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CHAPTER TWO

Doran

The surveillance photos spread across the penthouse suite's dining table tell me everything I need to know about Revna's morning.

Thirty-six minutes.

I pour myself another coffee, black, studying the photos of her leaving Njal's building.

Her lipstick's gone.

Hair messed in a way that speaks of fingers tangled in it.

The boy had followed her out, shirtless even with the morning chill, looking like someone had ripped his heart out through his throat.

Good.

"The sisters are a short ways out from the clubhouse now," Mikhail continues. "Your parents' flight landed an hour ago."

Right on schedule.

Five years of waiting, and everything's finally falling into place.

I pick up the photo of Revna at the gas station—she's looking over her shoulder, paranoid, searching for threats.

She knew I'd have eyes on her. Smart girl.

"Send someone to check on Njal," I say, setting the photo down. "Gentle reminder about keeping his distance. Nothing permanent."

"Already done. Vadim paid him a visit this morning."

The penthouse door opens without a knock—only two people in the world have that privilege.

"You always did like your games," my mother says the moment she walks through the door.

She sweeps into the room like she owns it, which technically she does—the hotel's one of her properties.

Auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing one of her own designs that probably costs more than most people's cars.

She kisses my cheek, then steals my coffee.

"Hello to you too, Mum."

"Don't 'Mum' me when you're playing puppet master with some poor girl's life." She eyes the surveillance photos with distaste. "This is beneath you."

"This is necessary."

My father enters behind her, dark suit impeccable as always, presence filling the room the way only a true Bratva boss can.

Where my mother moves like silk, my father moves like a blade—precise, dangerous, purposeful.

"Surveillance reports?" He picks up a photo, studies it. "You always were thorough."

"I learned from the best."

He almost smiles.

Twenty years in Ireland hasn't softened his accent. "The Valhalla daughters. I remember them at fifteen—the quiet one and the fierce one. You chose well."

"I chose the fierce one."

"Of course you did." My mother reclaims her spot on the sofa, crossing her legs. "Heaven forbid you pick someone easy."

"Easy is boring."

"Boring is stable," my father counters, joining her.

They move in sync even after thirty-three years—a united front despite their very different worlds. "We need stable right now."

Mikhail closes the balcony doors, giving us privacy. He knows when family business requires complete discretion.

"Tell me about the prospects," I say, though I already know. Information is power, but sometimes you let others think they're informing you.

"Erik Thorsson and Anders Holmberg." My father's jaw tightens. "Found this morning. Erik was beaten to death—baseball bats, from the look of it. Anders took two bullets to the back of the head, execution style."

"Ages?"

"Twenty-two and twenty-four."

Boys. Just boys playing at being men, and now they're meat in the ground because the Culebra cartel wants to make a statement.

"This is why we need the marriage moved up," my mother says, practical as always. "The Raiders of Valhalla are hemorrhaging people. Without this alliance?—"

"Without this alliance, the cartel moves in and Florida becomes a war zone." I move to the window, watching the city below. "I know."

"Do you?" My father joins me. "This isn't just about your obsession with the girl?—"

"Careful."

He continues like I hadn't spoken. "This is about survival. Ours and theirs. The Italians are gone. The Mexicans are scattered. If we don't solidify power now?—"

"I said I know." I turn back to them. "The wedding happens in two weeks. The alliance holds. Florida stays ours."

"Ours?" My mother's laugh is sharp. "Since when do you care about territory?"

"Since it comes with her."

They exchange a look—thirty-three years of marriage lets them have entire conversations in a glance.

"Show me the contract," I say.

My father pulls out the folder, thick with legal documents. Old school, like everything about him. "Standard terms. She moves in immediately after the wedding. Provides heirs within two years. Maintains public appearances?—"

"No."

Both their heads snap up.

"No?" My father's voice carries a warning.

"She finishes law school at UF. Maintains her own space until graduation. No timeline on children." I pour myself a fresh coffee since my mother stole the last one. "And she keeps her name professionally."

"You're giving her too much freedom," my father says.

"I'm giving her enough rope to either hang herself or help me build an empire."

My mother studies me with those sharp green eyes—the ones I inherited. "You've been planning this."

"For five years."

"The surveillance," she realizes. "This isn't new. You've been watching her since?—"

"Since the moment I knew she'd be mine."

