I shake that ugly thought off and stride towards the gazebo. I may make a living helping others barter away their freedom to the highest bidder, but you won’t catch me dead doing it. I’ve looked at the price tag—it’s never worth it.
Marriage is not for me.
I’m halfway through mentally coordinating emergency salads when I catch sight of the plaque. Not “a” plaque—theplaque.
The one that changes everything.
It’s being mounted just outside the chapel doors, all shiny brass and bad font choices. Because nothing says “forever” like tacky serif engraving. I glance at it out of habit, just double-checking the spelling, making sure nobody has accidentally commemorated the wedding of “Kevyn with a Y” to “Kayleeeigh with three E’s.”
And then I stop.
Blood: cold.
Breath: caught.
Life: very much fucking over.
Because the groom’s name reads:Petyr Gubarev.
That name doesn’t belong here. Not in this fairy tale venue, not in this idyllic corner of upstate New York, not anywhere near the civilian life I’ve spent years duct-taping together.
But there it is. Petyr Gubarev. The newpakhanof the Gubarev Bratva—as of last week.
Panic seizes me by the throat. I remember the story that’s been dominating the news this month: famed Russian crime boss Vladimir Gubarev was shot in broad daylight on his way to church, killed on the spot. Dimitri Gubarev, his eldest son, took a bullet, too. He was spared the same quick death his father got, but he’s currently comatose. The prognosis is grim.
Then I recall the clips that followed: Petyr Gubarev, Vladimir’s second son, giving a public speech to assure the company’s shareholders that the family business was in good hands. Only, it sounded more like a threat to whoever dared to aim a gun at his kin.
That “whoever,” I’m fairly certain, was my dad.
I can’t knowfor sure, but I was in that life long enough to read the writing on the wall. I remember how my father operates, the lengths he’ll go to secure his power.
Usually, he prefers to do it through arranged marriages.
Then again, I didn’t give him much of an opportunity to barter me away.
I’ve spent years avoiding the Gubarev name. Keeping a low profile, ducking my head so far below their radar they’d never think to check. And why would they? I have a new name. A new life.
I’m no longer the twelve-year-old Bratva princess in pigtails they called “Sima.”
I’m just Sammi now.
And yet, cold sweat still breaks across my back. In the Bratva world, bad blood never fades—it just festers. And when it eventually spills, it spillsugly.
Which means one thing:I have to get out of here.
Every instinct is screaming at me to bolt, right this fucking second. If anyone recognizes me for who I truly am, I’m either getting ransomed or executed, and honestly, I’m not sure which one would be the worse family reunion.
But I can’t blow off this job. Not when my entire escape plan depends on the bonus check I’m supposed to get at the end of the night.
So I do the only thing Icando.
I lie.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” I tell Jemma, clutching my stomach for emphasis. “You know—nausea, chills, a concerning churn in my lower regions.”
She eyes me with suspicion. “Is this about the ringbearer eating the boutonniere again?”
For the sake of my own sanity, I pretend I didn’t just hear that. “Can you be point person for the rest of the day? I’ll be nearby, just… less visible. Like a wedding fairy.”
