Mafia King’s Bride: A Dark Bratva Arranged Marriage Romance
Mafia King’s Bride: Chapter 18

“Have I ever told you that I like this new you?” Yelena’s voice drips with amusement as she lounges on the sofa in the corner of my office. Her legs are crossed, a playful pout on her lips. “Everyone says it’s impossible to change a man set in his ways, but Ana’s a magician.”

I stare at the bouquet sitting on my desk, my eyes narrowing. “How?”

Yelena uncrosses her legs, strolling over to my desk with her usual air of confidence. She pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, her gaze fixed on the flowers. “Did you pick these out yourself?” she asks, her tone teasing.

“I didn’t,” I reply bluntly. “I had Jakob take care of it.”

Her eyes flicker with amusement, and I can sense she’s about to crack a joke. I scowl, my patience already running thin. “What’s your point, Yelena?”

She gives me a shrug, but there’s a glint of mischief in her expression that makes my jaw tighten. Finally, she relents with a smirk. “It’s nothing, really. Just… I’ve never seen you buy flowers for anyone. Not even me.” She lifts the bouquet slightly. “And you got her red and white carnations.”

I frown, not seeing the point. “And?”

Yelena raises an eyebrow. “You do know red carnations symbolize deep love and admiration, right?”

My lips part in surprise. “Deep love?” I scoff, more irritated than amused by her little revelation. “I didn’t choose them. You’re the one who insisted I send her flowers in the first place. What are you trying to get at?”

She bursts into laughter, doubling over at the look on my face. My temper flares, the sharp edge of annoyance cutting through me.

“There’s nothing funny about this,” I snap.

“I’m not laughing at you,” she gasps, still struggling to contain her giggles. “It’s just . . . the irony. You, stone-cold Dmitri Orlov, sending flowers that scream love to your wife. It’s poetic.”

I glare at her, but the image of Ana from last night creeps into my mind uninvited. The way she looked at me, her eyes soft, like she was waiting for me to make a move. A move I didn’t—couldn’t—make.

“Should I have done something?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Yelena perks up. “What was that?”

I shake my head, dismissing the thought. “Nothing,” I mutter, annoyed with myself for even thinking it.

The truth is, Ana lingers in my mind far more than I’m willing to admit. There’s something about her, pulling at me in ways I don’t want to acknowledge. But acting on those feelings would only lead to my downfall.

“Yelena?” I turn to her, my voice clipped.

“Yup?”

“Get rid of these,” I say, nodding to the flowers. “Get some roses. They’re more common.”

Yelena clicks her tongue, exasperated. “So, you’ve changed your mind?”

“It wasn’t my idea in the first place,” I respond flatly.

She stands, picking up the bouquet with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll give these to Ana and tell her they’re from me. Don’t worry, brother, I won’t let you send the wrong message.”

“Good.” The word comes out more curt than I intended, but her comment leaves a sour taste in my mouth. There’s a part of me that hates the idea of passing off the gesture as someone else’s. But I bury that feeling down deep. Feelings are a weakness, and I’ve had enough of those for one lifetime.

Minutes after Yelena leaves, Alexey, Igor, Bianchi, and the rest of the men filter into the conference room. The usual suspects. I take my seat, the weight of my role settling back onto my shoulders as the door closes behind us.

“I saw your sister as she was leaving,” Bianchi says, a grin tugging at his lips. “She’s all grown up now. Last time I saw her, she was still wearing braces. Is there a man in her life?”

“If you’ve got designs on Yelena, you’d be smart to drop them,” I reply coldly. “For your own good.”

Bianchi chuckles, but there’s an edge to it. “You’re saying she’s not available?”

“I’m saying she’d make you regret it. And it wouldn’t be personal,” I add, letting my gaze sweep the room. “But you’d regret it all the same.”

Yelena didn’t crawl out of an abusive relationship just to be tied down to another man. She’s stronger than that, and anyone stupid enough to try will find themselves on the wrong side of her wrath.

Bianchi leans back, shaking his head. “Dmitri isn’t like the rest of us. We buy our wives whatever they want, and while they’re busy unwrapping presents, we find ourselves mistresses. But we pretend they don’t know about it. Like you, Pavlov,” he says, nodding toward Igor. “Freya already knows about your new girl.”

Igor’s jaw drops, caught off guard. Idiot. He’s so careless, it’s almost embarrassing.

