“What, no one wants a pretty Italian girl? Maybe this will help change your mind.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, takes out a photo, and passes it to Maxim. “Bianca Scardoni, the middle daughter of Italian capo Bruno Scardoni, and up until recently, the prima ballerina of the Chicago Opera Theatre.”
I feel my body go stone-still. Not possible.
“They really want this alliance.” Roman smiles. “The most beautiful woman of the Italian mafia is up for grabs.”
Maxim passes the picture to Kostya, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at Roman. “What’s the catch?”
“Why do you think there would be a catch?”
“The Italians would never give up a capo’s daughter, especially one who looks like that, to the Bratva. No matter how much they want an alliance. There must be something wrong with her.”
“Well, there is one small catch, but I would rather call it a bonus.” Roman smirks.
I take the photo Kostya passes me and look down at it. She’s even more beautiful with her loose hair framing her perfect face, while her light brown eyes are smiling into the camera. Grinding my teeth, I pass the picture to Ivan. Just thinking about one of my comrades getting her makes a wave of rage come over me, and I grab the arms of the chair with all my might so I won’t end up hitting something.
Ivan looks at the image, his eyebrows raised, then nudges Dimitri with his elbow and passes him the photo.
“She doesn’t look . . . extremely Italian.” Dimitri nods at the photo in his hands “I thought all Italian girls had dark hair. Was she adopted?”
“Nope. Maternal grandmother was Norwegian,” Roman throws in.
Sergei is next, but he just passes the photo to Pavel without even looking at it.
“Fuck me, she’s hot.” Pavel whistles and shakes his head. “Do you have another photo? Preferably with fewer clothes.”
Focusing on the wall across from me, I squeeze the chair even harder, trying to control the urge to get up and punch Pavel in the face or do something worse, like claim her for myself. Pavel keeps looking at the photo, and for a moment, I imagine him placing his hands on her and my control disintegrates in a fraction of a second.
“I’ll take her,” I say.
The absolute silence fills the room as all eyes focus on me, surprise and disbelief visible on every face. I turn to Roman who regards me with his eyebrows raised.
“An interesting development,” he says. “I was planning to give her to Kostya if no one volunteered. He’s closest to her age.”
“Well, he’s not getting her.”
“You still haven’t heard the catch, Mikhail. You may change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Well.” Roman shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. “That’s settled then.”
The dinner passes in silence, which is unusual. Instead of business talk and a laugh here and there, tonight, everyone seems preoccupied with their meal, but I notice the guys throwing looks in my direction from time to time. They probably wonder what has gotten into me to claim the Italian girl for myself, but I don’t care what they think. She’s mine, no matter what.
After the meal is over, Roman gives me a nod, and I follow him down the long corridor into his office. He sits down on the recliner in the corner while I remain standing and lean on the wall behind me.
“She is twenty-one. You are too old for her, Mikhail.”
“Ten years is not much. You are eleven years older than your wife.”
“I have an extremely youthful personality,” he says and smiles.
“Sure.”
“Eloquent as ever.” He shakes his head. “She’s barely an adult. What will you do when she starts pestering you about going out every night? What if she wants to go partying, and you have to tell her you need to work? You will have to take her to watch teen movies every week. Even Nina loves that crap. I can ask her to send you some recommendations, you know.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass.”
Roman sighs and leans back. “Girls her age want a man who will speak more than five sentences a day, Mikhail. They expect kisses, cuddling. Did you think about that?”
“We will work it out.”
Silence. He’s just watching me with his head tilted to the side, and I know exactly what he’s pondering.
“She’s not one of your regular fucks. How do you expect a twenty-one-year-old girl to deal with your . . . issues?”
“She won’t have to. I’ll deal with my issues myself.”