The question landed like a slap. She was right to ask it—in my world, the distinction wasn't always clear. Women married into Bratva families and disappeared into gilded cages, their identities subsumed by their husbands' names.
But that wasn't what I was offering. At least, I didn't think it was.
"Yes," I said. "There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"You'd have freedom. Resources. Protection. You could continue your work, live your life, be whoever you want to be." I paused. "The marriage would be a legal shield. Nothing more."
"Nothing more."
"Unless you wanted it to be."
I hadn't meant to say the words—they'd slipped out before I could stop them. But they were true, and we both knew it.
She was quiet for a long moment, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I could give her.
"Why?" she asked finally. "Why would you do this? What do you get out of it?"
It was a fair question. A smart question. And I didn't have a good answer—at least, not one that made logical sense.
"I've been watching you for a week," I admitted. "Following you. Learning your routines. Trying to figure out who you really were."
Her eyes widened. "You've been stalking me?"
"I prefer surveillance."
"That's not better."
"No. It's not." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself, with this situation, with everything. "I knew something was wrong. Your identity was too clean, too perfect. I should have dug deeper. Should have figured out who you were before—" I stopped. "But I didn't. Because I wanted you to tell me yourself. I wanted to earn your trust."
"By stalking me."
"By protecting you. Even before I knew you needed it."
She laughed—a harsh, disbelieving sound. "This is insane. You're insane. I'm standing in a parking garage with aman who just killed four people, and he's proposing marriage like it's a reasonable solution to my problems."
"It is a reasonable solution."
"It's the most unreasonable thing I've ever heard."
"Then give me a better option."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"That's what I thought." I gestured toward the elevator. "Come upstairs. Get some rest. You don't have to decide anything tonight."
"But I do have to decide."
"Yes. Eventually."
She looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the calculation in her eyes. The fear, yes, but also the intelligence. The pragmatism. She was weighing her options, measuring the risks, trying to figure out which path led to survival.
I knew what conclusion she'd reach. There was only one answer that made sense.
Finally, she nodded.
