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“Ahh, my prima ballerina is home.”

I grin as I push the door open and enter the massive, elegant room paneled in dark wood and lined with old bookcases. I’ve always loved the smell of his study. I mean, Ihatedwhen he smoked, and he hasn’t in years, thank God. But the lingering tobacco smell, mixed with leather, old wood, and I guesspower, always warms my heart a little.

Marko Kalishnik sits behind his desk, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled up. He's in his early fifties, and his hair is silvering at the temples these days. But he’s still handsome in a dangerous, old-world way. Papa’s always reminded me of a movie star from a previous generation, like a Paul Newman or a Marlon Brando. He hasn't dated at all since Mom passed, but he still turns plenty of heads when we’re out.

There’s a crystal decanter of vodka on the corner of his desk, and a glass already poured. He drinksfarless now than he did when I was younger. I'm not saying he was a drunk or anything. But, hello… WeareRussian, after all.

The vodka on the desk is more Marko-speak, and I know it clearly means: “something fucky is afoot, but Papa is tackling it.”

The other obvious clue there is that my uncle Levka is also here, sitting by one of the windows that overlooks Central Park, a glass of vodka in his hand.

“Privet, dyadya.” I smile at him as he stands and walks over to me.

Hello, Uncle.

There was a time when Papa was sick—a long time—that Uncle Levka lived here with us. He ran the empire during the worst of it, when Papa was barely able to get out of bed and in heavy treatment for his aggressive cancer, which is thankfully in total remission now.

…He was running thingsthatnight, actually.

I hug my uncle tightly before he pulls away and grins at me. “And how is my little Anna Pavlova?”

I roll my eyes. Anna Pavlova is probably the most famous Russian ballerina of all time. It's also Uncle Levka‘s favorite nickname for me.

“Oh, fine,” I shrug. Then I glance warily at my father. He’s smiling, but there’s a look on his face that says the same thing as the vodka sitting on the desk.

Something’s up.

“What…” I clear my throat and start again. “Angelina said you wanted to see me?”

His smile falters just a little bit. “Why don’t you sit. I’m sure you could use the rest after a day like yours.”

I shrug. “I’m fine?—”

“Please sit, Milena.”

My stomach clenches, but I nod and obey. Uncle Levka moves back to his seat by the window. Across from me, my father clears his throat.

“Leo Debolsky is back in New York.”

My chest lurches, and there’s no stopping the grimace that spreads over my face.

“That’s…a thing,” I mumble.

Papa’s brows lift. “Indeed.”

Yeah, it’s a thing. A terrible thing. Leo Debolsky is a fuckingpig.

Trust me: I once spent a weekend with him in the Hamptons.

Not likethat. It was about four years ago, when Papa was at his sickest, and Levka was running things. The Debolsky Bratva came knocking, and Leo’s father Vladimir fielded the idea of his fucker of a son marrying yours truly.

Papa would have never evenconsideredmarrying me off like that, especially not to a piece of shit like Leo. But Levka… He’s a bit more old-school sometimes. And in his defense, our family was going through it back then. No one knew if Papa would actually pull through, but the Bratva High Council, the United Nations-style governing body that holdsa lotof sway over the Bratva world, was unwilling to vote preemptively on Levka taking Papa’s seat at the table.

Under that sort of pressure, I guess I can see now why Levka entertained the idea of me marrying Leo.

So I got shipped off to a “get to know your prospective husband” weekend in the Hamptons. The idea was to wine and dine withLeo, get comfortable with each other, and see if maybe this was something that might happen.

In reality, I spent the entire timeaggressivelyfighting off his drunken advances and learning just how negatively the asshole responds to the word “no”.