Eileen
For two months, I’ve been replaying that night in my head. Reliving the most intense moments of my life, from the scare with Tommy Benedetto to the lovemaking with my mystery man. Now I find myself staring at the plus sign of a pregnancy test, sweating bullets as I try to wrap my head around the whole thing.
“This is one hell of a clusterfuck,” I mutter as I toss the stick in the bathroom bin and proceed to wash my hands.
I’m pregnant. And I don’t even know the father’s name.
Ciara has been droning on all day about finally meeting her fiancé tonight. I can hear people downstairs already, their voices mingling with the music of a small orchestra. Laughter. The clinking of glasses.
“Well, at least I know why I’m nauseated all the time,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Kuznetsov’s only part of the reason.”
It’s not that I don’t like him. He’s… nice. But he unsettles me, and I don’t want to marry him. I have little to no power over my own life as a Donovan. I’ve known that for as long as I can remember, but still.
“Eileen, are you drowning in there?” Ciara calls out.
I roll my eyes. “I’m just retouching my makeup!” I shout back. “Go get yourself a drink or yell at the waiters or… something!”
I listen to the sound of her Jimmy Choos recede as I take another look in the mirror. My breasts were already quite large, but now they’re struggling against the bra I’m wearing underneath a maroon evening dress. The fabric is a soft satin blend, and it’s pinched in a manner that gives me an hourglass figure. Thank God there are no visible signs of my pregnancy yet.
How in the hell am I going to explain myself out of this one?
My father will explode.
I’ll never hear the end of it from Ciara.
And Sergei… I doubt he’ll want to marry me once he learns I’m carrying another man’s child.
I have to get through tonight first, take it one step at a time, so I can preserve my sanity.
I smile at the mirror and practice my host-friendly smile. We’re expecting about a hundred guests in the ballroom of our mansion—each a member of high society and the mob. In the Donovans’ ballroom, deals are made, futures are decided, and alliances are built.
“There you are,” Ciara scoffs as I meet her downstairs in the kitchen.
Around us, waiters with ruby-red velvet vests over white shirts and black pants buzz around like busy, breathless bees—carrying hors d’oeuvres and champagne platters out, bringing empty ones back in, refilling, then stopping by the chef’s counter for updated instructions.
“Wow, I feel like I’m in a Michelin-starred review,” I say and laugh lightly, glancing everywhere.
“Not with these canapes,” Ciara says, pointing at three large plates resting on the table between us. “Look at them! I couldn’t let the waiters go out with this garbage.”
“I don’t understand; what’s wrong with them?” I ask, looking rather confused as I try to identify the problem.
They look like simple but elegant snacks—disk-shaped pastries with a dollop of cream cheese whip and different sorts of sauces drizzled on top. If anything, my mouth is watering, and I could easily consume one plate all by myself. I can’t help but wonder if I’m already experiencing cravings or if I’m just hungry.
“I specifically asked for ricotta cheese mousse, and they used goat cheese!” Ciara exclaims, sounding like it’s the end of the world.
“And how is that bad?”
“Because I asked for one thing, and they delivered something else. It’s disrespectful.”
“But tasty.” I try to take the edge off, but Ciara isn’t biting, pun intended.
She gives me a sour look. “You look puffy,” she bitterly strikes back. “Also, you’re not taking this seriously. My engagement party needs to be perfect, and it’s anything but. Just earlier, I learned that we won’t be serving my favorite Bordeaux. Daddy had them replace it with some Petrus from 1985. Yuck!”
“That’s actually a superb vintage,” I reply. “I would love a glass or…” My voice trails off as I’m reminded of my newly discovered condition. “Or lemonade. I think I’ll stick to lemonade.”
“What?” Ciara sounds confused.
“Girls, come on,” my father pokes his head through the kitchen door. “The Karpovs are here. Let’s make the introductions before the announcement later tonight.”
“But, Daddy, the canapes—”
“Ciara, for fuck’s sake!”
That’s enough to silence her, at least where the food and drinks are concerned. I draw a deep breath and follow Ciara and our father through the kitchen door into the main salon. At the far end, I see the glass doors leading into the ballroom. My stomach churns at the sight of so many people already gathered in there. The main salon still feels breathable at this point, with only a handful of guests. Two men and a woman.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp as I recognize the tall man with dark hair and hazel eyes, broad shoulders, and salt-and-pepper hair. The man who made me feel like the most precious of all women on a night two months ago.
“Ciara, honey, this is Anton Karpov,” my father says, nodding at my mystery man. “Your future husband. Anton, meet my youngest, Ciara Donovan.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Anton says.
I’m frozen in place, unable to move or say anything. All I can do is stare at this dangerously gorgeous man, fragments of our night together, causing my core to tighten and my throat to close up, my stomach to churn and my heart to flutter.
“Likewise,” Ciara replies, eagerly straightening her back as she lets him take her hand in his. She giggles, careful to bat her eyelashes for maximum effect. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Anton.”
Really, Ciara?
Like what? Like he’s the leader of the Bratva? Like he’s the most ruthless Russian American on this side of the country, if not the whole continent?
Dammit, why is he looking at me like that? He’s so calm. No expression whatsoever. Just a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“You must be Eileen then,” Anton says, his voice low.
“Yeah,” I bluntly reply.
