My reflection stares back at me from the glass, pale and hollow-eyed. I barely recognize myself anymore. When did I become this person? This woman who's considering marrying a monster because the alternative is watching her family suffer?
But that's not entirely fair, and I know it. Roman isn't just a monster. He's also the man who held me against his office door and made me forget my own name. The man whose blue eyes soften when he looks at me, whose hands are surprisingly gentle despite the violence they're capable of. The man who makes my body respond with embarrassing eagerness every time he's near.
I'm wildly attracted to him. That's the part that makes this so complicated, so impossible to think through clearly. When Roman touches me, when his mouth claims mine with that devastating precision, I forget everything else. The danger. All of it dissolves beneath the heat of his hands on my skin, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
But desire isn't love. Lust isn't a foundation for marriage. I keep telling myself this, repeating it like a mantra, but the words feel hollow. Because what is love, really? Is it the way my heart races when Roman enters a room? The way I catch myself watching him through the glass wall of his office, memorizing the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders fill out his tailored suits? The way I imagine those hands on my body, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips with bruising force?
I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to clear my head. This isn't about attraction. This is about survival. About making impossible choices with no good options.
Roman is dangerous. Violent. A man who kills without hesitation and erases the evidence with terrifying efficiency. I watched his cleaners work after the shooting, saw how practiced they were at making bodies disappear. How can I bind myself to someone like that? How can I bring a child into his world of blood and bullets and men who carry guns beneath expensive suits?
But what choice do I have?
If I refuse, will he force me? The question sits heavily in my chest. Roman has been surprisingly patient so far, giving me time to decide, but I've seen the possessive gleam in his eyes when he looks at my stomach. He wants this child. Wants me. And Roman Sokolov takes what he wants.
Would he take the baby? The thought makes my blood run cold. I don't know enough about family law, about what rights he'd have. But I know he has money, power, and lawyers who could make me disappear from my own child's life. David Brennan, with his expensive suits and careful legal language, restructuring reality to suit Roman's needs.
Or would he destroy my family to punish my defiance? I've seen the cold calculation in his blue eyes when he wants something, the ruthless efficiency with which he handles obstacles. Babushka Sasha's surgery could be denied. Alexei's scholarship opportunities could evaporate. They could suffer because I dared to say no to the Pakhan.
I know he's capable of it. That's what makes this so terrifying.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I jump, my heart hammering. For a moment I think it's Roman, calling to demand an answer. But the screen shows a Russian number. Babushka Sasha.
Relief floods through me as I answer, switching to Russian automatically. "Babushka, how are you feeling? Did the doctor?—"
"Eva." My grandmother's voice cuts through my greeting, frantic in a way I've never heard before. "Eva, something terrible has happened."
My stomach drops to my feet. "What? What's wrong? Is it your heart? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No, no, it's not me." She's crying now, her words tumbling over each other. "It's Alexei. He's gone."
"Gone?" The word doesn't make sense. "What do you mean, gone?"
"He withdrew all his university savings this morning. Every kopek he's been saving for MIT. Then he went to the airport." Her voice breaks. "Eva, he bought a plane ticket to America. He's flying there right now to help find money for my surgery. He thinks… he thinks he can work, can help you, can somehow fix everything."
The room tilts sideways. I sink onto the couch, my free hand gripping the armrest hard enough to hurt. "No. No, Babushka, he can't. He's sixteen. He doesn't understand?—"
"I tried to stop him!" She's sobbing now, the sound tearing at my heart. "But he's so stubborn, just like you. He said you've beensacrificing everything for us, and it's his turn to help. He said he's the man of the family now, that he needs to take care of us."
My vision blurs with tears. Alexei. My brilliant, foolish, brave little brother. Coming to America with his university savings and his determination, walking straight into Roman Sokolov's world without any idea of the danger.
I end the call and stare at my phone, my mind racing. Alexei is coming here. To this city. To me. And Roman's security detail has been watching me for weeks, cataloging everyone I know, every place I go.
They'll know the moment Alexei arrives. They'll report it to Roman. And then what?
My hand drifts to my stomach again, to the life growing there that's changed everything.
24
ROMAN
The morning starts like any other. I'm reviewing shipping manifests when Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom, higher-pitched than usual, edged with panic.
"Mr. Sokolov, Boris Borisov is here with his daughter. They're demanding to see you immediately."
I don't need to ask if they have an appointment. The tremor in Natasha's voice tells me they've already bulldozed past her protests. I glance through the glass wall at Eva, who's bent over her desk, blonde hair pulled back in that sleek bun I want to destroy with my hands. She looks up, brown eyes meeting mine with a question she doesn't voice.
"Send them in," I say, my voice flat.
