“You want me to spy on my own husband?” I ask, buying time while my mind races ahead, mapping contingencies, escape routes, counter-strategies.
“I want you to remember where your loyalties lie.” He crosses to where I sit and places a heavy hand on my shoulder. It isn’t as loving as it might appear. “You are brilliant,??? ????.The most brilliant of all my children.” Then his grip tightens painfully. “But brilliance without purpose is just noise.” I hate it when he says'my daughter' in Russian, as if it’s supposed to lessen the blow.
I manage a stiff nod, and he releases me.
“Go—Pack for New York. You leave tomorrow morning. Nicolai is already setting up your accommodations.”
I want to argue against the idea. How an arrangement made decades ago… is sexist and pointless. After a few minutes, they leave. I remain seated, the digital display still hovering above the table. I wave my hand, and the data streams shift to reveal a line of coding I recognize. I’ve seen the signature on the dark web: the same elegant efficiency, the same distinctive markers. The signature of a ghost I tangled with once before—and never forget. Why would this line of code be embedded here? Does the hacker work for the Rosso s? But I can’t spend too much timeon this. There are more important things I need to focus on. If I could hack my way into the Italian’s server and leave a backdoor or Trojan horse, I might find the evidence I need. I turn on the tablet. There is a folder labeled Rafa Rosso.
Rafa Rosso.My future husband.
I scroll through the surveillance photos on my tablet—the ones Nicolai sent from New York. There is also a short bio. An MIT graduate. Handles all cyber work for the Rosso s. It’s implied that he is a hacker. Could he be…? No, impossible. I would know his name if the line of code were his. Being an MIT graduate doesn't necessarily mean you're a hacker.
I close the files and make my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Petrov estate, nodding to the guards who track my every movement. In my private quarters—the only place swept daily for surveillance—I lock the door and sink to the floor.
Three months. Ninety days.
Not enough time to sever the chains that bind me to the Bratva.
Unless…
I open my laptop and begin working, fingers flying across the keys. If Rafa Rosso is indeed behind the… if he’s stealing from the shared accounts…
I can use it. Expose him. Break the engagement.
And if not—if he’s just a pawn like me—maybe we can negotiate a different kind of arrangement. The enemy of my enemy might just be an ally.
The flight to New York is booked. First class. One-way.
In twelve hours, I will meet my middle brother, Nicolai, the strategist . He will help me. Nicolai is the only member of my family who treats me like a person, not some commodity .
In three months, I will be free—one way or another.
I just need to remember the first rule of survival in the Bratva:
Everyone bleeds eventually.
CHAPTER 3
Rafa
Her face fills my screen—eyessharp as blades, mouth set in a line that refuses to give anything away. Kira Petrov. Twenty-seven years old. Fluent in six languages. Graduate of Harvard University with a double degree in applied mathematics and computer science.
This is the woman I'm supposed to marry. I can’t deny she is stunning.
I dig deeper, sifting through layers of digital breadcrumbs. Publicly, she's the Director of International Relations for the Petrov Group—a legitimate conglomerate that serves as the pristine mask covering the Bratva's bloodstained operations.
"Stalking your future wife? That's definitely not creepy at all."
I don't turn around. I recognize the voice—smooth as expensive whiskey, with an undercurrent of perpetual amusement. Luca Greco materializes beside me, propping himself against my desk with the casual grace of someone who's never been unwelcome anywhere in his life.
"It's called intelligence gathering," I mutter, minimizing one of the windows as Luca leans closer.
"Intelligence gathering," he repeats with a smirk. "Is that what we're calling spank bank material these days?"
I shove him away. "How did you get in here?"
"Your security is shit." He grins, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "Also, I have a key."
