Page 1 of Silent Ties (Ruling Love #1)

Russet

I promised myself I would check off every one of my New Year’s resolutions this year.

I’d start working out five times a week. Organize my closet until the only clothes I owned were the exact ones I wanted. Get a better job.

The one thing not on my to-do list for the year? Getting married.

My heel catches and I swear every eye in the cathedral notices. Eyes belonging to people I’ve never met before.

The church is brimming with people. And they are not wearing thrifted clothes like the items hanging in my unorganized closet. We’re talking designer suits and two-thousand-dollar dresses.

They don’t care about me. They’re just here for the open bar at the reception.

But their attention weighs me down more than the heavy veil covering my shoulders.

Granted, everyone is supposed to stare at the bride during this part. It’s just. . . they have no idea that I’m not supposed to be the bride .

And that’s bad considering the cathedral is chock-full of the city’s biggest criminals. Men and women who forged their empires with blood and money.

I’m not a naive little girl who believes the world is full of the good and the bad. It’s shades of gray. I grew up in this city too. I might not have the net worth that Lev Zimin, head of the bratva does, but I’m not squeamish about violence. I’m used to it.

But there are certain things that take your soul. Piece by piece until you’re no longer who you thought you were.

I am Russet Smith. I know exactly who I am and what I am. Fucked.

Thanks, Daisy, love you, sis.

My best friend isn’t here for this life-altering occasion despite being the reason I’m here in the first place.

The pews full of criminal royalty are void of anyone I know. Yet, there’s a certain pair of eyes I know will report every move I make. Simply put—if I run I’m even more fucked.

My fingers tighten in a death grip around the bouquet.

Since its January, the theme is a winter wedding, but my skin pebbles in the drafty church because Marissa forced me into a strapless dress.

It’s heavy, thanks to the jewels attached.

And don’t get me started on the six-inch heels.

For the third fucking time, they snag against the floor runner leading directly to the altar.

Directly to Maxim Zimin.

“The Zimin’s are expecting a bride,” Marissa hissed into my ear this morning.

Until I met Marissa, I didn’t understand how hard it was to hiss. But she’s very good at it. The tone matches her clawlike fingernails. They kept piercing my skin as they wrapped around my arm. It’s a nasty habit of hers—always touching the women she claims she’s helping.

Marissa consolidated enough power in the past few years to claim a seat at the big table. Not that every crime leader welcomed her presence. But this city is full of allies and adversaries and if there’s anyone who mixes those two roles into one it’s Marissa.

Forcing air down my lungs, I place one high heel in front of the other. The white veil blurs my vision but doesn’t block the feeling of cold, empty eyes. Just a little further to go and then I’ll know my fate.

“The wedding of the year,” Marissa gleefully told me, in an extra good mood. My scalp pinched as she roughly pulled the curling iron through my hair. A hairstylist would have happily assisted, but Marissa couldn’t stand still.

Not showing up wasn’t an option. When Marissa calls, you show up even if you don’t want to. Or else.

“You make a beautiful bride,” she said, snapping at a makeup artist to pat more babydoll pink on my cheeks. Marissa helped fix my veil, her megawatt smile dazzling not because I made a beautiful bride.

But because I became her latest creation. Her latest trap. Her latest scheme.

“Get to the end of the aisle,” she told me.

My six-inch heels aren’t helping, but I’m almost there. Lev Zimin, seated in the front pew, is now so close I swear he can see under the veil. The wife sitting next to him shows no sign of Marissa’s happiness, fake as it might have been.

Two brothers stand beside Maxim. His twin, Roman, the youngest Zimin, and Elijah who doesn’t hide his smirk.

It’s a political wedding. A facade. A way of trying to get Marissa under control. We’ll attach ourselves to you and therefore fold everything you’ve created into our own empire.

As if Marissa would stupidly fall for it.

They’re walking into this trap. But then so am I.

The veil blurring my eyesight doesn’t manage to hide Maxim’s cold, dark eyes. A flash goes off and it’s a toss-up on where the picture ends up. On the cover of the latest bridal magazine or the next Dateline .

Even in the heels, I crane my head as I stand in front of Maxim. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and cold dark eyes that continue to bore into me.

He says nothing. There’s no attempt at a smile. No murmur to put his future wife at ease. There is no hint of amusement like his brother’s smirk. If I were a wedding guest, sitting in a pew, I’d elbow Daisy and whisper, “Do you think this guy is bored?”

If he’s not amused now just wait for it.

I’m shaking like a leaf and not because of the chilly, somber church despite the bursting bouquets of white and red flowers. Someone coughs, highlighting the quiet once the orchestra stops playing my death song.

I don’t know what will happen when Maxim lifts the veil over my head. But I know there’s only two options—he’ll either kill or marry me.

And I don’t know which is worse.