Married to the Mafia Boss I Slept With (Champagne Venom)

PAIGE

I'm officially divorced, broke, and homeless.

I suppose I could go sleep in my storage unit if I was willing to get rid of some of my stuff. The few possessions I decided to take with me are now stuffed in that overpriced black hole. I'm not even sure it was worth it to keep them, but the thought of leaving everything I own behind was unbearable.

I've lost too much already.

But sleeping in a storage unit is even more depressing than my current situation. So instead, I sit on this park bench, my butt and fingers going numb with cold, as night slowly falls around me. I'm staring at the pizzeria across the street. The Crimson Orchid, it's called, according to the sign looming above the red awning. The smell of freshly baked mozzarella wafts over to me like a tease. My stomach growls in response.

But after the extortion at the storage facility, I've got sixty dollars left to my name, and I'm not about to spend a third of that money on a pizza. No matter how tantalizing it smells.

Honestly, it's probably not even that good. I've learned a lot about things that are too good to be true in the last few days. When your marriage turns out to be a sham and your husband turns out to be a crook, you really stop taking things at face value.

I cringe as I feel myself spiraling again. It's easy to get lost in the circuit of nasty thoughts that has held me captive since I came home to find out that Anthony was gone, along with all my money, my job, and my trust in men.

Thoughts like, This is your fault.

Thoughts like, You should have seen this coming.

Thoughts like, You deserve every single bit of what's happening to you.

I also keep replaying the words of the mortgage officer who came to evict me from my house. My mama always told me that a woman oughta keep a 'Break in Case of Emergency' fund. It don't matter how charming a man may seem-you gotta look out for you.

That lesson came a little too late to be useful, unfortunately. This is an emergency alright-a red alert, five-chili-pepper, all-hands-on-deck emergency. But there's not much I can do to save myself. I've got no fund, and the only true friend I ever had is dead.

I touch the pendant I wear around my neck at all times. I wish you were here, Clara, I murmur. I wish it wasn't my fault that you're gone.

Shaking my head, I refocus my attention on the meager list of positives I've got going for me.

One, I found a new job today. Crazy enough, the salary is actually fairly decent for a personal assistant.

Two, I managed to find a new apartment not too far from the office building, though the lease doesn't start for another three days.

Three is... well, no, there isn't really a three. I'm still out a husband and a home and all my hope for the future.

A bubble of frantic, insane laughter escapes my chapped lips. It draws a few concerned stares from passersby. Great, I'm that chick now-the crazy lady sitting on a park bench, cackling to herself like a witch.

I sigh and fall silent. It's easier to think about nothing than it is to think about what I'm gonna do next. The past is a no-go, the future is a disaster-in-waiting, and the present just straight up sucks. So meditating on the all-consuming blackness of the void is actually pretty nice in comparison.

But my stomach won't be so easily distracted.

Once it gets dark, I find myself walking in a trance towards the restaurant. I tell myself along the way that buying a pizza isn't the worst idea in the world. There're eight slices to a pie, so if I eat two and two-thirds pieces every day for the next three days, I can live off that one pizza until I get my apartment.

Brilliant. Fiscally responsible, too.

Therefore, let there be pizza.

The restaurant is mostly empty when I walk inside. I can hear the hubbub of activity in the kitchen, but the only other person in the main dining area is a pale, reedy maître d' with a thin mustache.

He regards me with a sneer that makes me feel like I'm two inches tall. "Can I help you, madam?"

I swear he's doing a faint, arrogant French accent, although that might just be my hunger playing tricks on me. "I'd like a... a pizza, please. I mean, a table. So I can order a pizza."

That's what normal people do, right? They sit at tables to order food?

Jesus H., I'm a couple days into homelessness and already forgetting how the world operates.

He sweeps his watery eyes up and down me. I'm dressed normally-again, not to belabor the point, but it's only been two days into this nightmare-and yet I feel like he can see the invisible grime plastered all over me. Broke. Homeless. Desperate.

I shake my head. I need to focus on the goal here: pizza.

"Very well. This way, ma'am," he drawls. He tucks a menu under his arm and stalks away with a stiff neck and his chin thrust high into the air like a shark fin.

Every other table is empty, but he still seats me at the worst one, an unstable two-top right by the kitchen doors. He thrusts the menu into my hands. "I will be back to take your order shortly." Then he turns and walks away.

He's a douche, but I forget about him the moment I'm gone. I'm too busy drooling from the first line I read.

