The only variable that changed compared to previous dinners was Astrid’s agent, Grace. A middle-aged blonde woman with a fake laugh and ridiculous consumption of wine.
Astrid said they had a bit of a misunderstanding because she wanted Bran to sign with her, but he chose the agent Landon introduced him to.
I remember how happy he sounded when he talked about that over text. He was basically buzzing at how his brother recognized his talent and introduced him to his agent.
According to Astrid, that agent has nowhere near Grace’s talent, but she respects Bran’s decision even though she doesn’t understand it.
After dinner, I help Bran carry the dishes to the kitchen. He turns to leave, but I grab his wrist, stopping him by the counter.
He looks up at me, appearing exhausted, probably because of staying up late and trying to wake up early. This morning, I insisted we stay in bed and not go for a run at an ungodly hour. He’s done that a few times at the penthouse, and I had thought it would help him feel more relaxed today, but it’s only made him more agitated.
It doesn’t show in his movements or his expression, but his eyes tell a different story.
Seeing the emptiness in them is no different than having a knife plunged deep into my gut.
I stroke the back of his hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were uncomfortable in there, baby. If you don’t like the woman because of the pressure or whatever, just refuse to have dinner with her anymore. I’m sure your parents will understand.”
“She’s Mom’s agent and practically family at this point.”
“Family doesn’t get a free pass for everything. I don’t visit with members of my family who piss me off. Namely, my homophobe uncle who told me it’s okay to fuck guys as long as I marry a woman and give him Russian nephews.”
His expression softens and some of that emptiness cracks and vanishes with each of his deep breaths. “I’m sorry.”
“What did I say about apologizing for no reason?”
“There’s a reason. I hate that you feel judged.”
“I couldn’t care less about him and his useless, entirely meaningless opinion. As Dad says, he can go fuck himself.”
“God. I love how you give the world the middle finger without caring about anything or anyone.”
“If that’s what they deserve, that’s exactly what they’ll get.”
“Did you…” he trails off. “Forget it.”
“If you have something to ask me, just ask.”
His hands land on my hips, his face appearing a bit fragile, vulnerable, even. “Have you thought about your future within the mafia? What your uncle said makes sense and it’s not like you aren’t attracted to women, so you could do it for the image—”
“Don’t finish that or I’ll be pissed at you. Do you think I’d get married or do shit just for the mafia’s sake or an image? Is that what you really think of me?”
His throat works up and down with a gulp. “No, but don’t you need to have kids?”
“I don’t if I don’t want to. It’s my decision and none of anyone else’s business.”
“But wouldn’t being with a guy hurt your position? I know how much you love the thrill of that life, so I’d hate to see you lose it.”
“I won’t. Jeremy, Vaughn, and I will rule over that empire. The two of them are the most important heirs to the Bratva and they don’t give a fuck about my sexuality, so neither will anyone who wants to keep his head in place.”
“Vaughn?”
“The Pakhan’s son. You might have seen him at the initiation. He wore the white mask.”
“Oh, right. But I’ve never seen him around.”
“And you never will—at least, not on the island. He lives in the States and just comes around for the initiations.” I cup his jaw. “Point is, don’t worry your pretty head about my position. I’ll fight tooth and nail for what I want. Is that understood?”
He nods.
I cock my head in the direction of the dining room. “You going to do what you want and ignore the hag?”
“After Mum’s exhibition. And, Nikolai?”
“Hmm?”
“Promise me you won’t talk to Grace.”
“Why not?”
His palms tremble as he wraps them around my cheeks. The agitation in his voice sends my hackles rising in a fraction of a second. “Promise me. Please.”