There’s a dark smear on page three, right by the line that says Groom. It takes me a second to realize it’s blood. Fresh.
Roman’s signature sits next to it, neat and controlled.
Roman Viktorovich Volkov.
My stomach flips.
He bled on this paper. On purpose? Accident? Both are bad.
“Roman has already signed,” Vadim says. He taps the page with the back of his fingernail and makes the paper jump. “He’s very eager to secure his future. It’s sweet, really. Almost romantic.”
I look up at Roman.
He has moved away from the window now and came closer to the table, but he’s keeping his distance, back against the paneledwall, arms folded, biceps bulging across his chest. His eyes meet mine for one second.
Something unreadable flickers there.
Then he looks away, jaw tight.
“What happens to Mishka if I don’t sign?” I ask.
Vadim smiles. It makes me sick. “We have other options for your brother. My other nephew, for example. Yuri Chernov. He’s very interested in talented, gifted boys, trains them.”
He says “trains” the way some people say “breaks horses.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
“Training program is intense,” Vadim continues, like he’s talking about a workout. “Long hours. No sleep. Constant pressure. Some minds handle it. Some…” He tips his hand back and forth. “Not so much. The last one lasted six months before his head snapped. Interesting sound.” He chuckles to himself. “After that he couldn’t count to ten without screaming. Very sad.”
Holy shit.
My lungs lock.
“She signs,” Roman says suddenly. “Mishka goes to Belgium. There is no ‘Yuri’ option on the table.”
Vadim glances at him. “You’re very sure of yourself tonight, Romochka.” He leans back in his chair, links his fingers over his stomach. “But you are correct about one thing. There is no third option. Either she signs and her brother becomes a little Belgian, or she refuses and we see what Yuri can make from him.” His eyes slide back to me. “Do you want to test whose patience is longer? Mine or yours?”
Sergei shifts beside me. The movement makes his glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them up with a jerky motion and wipes a hand on his trouser leg.
“Page seven,” he mumbles, almost too quiet for me to hear. “There’s… there’s also the clause about… verification.”
My focus snaps to the paragraph his finger is hovering over. The letters swim, but I piece them together.
Verification by a qualified third party that the marriage has been consummated…
My stomach roils.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
Vadim doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. “We are a traditional family,” he says. “We like to know contracts are fulfilled in every sense.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Purely symbolic, of course. A doctor we trust attends, confirms, and leaves. You wouldn’t even have to stop what you’re doing.”
For a second, I genuinely think I might throw up on this very expensive table.
“Nyet.”
The word cracks through the room like a gunshot.
Roman has pushed off the wall and is moving before anyone else even reacts. One second, he’s across the room, the next, he is at the table, looming over Sergei. His hand slams down on the paper so hard the ink bottle wobbles.