Herb-infused dough fired to perfection over open flame in our handmade brick oven. Strands of silky mozzarella draped over a ripe, decadently rich marinara sauce, still simmering with the charcoal smoke of the fires. Sundried tomatoes and fresh goat cheese form a smooth, tangy blend that accentuates the umami sizzle of our house-prepared pepperoni, and a mist of truffle oil adds layers of sumptuousness to delight the palate.

Great God Almighty, I'm hungry.

I flick my eyes up and see the maître d' watching me salivate. I feel guilty, like he's catching me looking at porn in public, but I can't help how literally turned-on I get at the thought of a pizza and a glass of cabernet.

Safe to say I've had better days.

I read the menu front to back twice, then close it with a sigh. My stomach is screaming at me and my hands are shaking.

The maître d' marches back over. "Well?" he says haughtily.

"I'll take a... pepperoni pizza," I whisper. "Please."

He nods crisply and disappears through the swinging kitchen doors. I stroke the spine of the menu like it'll let me taste some of the dishes I can't allow myself to order. Pollo e funghi and sorrentina and Prince Edward Island mussels and focaccia bread drizzled in rosemary olive oil...

I shake my head and sigh again. I'm doing that a lot lately, like some melodramatic damsel in distress.

I'm in distress, yes, but I'm no damsel. I can't afford to be.

This world is way too cruel to women who wait for men to save them.

A few minutes later, the kitchen doors burst back open and my new best friend stalks through. Again, I'm pretty sure this is just a hallucination, a cruel trick of my calorie-starved brain, but I could swear the light of heaven is shining down on the pizza he's bearing in his hand and a chorus of holy angels is oohing and ahhing at his every step.

He drops it in front of me with a not-particularly-subtle sneer, but I couldn't care less-matter of fact, I could plop a juicy kiss right on his thin, peeling lips; that's how grateful I am.

Before he's made it two steps away, I'm already two bites deep. Marinara smears on my cheek where the third bite misses my mouth a bit, but the taste of hot mozzarella hitting my tongue is like an orgasm for my taste buds.

I moan-literally, not figuratively. It's loud enough for the maître d', who's resumed his vantage point at the front of the restaurant, to turn and give me a nasty glare.

I just smile back with a mouthful of cheese.

The fourth bite is as good as the first three, and the fifth is even better than that. My whole body unclenches as I go to town like a starving racoon.

It's only when I'm on the verge of picking up the plate to lick up the crumbs that I remember my whole "spread it out over three days" plan. As soon as I do, I'm hit with a wave of nauseous guilt that's almost as bad as the hunger was.

Fuck.

Okay, Paige, I counsel myself, just breathe. This is all fine. It's gonna all be fine. You have a full belly now-well, sort of-so you can think clearly, and you'll solve this. You made it through losing Clara, and you loved her, so you can definitely make it through losing Anthony, because he was a piece of shit and you're better off without him.

Weirdly enough, that little pep talk actually does the job. All credit goes to the pizza-cheese really does work miracles.

But then the maître d' drops the bill on my table, and my world flips upside down again.

I read the number on the bottom of the check half a dozen times. But it doesn't change. Sixty-one dollars...

"Is this a joke?" I gasp out loud.

He freezes halfway across the room, pivots robotically like a Nutcracker doll, and marches back over to me. "No part of this is a 'joke,' ma'am," he spits. He says "ma'am" the way you'd say "mutt" to a dog that just bit your child. I shiver at the casual, dismissive cruelty.

"Sixty-one dollars for a pizza has to be a joke," I insist. "Was there gold leaf in the crust or something?"

"Is that an actual question?"

"No," I retort, "it's an outrage."

The man's face quickly sours. "I'm afraid I have no control over the menu, ma'am. Or the pricing. You'll need to pay for what you consumed."

"Are you sure you don't want to just cut out my kidneys instead?" I snap.

"Ma'am-"

"I really, really need you to not call me that."

"Listen, miss-"

"No!"

I jump up, knocking my chair over backwards. The front door chimes just then as a couple walks in off the street, bundled up against the cold, but beautiful and beautifully matched together. They both gawk at me with jaws wide open.

I know how I must look to them: crazy. Unhinged. My hair is a mess and my eyes are still red from all the crying I've done over the last two days, and I'm yelling at this stupid, condescending server for something that is maybe partially but not really his fault.

