Deliberately not much. My father doesn't believe women need information. He believes we need instructions. But I've always been better at listening than he gives me credit for. Fragments gathered from overheard conversations, from the careful way other Bratva men speak his name.
He's the second son. Not the face of the family, that's Liam, the eldest, the one who married the political consultant and made headlines. Killian operates in the margins, the eastern routes, the quieter territories where deals are made in back rooms and handshakes mean more than signatures.
I’d filed this information away the way I file everything, neatly, dispassionately, without expectation.
I'm marrying him because my father told me to, and because the alternative, remaining in the Lazovski house, bearing the weight of my brother’s murder and my sister's sins indefinitely, watching my father's resentment curdle into something even uglier, is no longer survivable.
At least this cage will be new.
The estate appears through the car window like something from a different century. Stone and iron, immaculately maintained, the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. Gates open without a word as we approach, and I feel my mother stiffen beside me.
"Remember what we discussed," my father says from the front seat without turning around. “Be grateful.”
Grateful.
The word settles in my chest like a stone.
I am being given to a stranger to breed, and I am expected to be grateful.
"Of course, Father," I say.
The car stops. My father exits first, buttons his jacket, offers a hand to my mother. I open my own door before anyone can open it for me, a small rebellion, barely noticeable, the only kind I allow myself.
The air outside is cold and sharp, carrying the scent of turned earth and something green. The estate stretches in every direction, gardens and stone walls and a house that looks less like a home and more like a fortress built by men who expected to be attacked.
There are people waiting on the steps. A woman I recognize as Saoirse Orlov, the matriarch, elegant and unreadable. Beside her, a younger woman with auburn hair and a warm expression. Perhaps Saoirse’s daughter.
And standing slightly apart from both of them, at the top of the steps, is a man.
Tall. Still. Dark hair cut short and precise, a charcoal suit that fits like it was sewn onto his frame. His hands are at his sides, relaxed but not loose, the posture of someone who is always aware of exactly where he is.
His eyes find mine the moment I step out of the car.
I feel the impact of his gaze like a physical thing. It’s steady. Almost assessing in its unhurried way. He doesn't smile. Doesn't move. Just watches me cross the gravel with a quiet intensity I feel like I should have been warned about.
Killian Orlov looks at me like he's reading a document. Carefully. Thoroughly. Missing nothing.
I meet his gaze and hold it, because that's what I was trained to do. Show no weakness. Reveal nothing.
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of recognition, as if he's found something he wasn't expecting.
My father steps forward, hand extended, voice carrying the oily warmth of a man who has practiced sincerity until it sounds almost real. "Killian. A pleasure to finally meet in person."
Killian's eyes leave mine slowly, like he's choosing to look away rather than being drawn away, and he takes my father's hand.
"Mr Lazovski." His voice is lower than I expected. Calm and level, with a quality I can't quite name.
He shakes my father's hand once, then releases it and turns back to me.
"Katya," he says.
Just my name. No pleasure to meet you, no you look lovely, no empty social currency. Just my name, spoken quietly, like he's confirming something to himself.
"Killian," I reply, matching his tone.
For a moment, we simply stand there. Two people about to be bound together by vows and obligation, studying each other across three feet of gravel and a silence that feels heavier than it should.
Then his mother steps forward and the moment fractures into pleasantries and ushered movement and the choreography of a wedding that has nothing to do with love.
