Mafia Boss’s Arranged Bride by Bella King
Chapter 14
Nikolai
My suit looks better than Michail’s. He’s always worn whatever our father dons, opting for a suit that’s both too wide and too short for him. He looks like a fool, but then again, it pairs well with his idiotic nature.
There’s no way that he could demand respect from Annika. She must see through his pitiful attempts at bravado like glass.
I push a .45 into the buttery leather holster that swings high on my ribcage, snapping a single silver button over it to lock it in place. I have more guns, but I doubt I’ll need the bullets. This one holds 15, and I figure that’s more than enough for a wedding where everyone else is armed as well.
Michail is in the same room as me, slicking back what little hair he has on his thinning scalp with some sort of pungent coconut oil. He must know how foul it is to be walking around with a head full of oil, stinking up the entire venue.
My hatred for him has grown. Every day that passes, he seems more off, more willing to say and do things that make me feel he’s losing his mind. Everyone in the family is like that, but he’s the worst of them.
And he’s jealous of me. I can tell. I’ve had more meaningful conversations with his fiancée than he has, even if it was only for a few brief minutes, and that can’t feel good. Our father wants him to be the shining example of everything that’s good about our mafia family, but I see him more as a tool than anything.
He wants more, and it’s leaking from his pores like the sweat that runs down his collar as he prepares to walk down the isle to Annika and unify our families.
“Nikolai, how about you stop glaring at me and help me tie my shoes,” Michail says, snapping me out of my vengeful internal monologue.
I raise an eyebrow, surprised at the audacity of his request. I’m not a servant, nor have I ever indicated a willingness to help him, especially not with such a mundane and simple task as tying his shoes.
“Tie them yourself,” I say, fishing into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes and finding none. I must have left them at the house.
“I can’t tie them because if I bend over, I’ll untuck my shirt. The tailor made it too short,” Michail whines.
I laugh, turning away and walking out of the room. He can soak in the rancid pool of distress on his own. I’m already finished getting ready, and I’m impatient to get this over with. My father has business for me to do once it’s all over, and I’m eager to get back into running drugs and stacking more cash than is ever possible to launder.
The hallway is littered with people getting ready for the wedding. Unable to find private rooms in the crowded venue, they’re scrambling to change into ironed clothes and glossy shoes while maintaining decency.
That’s difficult when you’re taking your pants off in front of strangers, but I applaud the effort. It’s more than I went through. I stripped to my underwear in the parking lot, drawing eyes from men and women alike until I was fully suited and ready to attend a wedding I care very little about.
If I had known Michail already had a changing room, I might have waited, but then again, I can’t stand to be in his presence for more than a few minutes. The conversation he makes is drab, and I already know enough about him to never want to see his expressionless face in front of me again.
We grew up together, but familiarity breeds hatred just as often as it does comfort. Thankfully, this wedding should be the last I see of him for a while. I’m eager to get back to business and start busting heads and making more money. I’ll need it if I’m ever to separate myself from this family completely.
The air is cold and stiff as I break back out into the parking lot, moving quickly toward my car to fetch my cigarettes and get one final moment of peace before I’m expected to socialize. I know half the people there, sure, but that doesn’t mean I want anything to do with them. They’re pompous at best, and they’ll talk you to death if you let them, weaving intricate stories of grandiose events that may or may not have happened at all.
Who’s to say?
My walk slows significantly when I catch sight of my father, still lounging in the parking lot as though he wasn’t even interested in the marriage at all. That makes two of us, I suppose. I still don’t want to speak to him, but he waves me over when he sees me.
“Forgetting something?” he asks, fishing into his front pocket and retrieving an opened pack of cigarettes.
I frown. “Did you take those from my car?” I ask.
“You shouldn’t be smoking these fucking things, anyway,” he says, pulling one out and popping it into his mouth before handing them off to me. It’s odd that he would smoke them, considering he heavily favors cigars. Perhaps he’s out, or maybe he just wanted an excuse to go through my car.
I place the dry paper of a tightly rolled Russian cigarette between my lips and light it before asking any questions. With the amount of bullshit I get from my father, I need something to take the edge off before I go probing into his true intentions. Something is up.
“Michail needs help getting ready. He can’t even tie his own shoes,” I say, the cigarette dancing in my mouth as I speak.
My father shakes his head, the lit end of his cigarette glowing brighter as a gust of wind threatens to tear it from his dry lips. It’s going to rain soon.
“Michail can take care of himself. I’m more concerned about you acting up,” he says.
“Is that why you went through my car?” I ask.
He raises a thick greying eyebrow, pulling the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash off like he would if it was a cigar. “Listen here, Nikolai. I’m not going to tell you twice to keep out of trouble. I don’t want you getting in the way of things when they go down, you hear?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, confused by his wording. I’m already staying out of Michail’s way. That’s why I’m out here and not in there laughing at him because he can’t even bend over to tie his own damn shoes.
“It means shut up and do as you’re told,” he says, flicking his cigarette onto the pavement. The wind quickly rolls it to the curb.
I still don’t understand, but I’m not looking to get into another fight with my father. I already floored him before, nearly killing him in a fit of violent rage. I’d do it again if it meant the end of this godawful mafia family, but I know it won’t solve anything. I’d have to kill Michail too, and he’s my brother. I hate him, but not enough o slay him in cold blood.
“Stay out of my car,” I mutter as my father steps away.
“Go fuck yourself,” he replies, walking off toward the venue.