This is rock bottom, I think. Turns out it smells like pizza. Who knew?

"I'm not paying sixty-one dollars for a pizza," I insist, my voice catching and wobbling dangerously.

"You will pay," the man snarls. He reaches for me, that pale, grasping claw of a hand looming closer and closer like something out of a nightmare.

I swat it away and stumble backwards. There's a hall behind me that leads to the bathrooms and, at the very end of it, a black door marked EXIT. I trip my way there, feeling frantic and desperate. The walls are closing in around me.

The maître d' follows. His face is twisted into an enraged mask. "Listen here, you stupid bitch, you are not running out on my-"

"Francesco."

My head snaps to the side. I hadn't even noticed there was another door in the hallway. But there is, and it's open, and there's a man standing on the threshold. He's huge, tall enough to almost brush the ceiling, and broad enough to take up the whole of the entryway. The intensity of his pale gray eyes takes me by surprise. I find myself leaning away from him on pure instinct.

Something about him terrifies me.

"Mr. Orlov," the maître d' balks, his demeanor changing immediately to contrite and submissive. "I'm sorry about this, sir. This woman is trying to-"

The man holds up a hand. Francesco-how fitting; a stupid name for a stupid guy-clams up instantly.

Then the man looks at me. He doesn't blink, and I can't help but stare back. Those eyes are shockingly silver. Full moon on a cold night kind of silver. "What is your name?"

I swallow, suddenly afraid for reasons I don't think I could ever possibly explain. "Paige," I croak.

He's undeniably gorgeous-roguish five o'clock shadow, dazzlingly white teeth, a devil-may-care je ne sais quoi that radiates from him like if "getting into trouble" were a cologne.

But beneath that is a darkness I can't touch or name. That's what scares me.

Silver Eyes nods like he expected exactly that. "Are you still hungry, Paige?"

I hesitate. I'm considering not saying anything, but then the undeniably loud rumble of my still-famished stomach betrays me.

The corner of Silver Eyes's mouth twitches at the noise. I'm pretty sure it's the closest he'll ever get to a smile.

"I thought so," he murmurs. Without looking away, he tells Francesco, "Put what Ms. Paige ate on my tab. She and I will also take a pollo e funghi and a sorrentina. You can bring both items to my table."

"Y-yes, sir," Francesco stammers. He bows, then scurries away.

I almost miss him when he's gone. He's a rat bastard, but I'd rather take my chances with him than with this handsome, terrifying man who gives orders like he's a god and looks at me like I'm butt-naked on my knees in front of him.

No, scratch that-he looks at me like he can see straight through to my soul. To every bad thing I've ever done. He looks at me like he knows me.

"Come with me, Paige," he commands quietly, in a tone of voice that says it's not really a question. "I want to hear your story."

I gulp as he brushes past me. Correction to my earlier statement: rock bottom does not smell like pizza.

Rock bottom smells like him.

MISHA

A FEW HOURS EARLIER

"Misha."

My sister's hand lands softly on my arm. When my eyes flicker down, she removes it immediately. "Sorry," she mumbles. "You were off in your head somewhere."

She's not wrong. I was remembering things that are probably better off forgotten. Shaking the memories away, I notice she has her little black clutch white-knuckled in her fist. "Leaving so soon?" I ask.

She nods and points her chin towards where our mother stands near the cathedral's pulpit. Agnessa Orlov is wearing a black mourner's dress, her petite frame stooped with grief. But for ninety minutes, she's been shaking hands and accepting condolences from every crime lord in the city. Not once has her smile faltered.

"I can't believe Otets ever found fault with her," Nikita murmurs. "She's flawless."

"Otets could find fault with anything."

Nikita turns her back on the crowd and faces me with an arched eyebrow. The thick layer of makeup under her eyes is an obvious attempt to hide that she's spent the last few days crying. She starts to say, "I know I shouldn't ask-"

"Then don't."

Her lips harden with determination. "For fuck's sake, Misha-as much as you might wish it, we aren't robots. We're allowed to have human emotions. Especially today. So just tell me, honestly: how are you holding up?"

"I just told you not to ask."

She shakes her head in disappointment. "That happened fast."

"What did?"

"Your transition to don."

I grit my teeth. "Don't start, Niki. It's too soon for you to resent me for doing what I have to do."

She squints at me for a few seconds, assessing. "But that is what you are now, isn't it? Father is dead and Maksim is dead, so you're in charge. You're the big bad wolf now. All hail."