My father sets down the contract. "Thirteen men, Doran. You've eliminated thirteen men who got too close to her."

I don't ask how he knows. Aleksandr Volkolv knows everything that happens in his territory.

"They were unworthy."

"And the boy this morning?" My mother's voice is carefully neutral. "Njal? Was he unworthy?"

The coffee mug creaks in my grip. "He's irrelevant now."

"Is he?" She stands, moves closer. "A woman doesn't spend thirty-six minutes saying goodbye to someone irrelevant."

"What would you have me do? Kill him for touching what was promised to me?" I set the mug down before I break it. "She said her goodbyes. That's all that matters."

"Is it?"

My mother—she sees too much, always has. It's what makes her dangerous in her own way. You don't become a fashion empire while married to the Bratva without being able to read people like books.

"Let me talk to him," she says to my father. It's not a request.

He kisses her temple as he stands. "Don't coddle him, Greer."

"When have I ever?"

My father takes the contract, makes notes in the margins. Old-fashioned pen, old-fashioned paper. "One hour. Then we leave for the clubhouse."

The door closes behind him, and my mother turns those laser eyes on me.

"Sit."

"I'm not twelve, Mama."

"No, you're thirty-one and about to bind yourself to a woman who fucked another man this morning." She says it bluntly, watching for my reaction. "So sit."

I sit.

She joins me on the couch, tucking her legs under her like she used to when I was young and she'd tell me stories about Ireland. About her brother Liam and the family business that wasn't fashion.

"Do you actually want this girl, or just the alliance?"

"You know the answer."

"I know what you've told yourself." She touches my face, gentle despite her words. "Interest and obsession look similar until one destroys you."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Your father collected me, too, remember?" Her smile is sharp with memory. "Only things were more complicated. His father made your aunt Tamara pick me or Sloane—who to kill, who to trick to fall in love. Women are only prizes in these transactions, boy. Don’t be a fool and think otherwise."

"This is different."

"Is it? You've eliminated thirteen men, Doran. Thirteen. That's not you going out of your damn way to protect her—that's you possessing her."

"She's mine."

"Not yet."

"She's been mine since her father shook hands on the deal." I pull out my phone, show her the photos from last night. Revna at the club, that black dress making her look like sin and salvation. "Look at her."

My mother takes the phone, scrolls through. Stops at the one where Revna's marching toward my VIP section, fury in every line of her body.

"Fire," she murmurs.

"Exactly."

"Fire burns, mo mhac."

"Only if you're careless."

She hands back the phone. "And when she realizes the depth of your... attention? Five years of surveillance, of controlling her life from the shadows?"

"She already knows. I told her last night."

"And?"

"And she's still wearing my ring."

My mother's quiet for a moment. Then: "She went to him this morning. After knowing what you are, what you've done. She still went to him."

The anger flashes hot before I bank it. "To say goodbye."

"To fuck goodbye, you mean."

"Mama—"

"No, listen to me." She grabs my hands, her rings cold against my skin. "If you want this to work—really work, not just be some arrangement where she hates you and you own her—you need to be smarter than your pride."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you don't punish her for saying goodbye to a life she didn't choose to leave." She squeezes my hands. "You want a partner, not a prisoner. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Then act like it. Show her why you're the better choice. Show her what she gains, not just what she's lost."

"And if she doesn't see it?"

"Then you're not the man I raised." She stands, smooths her dress. "Now get changed. You look like a corporate raider, not a man claiming his bride."

"This is Armani."

"Exactly my point."

An hour later, we're in three separate cars heading to the clubhouse.

Security protocol—never make yourself an easy target by traveling together.

I drive myself because I need the control, need my hands on the wheel and my foot on the gas.

Mikhail's in the passenger seat, reading updates on his phone.

"Her car just pulled into the clubhouse," he reports. "She's with her sister."

"Good."

"Vadim says the boy—Njal—he's already there. Drinking heavily."

My hands tighten on the wheel. "He touches her?—"

"He won't." Mikhail's voice is certain. "Vadim made things clear."

The rest of the drive passes in silence.

I know every inch of this route—have driven it dozens of times over the years, watching, waiting.

The Raiders of Valhalla clubhouse sits on the outskirts of Tallahassee, far enough from everyday people to keep their business private.

We arrive just as the sun starts its descent.