“I will not marry Irina Petrova,” I say, plain.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether it’s worth repeating himself, then turns and walks back to his chair. When he sits, his voice is calm again. “Fine. Then tell me—what should I tell Boris when he calls tomorrow to confirm?”
I set the glass down and look at him. “Tell him I’m already engaged.”
His head snaps up. “To whom?”
“You taught me discretion,” I say. “Consider this one of your lessons.”
“Don’t make a fool of me.”
“I’m not,” I answer. “I’m simply… protecting what we have.”
He stares at me, trying to read whether that’s bravado or a plan. “If she doesn’t exist,” he says, “Boris will tear us apart.”
“Of course she exists. I’m not a psycho that’d lie and say I had a fiancée if I didn’t. I just don’t bother sharing my personal life with you.”
Vladimir exhales through his nose, something between anger and reluctant amusement. “You’ll have to bring her to Italy then and present her to our allies,” he says, dry.
“Will do,” I say as I head for the door.
I don’t look back. The corridor outside is colder; the chandeliers throw hard light across the marble. Portraits of men who thought fear would save them look down on me; it never did.
By the gate my phone is already in my hand. I dial Lev with one motion.
“Da, boss.”
“Find me a woman.”
There’s a pause. “Specifics?”
“She has to look posh. Not fragile. Smart enough to stand with me and not be a problem.”
He whistles low. “Short list.”
“You have until morning.” I don’t soften the deadline.
“What is this about?” he asks.
“She needs to pretend to be engaged to me,” I say. “Make it look true.”
“Understood.”
I hang up and step outside. The wind catches my jacket, pulling at it as I walk, but I don’t slow down. I keep thinking about my father’s face when he realized I wasn’t afraid of him anymore, how quiet he went after that. Let him rage, let Boris make his threats. They can keep their deals, their daughters, their politics. I obey to no one.
As it turns out, Iama psycho. And a need a fake fiancée now.
CHAPTER TWO
Kira
The city feels almost kind tonight. Warm for October, the kind of afternoon sunlight that lingers between the buildings, soft and gold, touching everything it can’t quite warm. For once, I don’t take the car. It’s late, but the streets are bright enough—neon signs, open windows, snippets of laughter from bars spilling into the air. My shoes ache from twelve hours on my feet, but walking feels better than sitting in traffic and pretending the silence beside me isn’t waiting to swallow me whole.
Lilly walks next to me, the rhythm of her steps light and careless. She always moves like the world owes her a favor and I love that for her. “You know, most people celebrate the end of a shift by doing something fun,” she says, sipping her coffee. “A bad decision, a drink that turns into a blackout.”
I smirk. “You’re describing your last Friday, not mine.”
“That’s the point,” she says, bumping my shoulder. “You need one.”