I don't know why I'm surprised at her bitterness. We all developed our own coping mechanisms over the last three days. Ways to deal with the grief we hold so close.

Mama got quiet. I retreated inward.

Nikita picks fights.

I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. "Go home, Nikita. Go home and wipe all that makeup off. You aren't fooling anyone."

Her eyes narrow. That's the thing about siblings: you know each other's secrets, even when they haven't been shared. Maksim knew all of mine. And even as we lowered my brother into the ground less than an hour ago, I couldn't help but think, Who's going to keep my secrets now?

"You should come home, too," she fires back. "Mama wants to have a family meal. None of this bullshit pageantry, this 'showing the strong face of the Orlov Bratva so the city knows we're still here.' It'll be just us."

"You know I can't."

"Misha-"

"As you correctly pointed out, I am the don now," I say coldly. "I have business to attend to."

"On the day of your brother's funeral?"

"Maksim and I discussed this possibility years ago," I answer, marveling at how easily my tone hardens into frozen iron. "He would want me to follow the protocol he set in place. So that is what I'm doing."

My sister's eyes are gray, like mine. But they're more turbulent. More erratic. Like the sky before a thunderstorm. "Fuck protocol! What do you want to do?"

"I want to do what is expected of me."

She looks away from me, disgust and disappointment rolling off of her like heat waves. "The Orlov men and their godforsaken rules," she grumbles. "Don't you wish you could just throw that rulebook out the window?"

Yes, I scream in my head.

"No," I say out loud.

Nikita just grimaces at the answer she knew she should've expected. For a moment, we stew together in the tense, painful silence.

"I've decided that Cyrille and Ilya should move in with Mother," I tell my sister abruptly.

She doesn't even bother to look surprised. "Oh, how wonderful. Excellent idea. It'll be good for Ilya to be closer to his grandmother, especially now that he's lost his father and his uncle."

"Don't!" I snarl at her viciously, losing my composure for a moment.

Nikita beams at my uncharacteristic outburst. "Ah-ha! So you are still in there somewhere."

"What do you want? You want me to get drunk and angry?" I demand. "You want me to blubber like a baby? Will you be satisfied if I fall apart, Nikita?"

Her triumphant grin sours. "What would have satisfied me is if my nine-year-old nephew had been allowed to cry at his own father's funeral," she hisses. "But he wasn't allowed to, because of the fucking rules-"

"Tears can be interpreted as weakness."

"He's nine, for God's sake!"

"No, he's a target," I remind her. "We cannot appear weak. Even here, even now, we are being watched. Maksim didn't drop dead of a heart attack, Niki-he was murdered. As we speak, Petyr Ivanov is probably plotting new ways to chip away at our family."

She exhales. I can feel our shared grief in that sigh. "You're right. Fuck, I hate it when you're right." Straightening herself up, she fixes her hair and puts her mafia princess face back on. "Very well. I will do my part."

She places her hand on my arm again, not caring how much I hate the intimacy. It doesn't last long. Just one fleeting millisecond of contact before she pulls back and walks to where our mother is now standing with Ilya.

I look around and spot Ilya's mother-Cyrille, my brother's widow-in the entrance hall.

The mourners around her disappear like mist meeting the sun when they see me coming. Cyrille gives me a shaky smile that betrays just how much today is stealing from her. "Hi, Misha."

"The car is here to take you home."

"To take me-" She shakes her head, realizing that can't be right. "Nessa's home, you mean."

I nod. "In time, it will start to feel like yours."

Her blue eyes are clear, but her nose is uncharacteristically red. "My home was with your brother. Now that he's gone, I don't have one anymore. So your mother's house is as good as any, I guess."

"I will take care of you, Cyrille. You and Ilya are family."

It's the most assurance I can give her, pitiful as it is. She takes no comfort in it. With a bleak nod, she walks down the steps toward the armored black sedan waiting in front of the building.

A second later, Mama appears at my side. "It's funny," she observes as she looks me up and down. "I never thought I'd see you in this position. But now that we're here, you look like you were made for it."

I frown. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

She almost smiles. Almost, but not quite. "I don't expect you to come home right away. But after the council meeting, after things are settled... do try."

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. All I want right now is a strong drink and my bachelor pad in the city.

But as of eleven hours ago, I no longer have a bachelor pad in the city. What I have is what I inherited.

An eleven-bedroom mansion.