I know what this is. He got his groove on with me that night, knowing precisely who I was. He got what he wanted, and now I’m just a big, fat nobody. I feel used. I feel stupid. I feel so many uncomfortable things that I don’t even know what to do with myself or how I’m going to survive the rest of this evening.
“Eileen?” my father says, intensely looking at me.
“Yeah?” I manage.
“What’s up with you? You’re being rude,” Ciara says.
I give her a confused look, trying so hard to avoid Anton’s gaze and ignoring the other two people he’s with. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“My God, Daddy, I think she’s already drunk,” Ciara sighs deeply.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then I am sure you could do better at entertaining our special guests,” my father says. “After all, we’re going to be family, and Anton here deserves more than a dry ‘yeah.’”
“My apologies,” I say, switching to a more polite version of myself—a dead-eyed version—while I try to manage the turmoil within. I give Anton a small smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Karpov. You’re definitely the luckiest man in Chicago right now.”
“Please, call me Anton,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I suppose fortune has smiled upon me lately.”
Yeah, you boned one Donovan girl and you’re about to marry the pretty one.
The nerve of this guy. “My stepsister will make a fine wife,” I say.
There’s a tremor in my voice, and I hope nobody caught it.
“I’ll do my best to rise to her level as a husband,” he replies.
The guy who looks like a slightly younger version of Anton clears his throat, a weak smile on his face. Does he know about Anton and me? Do brothers gossip the way sisters do? Then again, I never told Ciara about that night. Clearly, I never will.
“Right. This is my brother, Andrei Karpov. And this is his wife, Laura,” Anton says.
“You look stunning,” Ciara says to Laura, shaking her hand. “I love what this silver silk is doing for your figure.”
“You can’t even tell I just had twins, can you?” Laura chuckles softly, then glances my way. “Maroon does wonders for your complexion, Eileen. A Donovan through and through.”
“Actually, my mother was Russian,” I reply. She shakes my hand with a firmness that surprises me. “From the Fedorov dynasty.”
“Dynasty,” Andrei laughs lightly. “You could say that. They are royalty within our organization, I suppose.”
Anton gives him a hard look. “Genealogically speaking, the Fedorov family are the closest relations to the Russian royal bloodline.”
“They are? Well, then, that explains their entitlement,” Andrei shoots back.
Clearly, these two like to poke each other, and it makes my father laugh wholeheartedly as he pats Anton on the shoulder. “Eileen is right. Her mother was a Russian beauty. A goddess in my eyes.”
“My mom had big shoes to fill, but she rose to the occasion, didn’t she?” Ciara cuts in.
I can hear the hurt in her voice. It’s a touchy subject, our mothers. Mine died. Hers ran off. Hard pills to swallow for both of us. Maybe that’s why I let Ciara sting me whenever she feels the need. She’s got quite a lot to carry on her shoulders, whether she’s excited about this wedding or not.
“I have to say, Ronan, this is quite the party you’ve put together,” Anton says, steering the conversation away as he looks around, his gaze lingering on the glass doors that lead into the ballroom. “It’s going to be an interesting evening, to say the least.”
“And your home is absolutely beautiful,” Laura adds. “I love the details on the woodwork. Don’t think I didn’t notice the staircase and the wall paneling.”
“My splendid wife is an interior designer,” Andrei says, one hand resting on the small of her back. “And she has excellent taste. I can only agree with her observations, Mr. Donovan. Truly a beautiful home.”
“Please, call me Ronan,” my father replies, then looks at Anton. “And you’re right. It is going to be an interesting night. Sergei was unable to join us, however. He’s busy scouting the West Coast for the perfect wedding location.”
Anton gives him a curious look while stealing a glance at me. Ciara is practically nonexistent to him, but she’s too excited to even notice. I feel awful. “Sergei? You mean Sergei Kuznetsov?”
“Yes,” my father says.
“Such a shame,” Andrei replies, but I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s elated by Sergei’s absence.
“What involvement does Sergei have in my wedding?” Anton asks.
“Oh, not for our wedding,” Ciara chimes in as she smiles at me. “His wedding to Eileen. They’re not getting married until later next year, but the man wants what’s best for his big, beautiful bride.”
There it is. Another jab. I could call her out, but given that I’m pregnant by her future husband, I decide to let it go. It’s bad enough as it is. The shame slowly eats away at me, but I keep my game face on and my chin up.
“You’re marrying Sergei Kuznetsov?” Anton asks me.
“I am, yes.”
“Another strategic agreement?” he asks my father.
“Precisely. My counselors advised me about it,” Daddy replies. “The Kuznetsovs will support our alliance in the future, and it’ll strengthen your lead in the Bratva, too.”
“It will also give the Donovans a louder voice at the big boys’ table,” Andrei says, nodding with genuine appreciation. “Smart move, Ronan. I’ll give you that. Bringing two Russian families into the fold.” There’s something in Andrei’s tone I don’t quite like, but I can’t explain why.
“Shall we head into the ballroom and have a few drinks?” Ciara asks, ever the gracious hostess. “We’ve got a few exquisite vintages for you to try.”
“Oh, do lead the way,” Laura says excitedly.
I smile and let the ladies go first, while Andrei sticks to my father’s side. Anton lingers, still looking at me. My skin burns all over. My heart’s wrestling against my chest.
“After you,” he says.
“Piss off,” I snap, bolting for the ballroom.
Glancing back, I see the shadow of a smile dancing across his lips. It’s going to be a long fucking night, and Anton is clearly enjoying this a little too much.
