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Vanya moves to the bar cart without invitation, pouring himself three fingers of vodka. The bottleneck clinks against crystal—a sound that reminds me of church bells and funeral dirges.
"The Novikov family sends their regards," he says, downing the drink in one fluid motion. The words hang in the air like smoke from a gun barrel.
My blood turns to permafrost. "Repeat that."
"You heard me." Vanya sets the glass down with deliberate care. "Kazimir Novikov was spotted at JFK yesterday. Flying in from Prague with a clean passport, but my contacts recognized him. The same Kazimir who ordered his men to kill Alina."
The room tilts slightly, reality reshaping itself around this new information. I've spent fourteen years waiting for Kazimir to surface again, like a hunter tracking wounded prey through endless winter. Now he’s returned, drawn by the scent of my impending happiness.
"They think striking at Kira will cripple both families," I murmur, pieces clicking into place. "Anton loses his daughter, I lose my bride, and the alliance crumbles."
"Clever bastards." Vanya's accent thickens with old rage. "They've been patient, waiting for the perfect moment when you had something to lose again."
I walk to my safe, fingers working the combination from muscle memory. Inside, nestled between stacks of cash and legal documents, lies my Makarov—the same gun I used to kill my first man at seventeen. Its weight feels like absolution in my palm.
"How many men did Kazimir bring?"
"At least six that we've identified. Professional killers, not street thugs." Vanya watches me check the weapon's chamber. "They're staying in a warehouse in Sheepshead Bay, near the docks––Novikov territory. I suspect the families have joined together."
The irony tastes bitter. Sheepshead Bay, where Alina used to buy flowers from a little Russian grandmother who spoke no English. Where I first learned that love could be weaponized against you.
"Kira doesn't leave the penthouse until after the ceremony," I decide, holstering the gun beneath my jacket. "Double the security detail. I want men on every floor, every exit, every goddamn window."
"And if she objects to being caged?"
I think of her auburn hair catching lamplight, the way she argues with me like I'm just a man instead of a monster. Threedays. I need to keep her alive for three more days, and then she'll have the Zhukov name as armor.
"She'll object," I say quietly. "But she'll be breathing to do it."
Chapter 5
Kira
The scent of gardenias and fear mingle in the air as silk rustles against my skin like whispers of a life I'm leaving behind.
The women move around me like ghosts, their fingers cold as they pin and tuck and transform me into something I barely recognize. The mirror reflects a stranger—porcelain skin dusted with powder, lips painted the color of fresh blood, eyes that seem too bright against the ivory lace cascading from my shoulders. The couture gown hugs my body like armor, each hand-sewn bead catching the filtered light streaming through St. Olga's stained glass windows.
"Turn your chin up,devochka," the makeup artist murmurs, her Russian accent thick as honey. Her brush sweeps across my cheekbones, adding shadows where none existed before. "You must look radiant for your husband."
My husband.The words leave a bad taste in my mouth.
Papa's pearls rest heavy against my throat—three strands of Mikimoto perfection that feel more like shackles than jewelry. The clasp presses against my nape like a cold kiss, and I resist the urge to tear them away.
Through the carved wooden door, I hear the low rumble of masculine voices—Mikhail's men positioned like sentinels in the cathedral's hallway. Their presence should comfort me, but I can't shake the question that's been gnawing at me all morning: are they here to protect me from the enemies circling like vultures or to ensure I don't flee before the vows are spoken?
The stylist's hands work through my auburn hair, weaving it into an elaborate chignon that pulls at my scalp. Each bobby pin feels like a small surrender, securing not just my hair but my fate.
"Hold still," she commands, sliding another pearl-tipped pin into place. I flinch, and she sighs. "Almost finished."
Outside, church bells toll and send tremors through my chest. One hour remains before I walk down that aisle toward Mikhail Zhukov—the man whose name makes the toughest men in Brighton Beach lower their voices, whose reputation precedes him like a shadow stretching across the Atlantic.
"Something borrowed," whispers Irina, Papa's cousin, as she fastens a delicate diamond bracelet around my wrist. Her fingers linger on my pulse point, and our eyes meet in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, I see something like pity cross her lined face. "It was your grandmother's."
I wonder if my grandmother felt this same hollow dread on her wedding day or if she walked willingly into the arms of the monster who would become my grandfather.
"Something blue," says another voice, and a small handkerchief with blue embroidery appears in my lap. I touch it gingerly, feeling the initials—K.Z.—already stitched into the corner. Kira Zhukova, or Zhukova among fellow Russians. My future name weighs heavily on my mind.
The door opens, and the women scatter like startled birds. Viktor, Mikhail's right hand, fills the doorframe, his scarred face impassive as his eyes sweep over me.