Then my eyes snag on a man.
He’s sitting in a chair like he's been waiting. Red suit. Slicked back blond hair that catches the artificial light. A tumbler of clear liquid in his hand.
"Sleeping Beauty rises." His voice is smooth. Accented. Amused. Like this is entertaining.
I try to cover myself, crossing my arms over my chest. It doesn't help. There's too much skin and not enough fabric.
"Where—"
"Somewhere your Ivan can't reach." He takes a sip from his glass and savors it. "Not yet, anyway."
My throat goes dry. "You're Dmitri."
"Guilty." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And you're Lila. The girl who started a war."
"Ivan will kill you for this."
"He'll try." Another sip. "For now, at least. But you see, the beauty of our world—the world you inserted yourself into without understanding the rules—is that we deal in trade. Supply and demand. Basic economics."
I don't understand. My brain is still foggy. Still processing.
He continues like I'm not standing here almost entirely naked and terrified. "Ivan Petrov has something we all want. Something valuable. A huge leverage over the rest of us. He just doesn't realize it yet."
"What are you talking about?"
"Availability." He sets down the glass and stands. "The Petrovs—the strongest Bratva family in Chicago. High line of some of the best. Legacy stretching back generations. And Ivan is the last unmarried Pakhan of his generation. Do you understand what that means?"
I shake my head. I don't understand anything right now.
"It means every family wants him allied through marriage. Every family has daughters waiting. Nieces. Sisters. Women who've been groomed their entire lives for this opportunity." He walks closer. "And he's refused them all. For you."
"So?"
"So you're the problem that needs solving." He circles me now. Predator around prey. "The Volkovs might not have the glory of the Petrovs. Might not have the legacy. But we've always been the ones solving problems. Making things... work."
My heart hammers. "You're wrong. I'm not a problem."
"No." He stops in front of me, getting too close. "You're a profitable problem."
He reaches out and touches my hair. His fingers catch a strand.
I flinch away. "Don't fucking touch me."
"Relax, printsessa." That cold smile appears again. "I don't fuck merchandise. Bad for business. Ruins the value."
The word hits me like a punch. "Merchandise?"
"Moscow pays well for girls like you," he drawls. "American. Pretty. That soft, wide-eyed, sweet ignorance—they love that. The kind of girl who's only ever known malls and milkshakes." His mouth curves. "Even better when she's famous. The girl Ivan Petrov burned his empire for?" He laughs. "You'll make someone incredibly rich."
No. This isn't happening.
"Ivan will?—"
"Ivan will do what's sensible. Eventually." He moves to pour himself another drink. "He'll throw his tantrums. Break things. Kill a few of my men. Heat of the moment reactions. But once you're gone—shipped away to Moscow—you'll slip from his mind. Slowly at first. Then completely. He'll remember his duties and marry a suitable bride. Restore balance as his father intended."
"You don't know him."
"I know everything about him. That's my job." He drinks. "I knew his father. Viktor Petrov was a man of tradition. Honor. Duty. He built an empire on those principles. His son spits on all of it for American pussy."
