies for the inconvenience, folks. We're experiencing some technical difficulties. The elevators will be up and running in the next ten to fifteen minutes."

Great. I'm trapped in a steel box hovering several stories above ground with the brother of the groom whose wedding I was forced into crashing.

Somewhere overhead, God is laughing his ass off.

ANDREY

As far as decoys go, she's a damn good one.

Looks-wise, at least. She's a siren with seductive green eyes and dark hair that falls in voluminous waves down the open back of her very sexy, emerald green dress.

Of course, if we're taking into account skills, I'm not sure she meets the standards of Nikolai Rostov's usual go-to for fucking with my operation.

This girl has no skills to speak of.

She's clutching the walls of the elevator, nails digging into the brocaded padding as her chest rises and falls heavily. Either this is all part of the ruse-if in fact she is working for Nikolai-or she's genuinely claustrophobic.

"... ten to fifteen minutes," she mutters on repeat. "Ten to fifteen minutes... Ten to fifteen..."

I clear my throat loudly and she flinches, her eyes snapping to mine.

No, she's no decoy. Say what you want about Nikolai Rostov, but his ploys usually have a little more finesse.

Although, considering the call I received from my number-two, Shura, minutes ago-the whole reason I'm even in this elevator with this skittish little lastochka-I might need to reconsider that opinion.

Blyat', this wedding has been a disaster so far.

"H-how long do you think it's been?" she asks tentatively. The flush on her cheeks has traveled down to her chest.

"Thirty seconds, give or take."

A whoosh of terror escapes through her parted lips. For a moment, it sounds like she's about to hack up a hairball. "Th-thirty seconds..." She turns her back on me and claws the wall padding a little tighter. "Oh, God, I'm not gonna make it."

The silk of her dress hugs her ass to perfection. If I squint, I can just make out the subtle line of her panties pressing through the fabric.

"Counting down the minutes isn't going to help."

"What will help?" she demands. "And don't you dare tell me to stay calm. Don't tell me to breathe, either."

I suppress a smile as she whirls back around. "Pretend we're outside. Somewhere pleasant. A sunny, open-air café, maybe, and we're waiting for the barista to call out our orders."

"Open air," she echoes as her eyelashes flutter wildly. "Um, okay. I'm... I'm waiting for my order..."

"Describe it to me."

"Chocolate frappe with an extra shot of chocolate and whipped cream," she blurts immediately. "And cherries. Lots of cherries."

I grimace. "Jesus."

She smiles self-consciously, revealing a faint dimple in her cheek. "It's my comfort drink, okay? It's what I order any time I'm sad or nervous or freaked out."

"You're missing the point. It's sunny and breezy and nice. You're not freaking out. You're perfectly calm."

"Right. Calm." She gulps and her eyelids stop their frantic fluttering. For the first time since the elevator ground to a halt, she draws in something resembling a full breath. "My aunt had a cherry tree in the back of her house when I was growing up. We had cherry pies on Friday, cherry sundaes on Saturday, and plain ol' cherries on Sundays, 'just the way God intended them.'" She blushes. "That's how my Aunt Annie would say it."

She's clutching the little gold locket around her neck so hard that the chain is embedding itself in the skin of her neck.

Then her eyes blink open and the tension comes roaring back. "Sorry. I'm rambling. We're at the café. It's nice, it's sunny, it tastes like cherries. What did you order?"

"Whiskey. Neat." Devil knows I deserve something strong after this clusterfuck of a day.

"What kind of café is this?" she laughs deliriously.

"My kind."

"Fair enough." She lowers her attention to picking at her fingernails. "How many minutes do you think we have now?"

"Thirteen, give or take."

"Fuck me!"

The moment the words leave her mouth, she goes bright pink. A gentleman would pretend as though she hadn't said anything.

Unfortunately for her, I've never been accused of being a gentleman.

"I'd consider it, but I'm not sure thirteen minutes will be anywhere near enough."

Her jaw drops.

The flush on her cheeks and chest continues to spread. Where would it go if I followed it? I wonder. If I peeled that dress apart and worked my way down the valley of her breasts, and lower, and lower...

Easy there, Andrey. You have a wedding to attend.

Not to mention the situation I was on my way to handle when this fucking elevator decided to hold us hostage.

She seems to be working up the courage to say something. I wait patiently.

"You'll have to find another wedding guest to proposition for sex. I'm not interested."

"I believe you were the one propositioning me," I remind her.

"I wasn't... That wasn't... You misunderstood..." When I chuckle low, her eyebrows pinch together. "Oh. You're teasing me."

"Rude of me, I suppose. Here you are in the throes of a panic attack and I'm screwing with you."

"I can't blame you. I know I make it easy."

I wonder what she means by that. Actually, I'm wondering a lot of things about this little lastochka. Like how someone as guileless as her could have ended up on my brother's wedding list. She could be a friend of Mila's, but I met enough of Mila's simpering friends today to confidently rule that out.

"Remind me: how do you know the bride and groom?"

She pales visibly. She looks as though that's the worst question I could have possibly asked her. Which of course means it's the right one to ask. "Uh... just a friend."

"A friend of Viktor's or Mila's?"

She swallows and shuffles from one stilettoed heel to the other. "Um, both."

"If I didn't know any better, lastochka-" She flinches when the Russian rolls off my tongue. "-I'd say you were lying to me."

She wipes her palms on the sides of her dress. "The thing is⁠-"

Before I can find out what 'the thing' is, a resounding ring emanates from my jacket pocket. I pull out my phone to find my second-in-command's name on the display.

Cursing under my breath, I answer. "What is it, Shura?"

"Just got to the grounds. I'm standing in front of the intruder right now..." There's something hesitant in Shura's voice.

"Well? Is he one of Nikolai's?"

"He isn't talking-but yes, definitely one of Nikolai's."

I have to be careful how I phrase this, considering the second pair of ears in the elevator with me. "You'll have to convince him it's in his best interest to chat with us."

"Uh, right. The thing is-he's a child."

I make Shura repeat it to ensure I'm hearing correctly. I get the same answer the second time around. "How young are we talking?"

"Teenager?" he guesses. "He's about halfway to a mustache, if that paints a helpful picture for you."

This shit makes me sick to my stomach. What the fuck is Nikolai doing, sending in a boy to do a man's job? Then again, he's also the bastard who makes his fortune profiting off the sale of women and children.

Made his fortune that way, rather. Not anymore, though. Not since a few months ago, when I shut down his human trafficking business for good.

Which, incidentally, is what set off this campaign of retaliation against me.

I check the time on my watch. "I won't be able to get away for another couple of hours. Keep an eye on him until I get there."