“If the heir misuses it, their family suffers. If they choose well, they rise. This year, two prominent heirs were made bosses and given a card. One cartel in Venezuela, and a Russian bratva.”
He exhales like he’s swallowing poison.
“And the Russian,” he says, “has claimed you first.”
I blink. “Claimed me?”
“As his bride.”
My vision tunnels for a second.
“A Russian gangster wants to marry me?” The sentence feels absurd leaving my mouth.
“Not wants,” Dad says grimly. “He didn’t ask. He demanded.”
My skin prickles cold, and my heart protests, the adrenaline causing my hands to shake.
“What’s his name?”
“Gustav Sokolov.”
A faint memory stirs. Whispers from Dad’s office. Men lowering their voices when his name surfaced. Never anything clear. Just tension. Fear.
“That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. He’s called the mad bratva butcher. His dad passed, and now he reigns. Every boss is on edge. No one knows what this lunatic intends to do with his card.” Dad’s jaw ticks. “But the first name he chose was yours.”
The room sways.
Me.
A virgin who can’t make it past a third date.
Promised to a man known for madness, violence, and cold calculation.
I grip the calendar harder, as if the paper might anchor me.
“Dad,” I whisper, “why me?”
His answer is a quiet knife.
“Because he wants what every man in our world wants, lil one.”
He looks at me sadly, almost apologetically.
“The daughter of a powerful mafia family as his wife, and possibly… something untouched.”
Chapter 2
Peighton
My suitcase sits open on my bed like a gaping mouth waiting to be fed. But I don’t move.
I can’t.
I just stand in the doorway staring at it, as if the longer I avoid putting anything inside, the more I can pretend none of this is happening. My fingers clutch the edge of the bedpost so hard my knuckles ache.
I’m not going to Russia.
