Prologue
Bella
They say every girl dreams of her wedding day. You know the one—flowing white dress, flowers everywhere, a dashing groom gazing at her like she hung the moon. A fairy tale.
This?This is a horror story.
“Do you, Isabella Marquez, take Konstantin Belov to be your lawfully wedded husband…” The priest’s voice drones on, thick with the kind of reverence that makes me want to scream.
Isabella Marquez. That’s my actual name. But standing here in this ridiculous couture wedding dress, under vast chandeliers, I barely recognize myself. I’m supposed to be selling houses, not starring in some mob boss’s nightmare masquerading as a wedding.
In a room of three hundred guests, you’d think I’d spot at least one familiar face among them. But then again, it’s not like I had any say in the guest list for my own wedding.
How did I get here? Oh, right. Desperation.
Two weeks ago, on my birthday, my life turned into a masterclass in how to screw up spectacularly—the kind where your inner voice gives up and just starts slow-clapping in disappointment.
First, I broke into a house.
Not just any house, mind you, but a sprawling fortress perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I told myself it wasn’t really breaking in because the gate wasn’t even locked. That should have been the first red flag.
Second, I smoked a joint.
A bonus present from my best friend Elena, who thought I needed to “chill out.”Spoiler alert:I did not chill out.Instead, I wandered deeper into the mansion, marveling at the kind of luxury that makes you question all your life choices. Marble floors, gold fixtures, silk curtains that went on forever.
And then came mistake number three: I got turned on by a portrait.Yes,you heard me. A massive, brooding portrait of a man hanging above the fireplace in the master bedroom. He had storm-gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a gaze so intense it felt like he could see right through me.
I ended up sprawled across sinfully soft silk sheets, clutching Elena’s “happy birthday” gift and imagining all kinds of inappropriate scenarios involving the man in the painting.
That’s when I found out the man wasn’t just art. He was very real. And very present.
“To have and to hold…” The priest keeps going, oblivious to the fact that I’m sweating under about forty pounds of satin. I dart a glance at my soon-to-be husband, who looks like sin personified. Tall, brooding, and entirely too composed,Konstantin Belov is the kind of man you’d swipe right on… if you were also swiping for your own death warrant. The worst part? That portrait that got me into this mess didn’t even capture half of how dangerous he looks in person.
Stop. Stop. STOP.The word pounds in my head with each heartbeat, but my mouth stays shut.
My legs feel like they want to run on their own, but I’m rooted in place. I feel his stare—sharp, heavy, and way too close. Eleven inches. That’s the gap between us—and trust me, I know my measurements. Selling million-dollar properties means I can eyeball square footage in my sleep. Right now? I’m measuring something else entirely. Because there’s Konstantin Belov in his perfect Armani suit, and my traitorous eyes are sliding down to the impressive bulge of—
Oh, for the love of God. Focus.
I drag my eyes back up, but not before my brain unhelpfully supplies: This man is packing, and not just in the murdery, mafia-boss sense. My cheeks heat as I force myself to look at his face. A head taller than me, Konstantin is just staring down like he’s got all the time in the world. Judgy, gorgeous, and utterly terrifying.
His gaze locks onto mine with the intensity of a predator who’s found something interesting to play with, and a jolt of something—panic, maybe lust, definitely regret—shoots through me. He looks absurdly calm, like this is just another day in his murdery, mafia-boss calendar. Married strangers? Probably. Sent them to their doom afterward? Yeah, I’d bet my uncomfortable satin underwear on it. A billionaire, mob boss, and single dad all wrapped in an Armani suit. Pick one lane, sir.
I don’t even know this man.Oh, wait. I do knowfourthings:
He’s Konstantin Belov, Big Sur’s most terrifying property mogul-slash-mob boss. A real-life devil in an expensive suit.
He has three kids. I met one of them this morning—a tiny assassin with pigtails and a death glare.
