Except I didn’t. Not really. The idea of marrying Carmine wasn’t terrible, but I wanted more than that. I deserved more than that. I gave up so much of myself to my father, to his business, to his alliance with the cartels and everything that followed—and I wanted more.
Rolando walked over and slumped into the chair next to mine. He scowled at the room, looking like a little kid in his daddy’s suit. I caught the slight bulge of his pistol tucked into a shoulder holster under the cheap cotton jacket and forced myself to focus on the moment and to forget about Mal for a little while.
Easier said than done, but I tried.
“How’s the party going?” I asked.
Rolando glanced over and his frown got worse. “Fucking Russians,” he said, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Drink too much. Laugh too loud. They all act like you’re their best friend right up until you’re not.” He grunted and leaned forward, elbows to his knees.
My heart hammered, but I forced myself to remain cool. “You know who that sounds like?”
“Huh?” He seemed distracted, watching the crowd.
“That guy Clem. Remember him? Works for my dad? Haven’t seen that guy around much lately.”
Rolando glanced at me. His gaze locked on mine and held me there for several long seconds. I wanted to scream and run, or confess to what I was trying to do, but I kept a quizzical smile plastered to my lips.
He shrugged and looked away. “Clem’s working at a strip club south of town. Shitty dive place. Running the joint for your daddy.”
“How’s he liking it?”
“Who gives a shit?” Rolando stood up. “Your dad wants you. Come on, let’s go find him.”
I nodded and stood. I’d text Mal the information as soon as I could, but for now I had to go along with this absurd show. I followed Rolando along the edges of the crowd while inwardly I screamed over and over and over, excitement coursing down my spine like hot fire.
I’d done it. I asked Rolando where Clem was hiding—and now we had a lead. Mal could figure it out, I knew he could. There weren’t that many strip clubs in San Antonio. A dozen, two dozen, what did it matter? Mal would search each and every one until he spotted Clem.
Until he crossed another name off his list.
“Where have you been?” My father glared at me over a glass of vodka. He looked like a pickpocket at a funeral in his sleek black suit. He’d never fit in with these people in a million years, and it was pathetic that he kept trying. But this was what Dad wanted, and I needed to play the happy, compliant little daughter, so I flashed him my best smile. Rolando hurried off after depositing me into my father’s care.
“Bathroom,” I said, touching my hair. “Wanted to freshen up. Did Maxim come yet?”
“He and his father just arrived.” Dad frowned deeper at me, but must’ve decided not to press the matter. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” The music changed to something slow. People swayed together on the dance floor, and Dad gestured at a man standing nearby. He was tall and pale with a shaved head and wrinkled cheeks, and he walked over with a dour smile on his lips. “Damir, my friend, I want to introduce my daughter, Capri.”
Damir looked at me for a few seconds before his smile twisted larger. “Lovely to meet you, Capri. Your father speaks highly of you.” His voice was deep and resonant with a slight Russian accent. “My son, Maxim, would like to meet you very much, if you would be so kind.”
I nodded my head. “Thank you, yes, I’d love to meet him.”
“How about a dance? That will make things less awkward. Give you something to do with your feet.”
I kept a smile plastered to my lips, even though a dance sounded terrible. “I’d be happy to dance with your son.”
“Good, good. Come with me.” Damir nodded to Dad, and Dad nodded back. A little exchange, like I’d be seen, judged, and found worthy.
I hated them. Hated them both. These were men that felt as though the world existed to bend for them. I knew my father’s crimes, and they were sundry and they were terrible—but I guessed Damir’s were just as awful. If Dad wanted to ally our family with his, that meant he had power, and the sort of power my father was interested in didn’t come through legal or moral means.
Damir led me through the crowd and toward the dance floor. He slowed and gestured toward a young man standing at the edge with his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall, broad, and wore his suit like he’d been born in his. His dark hair was pushed back, and tattoos hinted at his throat and at his hands. He turned, and his blue eyes were ice-cold and piercing, though his lips were red and soft. He was handsome in a clean-cut sort of way, despite the ink.