~08~

Carmela's pov~

I wore the dress his mother would approve of. Not because I care what she thinks, but because I like playing a game I know I'll win. Classy neckline. Slim fit. Black. Always black.

We take his car—of course we do. Black-on-black, windows tinted so deep I could be naked beside him and no one would know. Not that I am. Not that he'd mind.

He drives like he does everything—controlled, sharp, quiet. The kind of quiet that waits for an explosion.

I don't ask where they live. I already know. I've done my research. Petrov senior is ex-Spetsnaz, rebranded as a wine importer. His wife is old money, old manners, old-world cold. They've got one other son, Luka. Younger. Trouble.

I'm not nervous. I don't get nervous.

But my nails dig half-moons into my palm anyway.

"You planning to rip your hand open before we get there?" he says without looking at me.

"Wouldn't want to bleed on your seats," I mutter.

He glances sideways. His mouth twitches—almost a smirk. "How thoughtful."

Silence again. He doesn't hold my hand. I don't expect him to.

The house is as dramatic as the man—tall iron gates, gravel drive, shadows between columns. A castle for people who forgot what it means to be humble.

When we step out, I feel their eyes already. Curtains shifting. Lights moving.

He touches the small of my back as we walk to the door. Not affection. Possession. A warning.

The door opens before we knock.

His mother is porcelain in human form. Blonde, thin, tailored within an inch of her life. Her smile is exact. No more, no less.

"You must be Carmela."

Her accent is faint—European, maybe—but her judgment is sharp as glass.

"I must be," I say, matching her smile. "It's lovely to finally meet you."

Liar. I don't mean a word of it. But it sounds sweet on my tongue.

His father is behind her—broad, scarred, colder than winter. He doesn't offer a hug. Just a nod, like I've passed an invisible test by not trembling.

We step inside. The place smells like dark wood and money. The kind of money that's never clean, no matter how many times it's laundered.

Then comes the brother.

Luka Petrov is everything I expected and a little worse. Lean, cocky, dangerous with a grin that's too familiar.

"Carmela," he says, dragging out the syllables like he wants to taste them. "You're prettier than I thought. Which is annoying."

"Why's that?" I ask, one brow raised.

"Because now I have to like you."

I don't smile, but he grins anyway. Behind me, his brother stiffens. I like that more than I should.

Dinner is formal. Quiet at first. His mother serves things I can't pronounce and watches the way I hold my fork like I might embarrass her by chewing wrong. I don't. I've been trained for this since birth.

"Your father is quite the businessman," she says, slicing into her lamb.

"So I've heard."

She waits for more. I give her nothing.

His father watches me like he's trying to decide if I'm a threat or an asset. Maybe both. I meet his gaze head-on. I know that look—I've seen it in my own house. Power measuring power.

It's Luka who breaks the tension. "So when's the wedding, or are you two just going to keep pretending you don't want to kill each other?"

I sip my wine, slowly. "Wouldn't be the first time someone got married just to finish the war."

That gets a laugh out of the table. Even his mother's mouth twitches. And beside me, my fiancé finally relaxes, just a little.

After dessert, his mother walks me to the hallway alone. Her heels echo against the marble.

"You're clever," she says. "And dangerous."

"I've been called worse."

She stops, turns to face me. "He won't be easy."

"I'm not here for easy."

Her eyes sharpen. "No. I suppose not."

Outside, in the car, it's quiet again. He lights a cigarette, doesn't offer me one. I wouldn't take it if he did.

"Well?" he asks.

"They're exactly what I expected," I say, crossing my legs slowly. "And your mother already hates me."

"She doesn't hate you."

"Give her time."

He glances at me. "You handled them."

I shrug. "I've dealt with worse."

He looks away, exhales smoke through the open window. "You keep surprising me."

"Good," I murmur, eyes fixed ahead. "I intend to."

He doesn't say anything else. But his hand slides across the seat between us, resting close—close enough to touch. Not touching.

A warning. An invitation. Maybe both.

I don't take it.

Not yet.

**** 

A/N

😏. At this point its not even a slowburn tbh 

i just wanna speed things upp! but i hope u like ts chapter.