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,