Emerald Malice - A Mafia Romance

NATALIA

“We’re crashing your ex’s wedding?!”

I don’t even know which word of that nightmarish sentence to emphasize. They’re all equally horrible.

I rub my wrist—it’s burning where I just ripped it from my best friend’s death grip. Katya turns to me with a painfully forced smile.

“Oh, come on, Nat! It’ll be fun.”

“We have very different definitions of what qualifies as ‘fun.’” I squint around the glittering foyer of the Ritz nervously. As far as I can tell, no one has yet noticed that we absolutely do not belong here. “I thought you brought me here for your early birthday celebration. ‘Drinks at the bar,’ she said! ‘Just some quality bonding time,’ she said! ‘No drama whatsoever,’ she said!”

Katya grins sheepishly. “Aw, what’s life without a little drama?”

I groan as Katya homes in on the bronzed bulletin board that proudly announces the Wedding Reception of Viktor Kuznetsov and Mila Obnizov.

“Kat, seriously… this is not a good idea.”

In fact, it might be her worst yet—which is saying something. Katya has spent the vast majority of our friendship outdoing herself in the “bad ideas” department.

I’m a good girl by nature. I follow rules. I cross streets at the crosswalk, pay my taxes on time, and I always, always return my shopping cart to the front of the store.

And yet when Kat dreams up a new devilish scheme, I somehow find myself dragged along. The reluctant Robin to her Batman as she goes after vengeance or laughs or whatever the hell she wants.

Today is the first option. Vengeance.

Katya never forgets an insult. And especially not the insult of being “discarded like a pair of sweaty pantyhose”—her words, not mine—for “an imported Barbie with a botched boob job”— again, nothing I would ever in a million years say myself.

I have no idea if she’s ever even seen the woman Viktor dumped her for. If I thought she could be logical about this, I’d say, Why waste your time and energy on a man who clearly didn’t give a shit about you in the first place?

But the woman’s got tunnel vision when she’s wearing her revenge goggles, and they’re certainly polished and ready tonight.

If only I’d clocked it a little earlier, I wouldn’t be here, standing in a five-star hotel in Midtown Manhattan, in a dress I rented—yes, rented—specifically for the as-it-turns-out completely fabricated pre-birthday celebration Katya insisted was necessary to ring in her twenty-eighth lap around the sun.

“Actually, this is a bad idea.” I snap my fingers. “Earth to Kitty: are you hearing me?”

“Mila Obnizov,” Katya spits, clearly and pointedly not hearing me. “What a pretentious-ass name!”

“Your last name is Petrova, babes. You both sound like Russian royalty.”

She rolls her eyes and tries to grab my arm again. “Come on, if we go up now, we can⁠—”

“We can what?” I hiss, pulling away from her. “Finish that sentence. What the hell do you want to do, Kat?”

“Nothing crazy, okay?” She sounds deceptively, eerily calm. It does not in any way match her constantly roving eyes. “This is purely a hate watch kind of thing.”

“Which serves what purpose, exactly?”

“Closure,” she says firmly. “I just need some closure, Nat. Is that so bad?”

“Katya…”

“Listen, I just wanna go up there and drink his open bar dry and ruthlessly mock every detail of his wedding, along with the skank he was cheating on me with. I know it’s a petty form of revenge, but I’m a petty bitch, and that’s not a crime.”

“I’m so glad you brought up ‘crime’—because isn’t Viktor, like, a literal criminal?”

I’m hoping that, if nothing else, self-preservation will get through that thick, revenge-addled skull of hers.

My hope goes unanswered.

“Barely.” She flicks her platinum blonde bob. “That was just a lot of talk⁠—”

“From Viktor himself!”

“Exactly.” She nods aggressively, eyes huge, probably assuming that I’m not aware of how she’s inching us towards the gilded elevators while we argue. “He was just trying to gas himself up to impress me. None of it is actually true.”

“First of all, what does it say about you that illegal, shady shit turns you on?” I snap. “And secondly, what if it is true?”

