Banished By His Mafia Heir

3

My father watches me for a few seconds, then places his hands over his face and starts crying. I want to cry as well, but there’s no point.

“I suppose they’ll set up a meeting, or something, where we’ll discuss the details.”

“They already did. We are meeting the pakhan in an hour.”

I look at my father and bury my hands in my hair. “Perfect. I’m just going to the bathroom to puke up my lunch, and I’ll meet you at the front door in five.”

Chapter 2

ROMAN

A girl brings my drink, places it on the table in front of me, and without looking up, turns and runs back toward the kitchen. I look around, noting the drab tablecloths and mismatching chairs. The place is a dump. It closed last month, which is exactly why I picked it for this meeting. A sound of a phone ringing pierces the silence.

“They’re here,” Maxim says from his spot behind me. “She came with her father.”

“Let the girl in. The father is to stay outside.”

I take a sip of whiskey and focus my eyes on the glass door on the other side of the room. There’s a knock and my man standing by the door opens it, letting the girl inside.

For some reason, I expected her to be taller. She is a tiny thing, not much over five feet. Her long midnight-black hair is in two thick braids on either side of her face, and if you overlook her breasts, she could pass as a teenager. She’s even dressed like one—torn black jeans, a black hoodie, and those black boots I’ve seen emo kids wearing.

I close my eyes for a second and shake my head. This will never work. I’m planning to tell Maxim to send her away when her head turns toward me, and the words die on my lips. She has the same features I saw on the video, but her face has lost its childlike appearance with round cheeks. Instead of a cute teenage girl, an unbelievingly beautiful woman stands there, watching me with something that looks very much like anger. Her eyes connect with mine and one perfect black eyebrow arches in question.

“Miss Grey,” I say, and motion toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Please, join us.”

I wait for her to cower, maybe flinch, but she doesn’t seem even a little bit disturbed by the situation. She approaches, keeping her gaze connected with mine all the while. She doesn’t take the chair as instructed but stands right in front of me and looks me over. I focus on her face, waiting to see her reaction when she notices the wheelchair. There isn’t any.

“You are not what I expected, Mr. Petrov,” she says, and I have to give it to her—the girl has balls.

“How so, Miss Grey?”

“I expected you to be eighty.” She purses her lips.

Is she actually that composed and unperturbed, or is this another of her acts, I wonder? If it’s an act, she’s really good.

“I’m thirty-five.” I take a sip from my glass. “Now that we cleared that up, let’s talk business. Your father explained what’s expected of you?”

“He did. And I have some questions.” She takes the end of one of her braids and starts winding it around her finger. Not so relaxed as she’s trying to present herself, after all. “And since we will be calling this a business transaction, I have one condition.”

“A condition? You are in no position to negotiate the terms, Miss Grey, but let’s hear it.”

“You’ll let my father go. This . . . transaction will stay between the two of us. He’s out of the picture.”

“I’ll think about it. Now, let’s hear the questions.”

“Why do you need a fake wife?”

“None of your concern. And the marriage won’t be fake. Next question.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What happens after six months?”

“You’ll get the divorce papers and be on your merry way.”

“How will we go about the wedding thing? Just go and sign the papers?”

I lean back in my chair and regard her. “We need to make some things clear, Miss Grey. I don’t need a wife just on paper. If anyone suspects we’re not crazy in love, and this marriage is a sham, your father is dead. And you’ll be joining him.”

She blinks and looks at me with confusion clearly shown on her face. “You expect us to live together for six months?”

“Of course. How else would people believe the marriage?”

It looks like something finally manages to rattle her, because she just stands there staring at me with wide eyes, saying nothing. I have a feeling there are not many things that can leave Nina Grey speechless.

“There’ll be a party on Saturday,” I continue. “You’ll attend with your father. We’ll meet and become besotted with each other. I’ll take you home with me that evening, and we won’t leave my room for two days.”

“Am I expected to have s*x with you?”

She says it in an even voice as if asking about the weather, but I see it in her eyes—a restrained terror. I’m pretty sure no one else would notice it because she looks so perfectly composed on the outside. But inflicting fear in people is something I do on regular basis, and I see it as clear as day. She’s horrified.

“No,” I say, then decide to try rattling her a little. “Unless you want to, of course.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Petrov, but I will have to decline.” She lets go of her braid and puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

Even though I expected her to say no, for some reason, her reply stings.

“And what will we be doing for two days in your room, Mr. Petrov?”

“As far as anyone else is concerned, we will be having lots and lots of s*x. In reality, you can do whatever you please.” I motion with my hand through the air. “Watch Netflix. Solve crosswords. I don’t care. I’ll be working the whole time anyway.”

“Lovely. And what happens after those two days of marathon s*x?”

“I lose my mind over you. We marry in a few weeks. After that, you’ll play your role of a crazy-in-love wife.” I shrug. “What you do with your free time is up to you, as long as you play your part along the way.”

“And? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you truly think that someone will believe in this . . . charade?”

“Well, that’s up to you, Miss Grey. Your father’s life is at stake.”

“And you? Can you pull off your part?”

“Which part?”

“That of a man who is mindlessly infatuated with his wife. You don’t seem like that kind.”

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see for yourself,” I say and smile. “Do we have a deal, Miss Grey?”

I can almost see the wheels turning in her head—weighing the options, pros and cons—looking for an out. But there isn’t one and we both know it. I catch the exact moment she accepts the situation—just a slight hardening around her jaw as she grinds her teeth.

“We have a deal, Mr. Petrov.”