Empire of Sin (Empire #2) by Rina Kent

I take a sip of my drink and revel in the burn of the vodka. “Maybe. I’m bored because you guys decided it was a good idea to track me, so forgive me if I choose to enjoy your misery a little.”

“Your father is up there, too.”

“He’ll be fine. If anything happens, everyone will take the bullet for him, starting with Kirill.”

I can hear the grinding of Aleksander’s teeth, but before he can say anything, Damien waltzes in, carrying a glass of vodka and making a show of drinking it with leisurely calm.

“If it isn’t my future wife.” he speaks in an unusually cheerful tone. “And the pretty boy Sasha. And here I thought you were Kirill’s shadow.”

“He decided not to watch when he actually gets shot.” I mean it as a joke, but Aleksander goes rigid, then storms in the direction of the stairs without a word.

“What’s up with that crazy motherfucker?” Damien watches him for a while before he dismisses him and focuses on me. “Were you a naughty girl or a good girl with him?”

“I don’t see why that should concern you.”

A manic smirk lifts his lips. “Hmm…and here I thought you were a docile lamb, my Nastyusha. See, I prefer the fight, the running and clawing, it makes the chasing and breaking process thrilling.”

I swallow, my heart jackhammering in my throat, but I refuse to show it. I refuse to show that he scares the shit out of me, that whenever I see his face, it’s not his handsome looks that greet me, it’s a devil in disguise.

So I inhale for a few more seconds. “Shouldn’t you be with them? This whole fight is about you.”

“Nah. It’s not a real fight, so I’m not interested. Sergei started this mess and he can sort it out himself.”

“I thought you wanted to marry the Japanese girl,” I try in a softer tone.

“Nope, Rai and that fucker Kirill arranged it for some diplomatic Yakuza-Bratva shit. I couldn’t care less.”

“Won’t she be sad that you’re breaking off the engagement?”

“Why the fuck would she? We haven’t even met.”

Damn it.

I foolishly hoped there would be some form of attachment between them, that I could get in touch with her and come up with a plan to break off this engagement, but if they’re strangers, I have no hope there.

What was I thinking, anyway? This brute is not the type to get attached to anyone or anything.

“Besides, I’m allergic to anyone who doesn’t drink vodka.” He grins, clinking his glass against mine. “At least you do.”

“I don’t love you, Damien,” I murmur slowly. “I don’t want to marry you.”

“Love?” He appears genuinely perplexed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“What Rai and Kyle have.” I motion at them, then at Adrian’s wife, who’s talking with her husband’s guard, but her attention is firmly on where he disappeared to with Papa and the others. “What Adrian and Lia have.”

“You mean marriage.”

“No. Love and marriage are different. Love is when you can’t breathe when the other isn’t there. It’s when living becomes a chore, and waking up every day is an accomplishment. It’s when you can’t stop thinking about them and need them close so you can finally exist.”

“Sounds like a fucking hindrance.”

“It’s not. Damien…please…I want to be with the man I love.”

“Fine.”

I pause, my lips parting. “R-really?”

“I told you, Nastyusha, you have time to ruin this marriage before it happens.”

“But if you tell Papa you don’t want to marry me…”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to get on the Pakhan’s bad side for this. It’s your mess. Clean it up yourself.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“Not particularly. I keep saying that I’m not husband material, but everyone refuses to believe me, so if I have to go through with this, it’ll be with the Pakhan’s blessings. And also…”

He trails off, his gaze getting lost, and for a second, a fraction even, I see a spark in his usually dead eyes. It’s a fire so hot that it nearly burns me, and it’s not even directed at me.

I follow his field of vision and catch a glimpse of a petite Asian girl who’s probably my age or younger.

She’s wearing a simple black dress and heels that match her hair and eyes and contrast against her pale skin. Two Asian men in suits stand on either side of her as she carries a plate of pastries.

The moment her gaze meets Damien’s, she freezes, as if the fire in his eyes could burn her from this distance.

Then she places the plate on the table, turns around, and leaves with a feather-like grace. The men follow after her, clicking their earpieces.

Are they from the Chinese triads? Or maybe the Yakuza?

I don’t get a chance to think about it further, because Damien pushes his glass of vodka into my free hand. The fire that ignited in his eyes a moment ago is now pitch-black and seems darker than I’ve ever seen.

Even more than when he kills people.

“Hold this for me,” he says in a calm yet charged tone, then he strides in the direction where the Asian girl just disappeared to.