She waves away my argument and presses the button to summon the elevator. “If it is true, are you really gonna leave me up there alone with all those big, bad criminals?”

Goddamn her.

The elevator dings. I stand rooted to the spot. I should stay here and leave her to her fate. As usual, this is her drama. My kind of drama involves True Blood rewatches with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s (Cherry Garcia all day, every day).

Leave her to it. This is not your fight. Just turn around and walk a⁠—

As she walks into the elevator and turns to face me, her left eyebrow arches. That’s never a good thing. It’s the left one that signals she’s about to whip out the big guns. “You know, Natalia, if you stopped being so damn afraid of everything, you’d realize that life is an adventure, not just an unrequited love triangle with Ben and Jerry.”

Did I also mention that, apart from being a vengeful bitch, Katya can also be a straight-up, in-your-face, bitchy-ass bitch? One who knows exactly which nerves to hit?

Because that’s an important detail.

“Oh, screw you.” I scowl as I join her in the elevator.

She giggles triumphantly and wraps me up in a hug that I do not return. “I promise, this is gonna be fun.”

“For whom? Definitely not for Viktor. Definitely not for Mila. Sure as hell not for me.”

She just winks. “You look hot as sin, by the way. Green really is your color.”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick. I’m already in the damn elevator.”

Ping. Katya steps out on the fifth floor with a confident strut. I follow with a sigh.

Once more into the breach, dear friends.

We emerge into a sweeping ballroom. White-clothed tables range on all sides, a gleaming wooden dance floor in the center. Crystal chandeliers cast gauzy light on the ogre-sized floral arrangements lining the walls. There’s no way they spent less than fifty grand on florals alone.

But the obscenely lavish decor is nothing compared to the guests. All of them sparkle like human diamonds in their floor-length ballgowns.

As I try to keep up with Katya, who’s apparently become an Olympic track star since our last nearly fatal spin class, I count a who’s who of New York Fashion Week’s most beloved designers.

Earlier tonight, my rented vintage dress with its flowy midi skirt and a daringly sexy open back—daring for me, at least—made me feel like I was giving Atonement-era Keira Knightley vibes.

Compared to these people, I feel more like Fiona from Shrek. And not the human version.

Oh, Jesus, where’s Kat?

I catch a glint of sequins as she whips a sharp right between two hulking men who look more like bodyguards than party guests.

Which, as I think it, is when I realize they are bodyguards.

The serious-looking kind.

The earpiece-wearing, indoors-sunglass-donning, I-can-murder-you-with-one-pinky kind.

“Katya!” I reach out and snag her elbow before she slithers from my reach. “Where the hell are you going?”

“I thought we’d do a little recon,” she explains as though we stumbled our way into some sort of bizarre spy movie. “Let’s split up and⁠—”

“‘Split up’?” I nearly shriek. “Have you seen, like, any horror movie ever?”

She pinches my arm. “Lower your voice! We’re trying to go incognito here.”

“I’ve got news for you,” I say, dabbing my forehead with the back of my hand. “We’re the only ones in here with knockoff dresses and costume jewelry.” Instinctively, I clutch the small gold pendant that used to belong to my mother. “We’re gonna be noticed.”

“Not unless we do something dumb! It’s all about confidence. You need to look like you belong.”

“First of all, this whole thing is ‘something dumb.’ And as a matter of fact, I don’t belong here. I can’t believe I let you rope me into another one of your⁠—”

“We don’t have time for another Nat Lecture. Let’s split up and compare notes later.” Before I have a chance to respond, she gives me a wink and shimmies into the crowd.

“Okay,” I mutter under my breath as I try to avoid eye contact and find a spot to hide until this is all over. “This is good. This is fine.”

“Ma’am?”

I whip around and find myself looking up at one of the scary bodyguards. This one has a knotted scar across his lower jaw and a nose that looks like it’s been broken several times in each direction.

Not good. Not fine at all.

I try to smile, but all I manage is a wince. “Er, yes?”