"I want you to sit down," I say. "I want you to stop looking like you're about to bolt for the door. And I want you to understand that when I say you're safe here, I mean it."
"Safe." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You kidnapped me."
"I saved you," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I study her for a long moment. The defiance in her eyes despite the fear. The way she's still standing her ground even though every instinct she has must be screaming at her to run.
She's brave. Stubborn. Completely out of her depth and refusing to admit it.
"Sit down, Florrie," I say again, gentler this time. "My brother will be here soon, and it will go better for both of us if you're not falling apart when they arrive."
That gets her attention. "Brother?"
"Yes. Vitali and possibly my Uncle Yury." I move past her to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "They need to meet you. Officially."
"Why?"
"Because this isn’t exactly the way these things are usually done." I pour two fingers into each glass and carry them back. "And it’s important that they get on board, fast."
She takes the glass I offer but doesn't drink. Just stares down at it like it might bite her.
I take a sip of mine, enjoying the way the liquid slides over my tongue, before I continue.
"My uncle is the Pakhan. The head of the family. What he says is law." I watch her carefully, gauging her reaction. "Two months ago, he issued a mandate. All the men in the family, my brothers, my cousins, we have one year to marry and produce an heir. No exceptions."
Her eyes widen. "That's—"
"Archaic? Controlling? Yes." I take another sip. "But it's also how dynasties survive. How power stays in the family. My uncle is old school. He believes in legacy, in blood, in continuing what our grandfather’s grandfather built."
"And you just... go along with it?"
"I don't have a choice." I set my glass down on the coffee table. "None of us do. Refuse, and we're out of the family. Out of the business. Cut off completely."
She's quiet for a moment, processing.
"So that's why you claimed me," she says slowly. "Because you need a wife anyway."
"Partly." I don't lie to her. There's no point. "It solved two problems at once. You needed protection. I needed to fulfill a mandate. It was... efficient."
"Efficient," she repeats, her voice flat. She finally drinks, draining half the glass in one go. When she lowers it, her cheeks are flushed. "Jesus Christ."
I almost smile.
Florrie tenses when there’s a short, sharp knock at the door. "They're here."
"Yes." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket out of habit. "Let me do the talking. Just... follow my lead."
"Like I did in the warehouse?"
"Exactly like that."
The front door opens. This is family property. Privacy is a suggestion, not a rule.
Vitali enters first. My older brother looks exactly like what he is; the heir, the strategist, the one who was groomed from birth to take over when Yury steps down. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that miss nothing. He's in a suit despite the late hour, because Vitali is always in a suit.
My uncle follows him in. Yury Dubovich is forty-five years old and still moves like a man who could put you in the ground without breaking a sweat. He's slightly shorter than Vitali, stockier, with white flecks at his temples and eyes like winter steel. He wears his authority the way other men wear cologne, constantly, and impossible to ignore.