“What makes you different, Dmitri?” Alexey chimes in, his voice sly, his beady eyes watching me too closely. “You didn’t marry Anastasia because you love her. We all know the real reason. So, what is it? Is she that good in the sack?”

Something in me snaps. Before he can finish the sentence, I’m across the room, my fist clutching the front of his shirt. I shove him back into his chair with a force that sends the air rushing out of his lungs.

My voice is ice. “You will never speak of Ana like that again. Understand me?”

Alexey’s face pales as my fingers tighten around his collar. He sputters, struggling to breathe under my grip.

“I will cut out your tongue and make sure you choke on it if you ever disrespect her again,” I growl, my tone deadly serious.

I release him, watching as he gasps for air, his hand clutching his throat. The room is dead silent, every eye on me.

I turn, my voice calm once more as I head back to my seat. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s get on with the meeting.”

At eight o’clock sharp, I toss my bag into the backseat of the car, the weight of the day pressing against my shoulders. It’s a typical New York evening—traffic clogging every inch of the FDR, slowing me down as I navigate through the endless sea of brake lights. I grip the steering wheel harder than usual, my mind circling back to Ana.

I asked Yelena to give her the flowers. Red and white carnations.

Love and admiration.

My chest tightens as I pull into the driveway. I could have chosen roses, something simple, but no—I had to be difficult. I’d chosen carnations, flowers that meant something, and I don’t even know if Ana is the type to care about that kind of thing.

What’s worse, I’d allowed Yelena to lie and say the flowers were from her.

The door swings open, and I step into the quiet foyer, the scent of freshly popped popcorn drifting from the living room. My feet slow as my mind replays last night, the dinner, the tension, and the words I didn’t say.

I sent them because you’re my wife.

I could’ve come up with something else, anything to break through that wall between us, but that was what came out. Cold. Dismissive. Like everything I’ve done with her since this sham of a marriage began.

Yelena is sprawled across the couch, engrossed in a wrestling match, popcorn in hand.

“I think I’ll move out next week,” she says casually, as if we were discussing the weather. She throws another handful of popcorn into her mouth, barely glancing in my direction.

I stop mid-stride and shrug. “Okay.”

Yelena’s always unpredictable, so I don’t question it. She could be serious, or she could be toying with me—either way, I don’t bite.

Before I can head upstairs, she pipes up again. “If you didn’t see Anastasia’s car, it’s because it broke down at work today. She came home pissed off, didn’t want to eat, and went to bed early.” She lifts the popcorn bowl as if offering me a solution. “I made my special popcorn for her, but she didn’t have an appetite.”

That catches my attention. I turn to face her fully, brows furrowing.

“And you think I had something to do with that?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended.

Yelena leans back on the couch, looking at me like she’s amused by how clueless I am. “I don’t know, Dmitri, did you send her a message? Or did you screw it up in some other way I’m not aware of yet?”

“No,” I grunt. “I didn’t. I told you, I didn’t want to mislead her.” But now I’m regretting every part of that decision. “You said she was upset. Was it just the car?”

Yelena sighs, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s what she called about, but no, I don’t think that’s why she’s mad. She was home by seven, went straight to her room without a word.”

Something shifts in my gut, a familiar knot of dread. The last time Ana came home early, she didn’t eat dinner either. That was the day Lucia approached her.

I rub my chin, piecing it together. “You don’t think⁠—”

Yelena pops another kernel of popcorn in her mouth, watching me like she’s waiting for the obvious to sink in. “You did something, Dmitri. You’re just too blind to see it.”

“What exactly did I do wrong?” I snap, the frustration boiling up. “I didn’t even talk to her today.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she says simply, standing up and brushing crumbs off her lap. “You don’t talk to her. You think she’s going to stick around forever, waiting for you to get your shit together?”

I scowl at her, but her words hit too close to home. I don’t like it. Yelena smirks, strolling past me with her bowl. “Don’t worry, big brother. You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Left standing there in the quiet hallway, I replay Yelena’s parting words over and over, trying to make sense of them.

Why is Ana avoiding me?

It’s not like I’ve given her a reason to stick around. But still…

I head upstairs, the tension building in my chest as I stop in front of Ana’s door. There’s a faint light peeking from under the door, but the house is quiet. I consider knocking, but something holds me back.

What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if I’ve already done too much damage? My hand hovers over the door for a long moment before I let it fall to my side. Maybe I should have done something last night. Maybe I shouldn’t have let her walk away.

I shake my head, jaw clenching.

I’ll figure it out.