Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

“The only mistake would be underestimating him,” she replies coldly.

Now I really am shocked. Aida defending me? Wonders never cease.

The Butcher gives a stiff nod, which could mean anything, and turns and walks away. I’m relieved to see that he seems to be leaving the party, without making a scene.

I look back at Aida.

“You handled that really well,” I tell her.

“Yeah, shocking, I know,” she says, tossing her head. “You know I grew up with these people. I sat under the table while my father negotiated deals with the Polish, the Ukrainians, the Germans, the Armenians, when I was just four years old. I’m not always running around nicking watches.”

“He’s got some balls marching in here,” I say, scowling in the direction of the doorway where Zajac just disappeared.

“He certainly does,” Aida says. She’s frowning, twisting the ring on her finger while she’s lost in thought.

My mother picked out that ring and mailed it to Aida. Looking at it on her hand, I realize it doesn’t really suit her. Aida would have picked something more comfortable and casual. Maybe I should have let her choose her own or taken her to Tiffany’s. That would have been easy to do.

I was so angry with her after the circumstances of our first meeting that I never really considered what she might prefer. What might make her more comfortable with this arrangement or moving into my house.

I want to ask her what else she knows about Zajac. What deals he’s done with Enzo. But I’m interrupted by my father, who wants to hear what Zajac said. Before I can include Aida in the conversation, she slips away.

My father is going on and on, grilling me about the Butcher, wanting a word-for-word accounting of everybody else I talked to tonight, and what they said.

Usually I’d go through it with him point by point. But I can’t help sneaking glances over h

is shoulder, trying to see where Aida is in the room. What she’s doing. Whom she’s talking to.

I finally catch sight of her out on the deck, talking with Alan Mitts, the treasurer. He’s a crusty old bastard. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile once in all the times I’ve spoken to him. Yet, with Aida, he’s lost in some anecdote, waving his hands around, and Aida is laughing and egging him on. When she laughs, she throws back her head and her eyes close and her shoulders shake, and there’s nothing polite about it. She’s just happy.

I want to hear what’s making her laugh so hard.

“Are you listening to me?” my father says sharply.

I whip my head back around.

“What? Yes. I’m listening.”

“What are you looking at?” he says, squinting his eyes in the direction of the deck.

“Mitts. I have to talk to him next.”

“Looks like he’s already talking to Aida,” my father says in his most inscrutable tone.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“How has she been performing?”

“Good. Surprisingly well,” I reply.

My father looks her over, giving a nod of approval. “She certainly looks better. Though the dress is too revealing.”

I knew he would say that. There were more conservative options in the pile of dresses Marta brought for my approval, but I chose this one. Because I knew it would hug Aida’s curves like it was made for her.

My father is still blathering on, despite my efforts to wrap up the conversation.

“The mayor has kicked down thirty thousand dollars to your campaign, and endorsed you, but he did the same to twenty-five other council allies, so I don’t think his statement is as strong as—”

Oliver Castle has reappeared, buoyed by liquid courage. I can tell he’s half-drunk by the flush in his sunburned face and the way he roughly cuts in between Aida and Mitts. Aida tries to shake him off, heading to the opposite side of the deck, but Castle follows her over, trying to get her to talk to him.