Chapter 33

"Oh my god!" she groaned the next morning, rolling off the bed with a thump, and run-crawled to the bathroom. She got the lid of the toilet open just in time to discover that vodka is not nearly as smooth coming back up as it is going down.

"Burns, does it, malysh?" said a darkly amused voice from the doorway.

"Fuck you and your 'molysh' bullshit," she replied between bouts of nausea. "I'll give you a pet name that'll make even your goddamned mafia ears burn."

She glared at him from underneath her bangs. Then she laughed weakly, imagining what she must look like: sweaty, pale and shaking with nausea in day old clothes. "I make a hell of a bride," she said with a watery grin before vomiting again.

With a muttered comment in Russian, he went to the sink, ignoring her weak slap at his leg to get him away, and wetted a facecloth. He bent over her and, lifting her dark hair, pressed the cool cloth against the back of her neck. She sighed in relief, her body beginning to relax now that