His scowl deepens. “I know them. They are leagues better than our father.”
Katarina snorts. “That’s not saying much, if it’s even true.”
Dimitri looks up at the ceiling. “The deal is done. The wedding is happening. And you will be protected under the Smiths’ care. This is not up for discussion.”
I wrinkle my nose.
Katarina will be protected—at least that’s our brother’s theory. He’s conveniently leaving out all that he’ll gain from the match. Last I heard, he’d get a piece of Vegas’s most prized real estate, while Katarina gets to live with a monster.
Which is exactly why I’m not letting my brother or my father marry me off.
I’ve got my own plan.
All I need is a little cash.
“I won’t do it,” Katarina cries, her hands clenching into fists, as she surges back to her feet. “You can’t make me.”
Dimitri’s glare is so fierce, we both step back. I was still a child the last time I saw him. I don’t know this man or what he’s capable of and I don’t care to find out.
“I will see you wed to Ryker Smith,” he grits through clenched teeth. “It’s in your best interest and mine. This conversation is done.”
And then he turns, leaving our apartment, and slamming the door behind him.
The Smiths, or the Kincaids—I can’t keep track of these Las Vegas families—have moved us into a building with top security.
They say it’s for our protection. That’s what our father said too, but I know a prison when I’m contained in one.
Cameras everywhere, guards at the entrance and exits, elevators that double as vaults. This is a prison.
And my brother, Dimitri, he’s my new jailer.
I draw in a deep breath as Katarina pushes back up to her feet. “Can you believe that?”
“No,” I shake my head. “All this time, we thought Dimitri would save us…”
“Seriously,” she shakes her head. “He’s just as bad as otets.”
He is not as bad as our father. Our father would have left a plethora of bruises all over Katarina for her impertinence and might have thrown in a broken arm for good measure.
But there is nothing to be gained by pointing this out. “What will you do?”
“I’m not marrying him.” Katarina’s chin notches. “I’ve been a slave long enough.”
“How will you get out of the match?” I ask, turning toward her. We look alike. Same dark hair, same grayish-green eyes, same classic features.
But where I’m petite, Katarina is statuesque. And where I’m analytical, Katarina is brimming with emotion.
“Don’t worry about that. We’re Russian. I’ll come up with something.”
But we’re running out of time. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Once Katarina is married, I’m sure Dimitri will turn his attention to me.
Which means I’ve got a very narrow window of time in which to enact my plan.
Katarina flounces off to her room, leaving me in the living area. I can give the Smiths credit on one front. It’s a very nice apartment. A luxury kitchen with a large island moves into an eating area, which then flows seamlessly into the living room.
A small hall leads to two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom.
I walk down the hall, turning right into my bedroom. The slider at the back opens to a balcony, a vertical row of them leading from my third-floor unit to the ground.
