When He Takes: A Dark Mafia Romance (Fallen God Book 2)
When He Takes: Chapter 20

“Andrey Arkadiev’s wife had no idea how to use the fish knife, so she went in and took the bones out with her fingers. She saw how shocked I was and asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t believe it. I had to say something though, so I went, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen someone eat it like that before.’ You should have seen how red she turned!”

The women around the table cackle, and I eye the formal setting in front of me with unease. Four knives, five forks, two spoons. Vita went over table manners in one of our lessons, but the topic didn’t seem all that important at the time.

Now, I wish I’d done a better job committing every word she said to memory.

I squint at the smallest fork. Nope. No idea what that’s for.

If Ekaterina is hunting for more stories of social faux pas to add to her repertoire, I’m sure I’ll give her plenty of material to laugh about before this dinner is over.

Maksim’s wife sits across from me, enveloped in a cloud of pink chiffon that matches the champagne-hued wallpaper of this gilded, extravagant private dining room tucked away in the back of a one-star Michelin restaurant.

I feel woefully underdressed in the silk wrap dress I chose for the occasion.

There are four other women around our table. They all said hello to me when I first arrived and have been largely ignoring me since. Based on their accents, all of them are Russian, and I’d bet all of them have husbands in the Bratva.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this dinner, but so far, it’s been uneventful. Kind of boring, to be honest. They’ve been gossiping about people in their circles for the past fifteen minutes and laughing at jokes with punch lines I don’t understand.

Why did Ekaterina invite me to this?

She appears to be the leader of this group, but as she delves into lengthy monologues, I notice a few women exchanging mocking glances. I can’t help but wonder if they all know her husband has lost the boss’s favor.

As Ekaterina begins yet another story about someone’s wife, I check my phone for an update from Nero.

Nothing.

He’s at the poker game with Maksim, while I’m here with the wives.

We never said we’d keep each other in the loop tonight, and I’m seriously regretting that oversight.

I’m on pins and needles. Ever since we talked last night and opened up with each other about how we’ve been feeling about this mission, something inside me has shifted.

Last night, I lay in bed wondering where the anger that used to burn so brightly was.

I couldn’t replace it.

I’ve…forgiven him.

And I’m starting to trust him. I can tell that he’s trying to do right by me, even at a great personal cost.

Yesterday in the kitchen he confessed he wants to call off our plan because he’s worried for me.

And yet, he didn’t. Because he listened to what I want and need.

My heart clenches.

It’s getting harder and harder to keep my walls up when Nero shows me with each passing day that he’s not the man I thought he was after he revealed his true identity to me.

He’s not my father. And he doesn’t treat me like my father treated my mother.

But this still isn’t the life I want. I don’t want to live in the shadows, where everything could be torn away from me by cruel hands in the blink of an eye. I don’t want to be in a marriage that I was forced into. How can anything beautiful grow on such a rotten foundation?

It can’t. Which is why I have to leave, no matter what I’m starting to feel for my husband.

“Blake, I heard you were born in a small town somewhere in Missouri?”

My head snaps up.

Ekaterina is looking at me with a mean glint in her eyes. Nero warned me they’d done their research on me, but her comment still catches me off guard.

It’s a bit concerning how quickly they were able to figure out who I am.

“That’s right. Born and raised.”

“Missooouri,” one of the women, Frida, exclaims with a weird drawl that’s a poor attempt at the accent. “I don’t know anything about it.”

I smile. “It’s the birthplace of Mark Twain.”

Ekaterina purses her lips. “Did I forget to mention that Blake is a big fan of literature? She’s one of those bookish types,” she says with a dismissive wave.

She’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, but I don’t think my love of reading is anything to be ashamed of, so I just smile. “It’s true, I love to get lost in a good story.”

Ekaterina narrows her eyes. “Moving from Missouri to New York is quite the fairytale. Has it been everything you expected it to be?”

A fairytale. Yeah, maybe one of those dark ones where the children get lured into the witch’s hut with sweets. The kind where dreams twist into nightmares, and the prince is as likely to be the villain as he is the hero.

“It’s been an adjustment. For both me and Nero.”

She perks up at the mention of Nero’s name. “Your husband used to be a well-known man in certain circles.”

“It seems he still is.”

“It must be devastating for you to watch him lose it all.” She taps her fingertips against her chin. “Then again, you didn’t know him when he held his old position, so maybe you haven’t noticed the difference. I’m sure he feels it though. Fate can be such a cruel thing.”

My teeth clench even though this is what we wanted. We wanted Ekaterina to dig her claws into me so that she can judge if I’m the kind of person who’d support Nero going rogue.

“I don’t believe in fate, but I believe in my husband. Whatever challenges he’s facing now, he’ll replace a way to overcome them.”

