Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(61)

“Her father wouldn't do that. He wouldn't even hire associates, only made men. Something else happened.”

Gregor slides his eyes toward Leon. Leon pushes his lips out and shrugs, looking down in a way that says that he agrees but doesn't want to argue.

“I'll ask around again. Maybe someone has heard something new,” Leon concedes.

I nod, nudging Roman with my elbow. That is enough of this. We’re not getting anywhere except making Roman look weak, too attached to his woman. They’ll laugh at him like he’s a lovesick puppy.

“Thank you so much for your time, Pakhan,” I say politely. Roman grunts his assent. I guess it's good enough.

Then the men all return to their domino tiles. The meeting is over.

“That was pointless,” Roman growls as we walk away.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't,” I say. “But you have to admit, we’re running out of possibilities here. Her father is still the most obvious —”

“No.”

Fine. I'm not arguing this with him again.

“At least you’ve got work to do now,” I say, referring to the job that Vlad just gave him. That should take his mind off everything, if only for a couple of hours. Getting back on the saddle, as they say.

“There's always work to be done.”

I can't help rolling my eyes, but as we get back to Marie, I'm not entirely sure I like what I see here. Olga has a plate of food and a big glass of vodka and Marie looks slightly tilted to the side, like a ship that's thinking about capsizing.

“What the fuck,” Roman says as he sees it at the same time.

“Well, maybe she can hold her vodka?”

“Obviously.”

“Roman!” Olga hollers as we get close. She flings herself off the bench and throws her arms out, coming toward us at full steam. I suppress a chuckle as I feel Roman cringing beside me.

“This is an excellent time for a walk!” I say to Marie. She puts her eyes up toward me slowly, already bleary and blinking in the bright sun. Oh geez.

“I don't want to walk,” she mumbles.

“Time for a piggyback ride?”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll walk.”

Roman shoots me a look as I tug Marie to standing with one hand under her elbow. We’re already heading toward the music tent by the time Roman manages to extricate himself from Olga’s hug. But when I glance over my shoulder, he's sitting down next to her. Probably distracted by the plate of food. Come to think of it, I should have gotten some too.

“So? How do you like vodka?”

“Shut up, Alek.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. I love the way she is so damn snarky all the time. Little does she know, any other woman in a five mile radius would probably show a bit more respect. They probably know who I am, but this little doll doesn't even have a clue. I love that.

“Let’s dance,” I suggest.

“No way. I'm not dancing.”

I put my mouth close to her ear. I don't do this very often, because being close to her is actually like torture for me. I want to hold back, I really do, but if Roman doesn't start training her very soon, I'm going to do it. And I'm going to do it my way. And at this point, I'm not sure I can be very nice about it.

“You'll do as I say, Marie,” I whisper just loud enough that she can hear me.

She opens her mouth to respond, but then closes it. It's hot out here, too hot to argue. And she's a little bit drunk, I can tell.

So when I get her to the dance floor, she's just a ragdoll in my hands. I try to hold her at a distance that doesn't look too vulgar to the other people. After all, at least a few of them know that she was just married off to Roman a couple weeks ago, and that's all they know. That's all they'll ever know. Her snappy comment to Aunt Millie that I was gay was actually sort of genius, in a way. We can hold up that act forever if we need to — Roman’s gay brother. What do I care if people have opinions? I want what I want. The three of us, whole and complete.

But what I really want to do now is hold this little doll in my arms. Very tightly.

“Feeling all right?”

“What do you care?” she shoots back, but she drops her forehead against my chest. Poor thing. We should probably drink a lot more, just to get her stamina up.

“Oh, malitchka,” I sigh. I drag my nose just along her hairline, inhaling. She smells like sun, and sunblock, and a little bit like sweat. I bet she tastes delicious right now. “Of course I care.”

It's a pop song, like a house music song, so we can bounce up and down without attracting too much attention. There is one of everybody on the dance floor, ages ranging from three to about a hundred seventy. Russians love music. We love to dance.