I’m not marrying a stranger.
Least of all, a rumored madman.
The floor creaks behind me.
I whirl around and gasp.
A man fills my bedroom doorway. His black suit stretches over his shoulders like the seams are begging for mercy. Hisjaw is squared and shaved, eyes dark and unreadable. Forty-something, and handsome in that action-star sort of way.
The bald manthat shadowed me earlier.
He doesn’t introduce himself. He doesn’t move. He just watches me, hands clasped in front of him. Tattoos cover the front of his hands. Must be a bratva coat of arms. Family is big in our world.
“Wh-what are you doing in here?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, trying again. “Who are you?”
His answer is calm. Flat, and frankly, terrifying.
“I belong to you.”
My lungs stop working.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“A gift from your future husband.”
A beat.
“My name is Micha.”
My stomach drops like a stone. None of this feels real. I know I grew up differently than most girls my age, but still, an arranged marriage was never something I worried about. It’s uncommon, especially among American mafia families.
“Well, you can un-gift yourself,” I snap, trying to muster bravery. “Because I’m not going to Russia. I’m not marrying anyone. So whatever message Gustav sent you with, you can return to sender.”
Micha doesn’t blink.
“That is not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because he claimed you, and if I return empty-handed, my death will follow.”
I grimace despite already knowing defying a mob boss is always death, even in my family. My dad runs the Blood Masons with equal ruthlessness.
Holding myself, I back away until the bed hits the backs of my knees.
“No. I can’t... he doesn’t even know me. He can’t just—”
A different voice cuts through my panic.
“Peighton.”
Dad steps into the room, his expression lined with exhaustion. His suit jacket hangs open, as though he’s been pacing the whole house trying to figure out how to tell me the one thing he fears.
“We don’t have a choice,” he says sternly.
I shake my head. “No, Dad, please. I’m your daughter. I’m not property. This isn’t—”
“It’s the Yellow Card,” he interjects, voice taut. “A radical but important law every empire obeys. If we defy it, the Council will come for us.”
