In the three days following the attack, the estate transformed from a residence into a war room masquerading as a wedding venue. There is a terrifying efficiency to how my family handles a crisis. While the florist—a man whose hands trembled as he arranged white calla lilies—set up the altar in the grand conservatory, my men were in the basement cleaning cosmoline off semi-automatic rifles.
I stood on the mezzanine, looking down at the foyer. Below, crates of vintage Cristal were being wheeled in alongside crates of body armor. It was a grotesque juxtaposition, one that had defined my entire existence.
“The Morettis have gone quiet,” Dimitri said, stepping up beside me. He smelled of gun oil. “Too quiet. Enzo knows he can’t hit us while the other families are watching the wedding, but he’s nesting. He’s digging in.”
“Let him dig,” I said, my voice flat. I adjusted the cufflink on my left wrist—gold, embossed with the family crest. “By tonight, she is officially a Lobanov—the rest is ceremony. If he touches her then, he’s not just settling a score with a dead sniper. He’s declaring war on the Bratva. Even the Sicilians won’t back him for that.”
“And the girl?” Dimitri asked, his gray eyes sliding toward the west wing. “How is the future Mrs. Lobanov?”
“She’s breathing,” I replied.
That was all I’d allowed myself to acknowledge. But the truth was more intrusive. I had spent the last seventy-two hours watching her through the digital eyes of the estate’s security system. I watched her pace her room until her feet must have ached. I watched her stare at the meals brought to her, pickingat the food like it was poisoned. I watched her sit by the window, her chestnut hair catching the afternoon light, looking like a Renaissance painting of a martyr.
She was soft. Too soft. Her skin looked like it would bruise if I gripped her too hard, and her eyes were far too honest for a world where a smile was usually a prelude to a throat cutting. She was a psychology student, and she studied the “why” of human behavior. But in my world, there is no “why.” There is only “did” and “done.”
She didn’t belong here. And yet, the thought of her anywhere else—of her in a room with Enzo Moretti, or even back in her quiet, unassuming apartment where she was a sitting duck—made my blood simmer.
“It’s strategy,” I muttered, more to myself than to Dimitri.
“Of course it is,” Dimitri replied, though the tilt of his scarred eyebrow suggested he didn’t believe me for a second.
The signing of the contract took place in my study. The room was a temple to old-world power: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics, a heavy desk carved from a single piece of oak, and the scent of expensive cigars and ancient secrets.
Viktor sat in the high-backed chair, his presence a heavy weight in the room. Roman and Damian stood by the fireplace, shadows in expensive wool. They were there as witnesses, their faces masks of stone.
Then the door opened, and Anya led Mila in.
Mila was wearing a dress I had ordered for her. A simple, high-necked silk sheath in deep emerald green. It was the color of a forest at dusk, and it made her hazel eyes shimmer like glass. She looked small between the towering bookshelves; a rabbit led into a wolf’s den.
But as she approached the desk, she didn’t look at thePakhanor my cousins. She didn’t look at the guards, either. She looked at me.
Her chin lifted. It was a small movement, but in this room, it was a declaration of war. Her eyes, usually so warm and expressive, were chips of ice. She wasn’t cowering anymore. She was vibrating with a silent, focused fury.
“Sit,” Roman suggested.
Mila shot him an appreciative look but remained standing, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I’ve read the document,” she said, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her frame. “It’s a standard prenuptial agreement merged with a non-disclosure agreement and a loyalty oath. You’ve legally bound my life to your family’s assets.”
“It is for your protection,” I said, stepping forward.
“Hm,” she mumbled.
Something in my chest tightened—a sharp, sudden knot that felt dangerously close to admiration.
“The signature, Mila,” I said, my voice dropping to a low warning. “Now.”
I picked up the fountain pen—a heavy, gold-nibbed instrument—and held it out to her.
She stared at the pen as if it were a dagger. For a long moment, I thought she might actually refuse. I thought she might choose the bullet over the ring. And for a split second, a flash of genuine panic flared in my gut. I didn’t want her dead. The realization was a breach in my own defenses, a crack in the armor I had spent decades forging.
Finally, she took the pen from my hand. Our fingers brushed—a momentary contact that felt like a localized electric strike. Her skin was freezing, but the fire in her eyes was hot enough to burn.
She leaned over the desk and scrawled her name across the parchment. She didn’t use a flowery, loopy script like I would have expected. She signed it with jagged, violent strokes.
Mila Petrov.
She dropped the pen down on the desk, raising a brow at me as if to ask, “I’m yours on paper. Are you satisfied?”
“You’ll be safe,” I assured her, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.
