Page 4

My bedroom door opens, and Luka sets me down gently inside. For a moment, I think about running, pushing past them both, and somehow escaping this nightmare. But Sergey's bulk fills the doorway completely, and I know it's hopeless.
"I'm sorry, little princess," Luka murmurs in his heavily accented English. "Your papa, he only wants to keep you safe."
The door closes. The lock turns with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.
I'm alone with the truth that's going to destroy everything I thought I knew about my life: I’m about to become Mrs. Mikhail Zhukov, wife to the most dangerous man in New York.
The thought sends me to my knees on the pristine white carpet, where I finally let the sobs come—raw, ugly sounds that tear from my throat like pieces of my soul breaking away.
Night falls completely, and with it comes the suffocating weight of inevitability. I curl up on my bed, still fully dressed, the backpack clutched to my chest like a shield. Sleep evades me, replaced by an endless parade of horrors my imagination conjures—Mikhail's hands, which have choked the life from men, touching my skin; his mouth, which has ordered countless deaths, pressing against mine.
A soft knock at the door startles me from my spiraling thoughts.
"Go away," I call, voice hoarse from crying.
"Kira, it's Mama." Her voice is soft, pleading. "Please let me talk to you."
"The door's locked from your side, remember?" Bitterness coats every word.
I hear the jingle of keys, then the lock turning. She slips in, closing the door behind her. In her hands is a tray with tea and little sandwiches I have no intention of eating.
"You need to eat something," she says, setting the tray on my nightstand. The porcelain clinks softly in the silence between us.
"I need to not be sold to a murderer," I counter, sitting up and hugging my knees to my chest. "Can you help with that?"
Mama sighs, perching on the edge of my bed. In the dim light from my bedside lamp, the lines around her eyes seem deeper, her beauty marked by years of compromise and silence.
"Your father is doing what he thinks is best?—"
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't defend him. Not for this."
She reaches for my hand, and I let her take it, too exhausted to pull away. Her fingers are cool against mine, the diamond of her wedding ring catching the light.
"What do you know about Mikhail Zhukov?" she asks quietly.
I laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. "That he's killed people with his bare hands? That he runs the largest criminal organization in Brighton Beach? That they call him the Butcher?"
"Yes." She doesn't deny any of it, which somehow makes it worse. “But do you know why they call him that?"
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
"When he was twenty-two, the Novikovs—the same family that wants you now—kidnapped his sixteen-year-old cousin, Artem. They sent him back to his family in pieces." Her voice is flat and emotionless as if she were reading from a particularly dry textbook. "He hunted down every man responsible and carved them apart the same way they did his cousin."
My stomach turns. "And this is supposed to make me feel better about marrying a murderer?"
"It's supposed to make you understand that he protects his family." She squeezes my hand. "And soon, that will include you."
"I don't want to be his family." The words come out as a whisper, a confession.
"We rarely get what we want in this life, Kira." Mama's smile is a sad, knowing one. "But sometimes what we need comes disguised as our worst nightmare."
She stands, smoothing her skirt with practiced grace. "We’ll meet with the Zhukovs tomorrow, and the wedding is planned for two weeks. It will be a small ceremony. It's safer that way."
"Two weeks?" The timeline hits me like another blow. "That's impossible."
"It's necessary." She moves to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "Your dress will arrive next week from Paris, and the designer’s assistant is coming with it. He’ll do your fitting. Try to rest, darling. You'll need your strength."
The door closes behind her, the lock clicking into place once more. I stare at the space where she stood, her words echoing in my mind. Two weeks. Fourteen days until I become Mrs. Mikhail Zhukov.