Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(42)
For my part, I find his beet-scented relatives to be alarming in their own right. Some have strange accents that mix Russian and southern US into an interesting combination. Some sound southern, and some sound Russian. None sound exactly like Roman though. I cut my eyes toward him sideways during a gap in the line.
“Why don’t you sound like that?” I ask him.
“Why don’t I sound like what?” he answers gruffly, releasing a chubby 12-year-old toward the dessert table.
“You don't sound Russian. You don't have an accent or anything.”
He shrugs. “What am I supposed to sound like, some cartoon character?”
“You’re supposed to sound like an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie, I think.”
Roman scowls and purses his lips in disgust. “He's Austrian.”
Uncle John T takes me and kisses me full on the mouth, releasing me with a large smacking sound and exclaiming, “Excellent! Excellent!” while I try not to cringe in revulsion.
He throws his arms open wide to embrace Roman but Roman snatches one hand out of the air and shakes it firmly instead.
“Austrian? You’re sure?” I continue, amazed.
“You must think I was raised in a cave or something,” he grumbles. I flinch, wondering how he picked up on that. “I sound like this because I went to school Pennsylvania.”
“So, your supposed language barrier… That’s just when it’s convenient, right? Did you learn that at Penn State too?”
“Philadelphia, actually.”
“You don't sound like a Philly boy either.”
He sighs for a long time. Here he is, only about a hundred-fifty hugs in and he's already exhausted. Poor guy.
“I've been a lot of places. Nowhere long enough to pick up an accent, I guess.”
“Well it’s just sort of weird, okay? You look like a gangster but you sound like a newscaster.”
He makes a sound. I look up at him in alarm, but that I see his lips are stretched wide over his teeth. That's laughter? He's laughing? That is probably the weirdest sound I've ever heard.
“Newscaster,” he repeats, nodding. “That's a good one, Marie. I like that.”
His arm is up around my shoulder and before I know what's happening, he's pulled me toward him and dropped a kiss onto my forehead. I flinch in surprise.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Don't pull away from me,” he says in a warning tone.
“You just… You are full of surprises, is all.”
I want to explain further, but a half-dozen cousins from my mother's side are here, all squealing at once like a bunch of schoolgirls. They want to know when the bachelorette party was and how they missed it. They want to know who Roman is and how I met him. They want to know all sorts of things, and I can't say a damn word.
But just to be a jerk, I gesture toward my new husband and send them his way. He glares at me in dismay as six gibbering Italian girls descend on him all at once. I laugh quietly to myself at the look of horror on his face.
“You’re such a beautiful bride,” comes a soft, oily sound in my ear. I wince and take a half step back as Stosh strokes the sides of his mouth thoughtfully.
“Um, thank you, Stosh. Er, Mr. Menkov,” I correct myself.
“You can call me Stosh now, my dear! We’re family, after all.”
He smiles, but there's something about that expression that doesn't travel all the way to those dead wolf eyes. They remain as icy as buttons. Marbles.
“Well, thank you, Stosh,” I respond politely.
He nods and slides closer to me again. Too close. So close that I can see the lines on his stained teeth as his tongue traces the ridge of his bottom lip.
“Yes, family,” he breathes. “I want you to think of me as family, Marie. As close to you as your own husband…”
My mouth drops open in surprise and I step backward, coming up against a brick wall and stopping short. Roman’s arm circles my shoulder and he holds me steady. Stosh’s eyes leave mine and snap up toward Roman. Maybe it's my imagination, but Stosh seems to shrink a little bit where he stands.
“I was just congratulating your new wife here, Roman,” Stosh says evenly.
I see Roman nodding slowly out of the corner of my eye. Despite myself, I'm glad for his strong arms around me, glad for someone else to stand against Stosh’s creepy advances.
“Well… I wish you every happiness,” Stosh mumbles as he edges away. Roman holds me until Stosh is overcome by that group of my cousins who giggle and roll their eyes at the big blond Russian among them.
“Thank you,” I mutter, staring up at Roman. I want to be happy, to be satisfied. I want so much for this day to be a joyous one. Can I stare at his scarred and strange face for the rest of my life? Can I really?