“Will he?” Ekaterina takes a sip of her drink. “His situation seems to be quite tricky.”

“You must be very angry,” the woman beside her says. “If my husband lost his position…” The woman makes a dismissive movement with her hand. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t stay my husband for long.”

How sad. Is this what marriage in the mob comes down to? Using each other for personal gain? It didn’t seem like Maksim had much affection for his wife at the gala, but he’s clearly putting her to work with me.

If I’d married Nero consensually, I don’t see why I’d give a damn about his position or rank. It’s not his power I care about. I just don’t like seeing him be treated like crap by Gino Ferraro.

But I know that would be the wrong thing to say. I’m supposed to drop hints that I’m unhappy. That he’s unhappy.

So unhappy he’s ready to betray the Italians.

I smooth the napkin spread over my lap and mutter, “It’s their loss.”

Ekaterina tips her head slightly to the side. “What’s that?”

“I said that it’s their loss if they can’t appreciate my husband’s value. He’s got a lot of experience, and he knows more about the way things are run in this city than most of the men above him do.”

“Does he? Even after being gone for six months?” Her tone is casual, but I can tell she’s trying to draw information out of me.

“He may have been gone for six months, but before he left, he worked here for ten years. It’s not like all the things he knows became irrelevant in that short amount of time. With the exception of the don himself, there’s no one in the Messero family who knows as much about its dealings as Nero does.”

Ekaterina’s gaze goes from mocking to assessing. “For someone who’s new to this world, you sure seem to have caught on quick, Blake.”

“I don’t like feeling left in the dark. And I learn quickly.”

“Some men prefer keeping their personal life separate from their business.”

“Is that what your husband prefers?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow again. “Maks tells me everything.”

I can’t resist giving her a condescending smile. “You two seem like a great couple.”

“We are.” There’s a defensive note to her voice that suggests otherwise.

Our server comes around with another bottle of champagne. I’ve lost count of how many we’ve gone through by now. These women drink it like it’s water.

The server—a woman in a perfectly pressed uniform with the restaurant logo embroidered on her chest—pauses by Frida and refills her glass before moving to Ekaterina, who has already turned her attention away from me to launch into another story. Ekaterina talks with fervor, her hands constantly in motion, and when the waitress pours champagne into her glass, Ekaterina’s arm swings out at the same time.

A collective gasp echoes around the table as the champagne glass tips over, drenching the front of Ekaterina’s dress.

“You idiot,” she hisses at the waitress, even though it was hardly her fault. “What have you done?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“This is couture.” Ekaterina’s face darkens with rage. “Is your job really so fucking hard that you can’t even refill a glass properly? Or is this your first day here, you dumb bitch?”

My eyes widen at her outburst. Holy anger issues.

“Madam, it was an accident.” There’s a hint of panic in the server’s tone.

Ekaterina snatches a napkin off the table and dabs it against her dress. “It’s ruined. I hope they pay you well here, because you’re going to buy me a new dress.”

The server’s shoulders slump, and her eyes brim with tears. The women around the table watch the scene unfold in silence, making no move to intervene. That’s when it dawns on me. If I don’t stop this, no one else will.

I open my mouth, but I’m too late. Ekaterina has already grabbed the bottle from the server and—

“Stop,” I shout, just as Ekaterina flips the bottle and empties the rest of its contents over the server’s clothes.

“Katya!” someone gasps.

The server inhales sharply, standing frozen in shock. “Y-you can’t do that.”

A cruel laugh escapes Ekaterina. “I can do whatever I want. Do you know who I am?”

The server looks down at the ground. “Yes.”

“Then clean up this mess.” She drops the bottle to the floor. “Now.” She smiles, but it’s a chilling expression that doesn’t reach her eyes. “If you keep wasting my time, I’ll insist you lick the floor clean, so you better hurry instead of standing there like a statue.”

The server scurries away, tears streaking her cheeks.

A beat passes, and I hope those around the table feel even a fraction of the shame I’m experiencing from being associated with this madness.

But that’s too much to hope for.

Beside me, Frida forces a laugh. “What an idiot.”

The rest of the women mutter their agreement.

Ekaterina’s gaze lands back on me, a challenge glinting in her eyes. This is who I am, her eyes say. Do you dare question me?

My palms are sweaty. Acid creeps up my throat.

There’s nothing I can do. Even though I want to fling my plate at her head, I have to sit here and pretend like what just happened is totally normal.

These people are twisted and cruel. And am I any better? After all, the reason I can’t say anything is because I can’t let Ekaterina think I’m the kind of woman who’d talk her husband out of betraying his side.

I have to pretend I don’t have any morals.

The longer I stay in this world, the less I recognize myself.

And that’s why I need to get out.