But then, a small, persistent part of me—a part I thought I had buried years ago in the killing fields of my youth—whispered something else.
It whispered that I had wanted this since the moment I saw her beside Anya’s broken-down car. It whispered that I had manipulated the situation, leaning into the necessity of the marriage because it gave me the one thing I wasn’t allowed to have: a reason to take her.
“Strategy,” I whispered to the glass.
I ignored the way my heart hammered against my ribs. I ignored the way my skin felt too tight for my body. I ignored the fact that for the first time in thirty-three years, I wasn’t just planning a move.
I was waiting for a prize.
The Morettis were coming, and I would destroy them. My family was watching, and I would satisfy them. But Mila Petrov was mine, and by this time tomorrow, the entire world would know it.
I turned away from the window and picked up the bottle of scotch on my desk, pouring a glass. The amber liquid caught the light of the monitors.
Tomorrow, I will put a ring on her finger. Tomorrow, I will tie her to a life of violence and shadows. And if she hates me for it, so be it.
As long as she is alive to hate me, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
I drained the glass, the burn of the alcohol matching the burn in my gut. I sat back down.
She’s safe. For now.
And as for the rest of it—the desire, the memory of her name on the balcony, the way she made me feel like something more than a weapon, I pushed it all down into the dark.
I’m Alexei, I don’t feel. I execute.
And that part of me that kept whispering? I ignored it.
Chapter Five
Mila’s POV
The city of New York shimmered beyond the bulletproof glass of the Lobanov estate, but to me, it looked like a holographic projection—a world that no longer existed.
I sat perched on the edge of a velvet vanity stool, my spine as rigid as the corset boning beneath my gown. The morning air was sharp and clear, the kind of day that should have signaled a new beginning. Instead, it felt like the quiet before a controlled demolition.
“Mila, stop. You’re going to give yourself a migraine if you keep staring at your own pupils like that.”
Anya’s voice was a welcome anchor, though her reflection in the mirror was almost too bright to look at. She stood behind me, her fingers fluttering through my hair as she tucked a stray chestnut curl into a cluster of pearls. She looked every bit the Bratva princess—radiant, poised, and utterly at home in a house teeming with men who killed for a living.
I looked back at my own reflection. The gown was a masterpiece of pale cream silk, a color Anya had insisted on. It was elegant. It was simple. The boatneck collar and long, tapering sleeves gave me a regal silhouette that felt like a costume. Nothing about this day felt like mine. Not the dress, not the heavy platinum ring waiting on the dresser, and certainly not the name I was about to take.
“I feel like I’m being prepped for a taxidermy exhibit,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow in the cavernous master suite.
“You look like a queen,” Anya corrected, though her smile didn’t quite reach her green eyes. Of course, she couldn’t deny her dislike for my lack of choice in the matter, even though she was so positive about her brother and me working out.
She reached for the bottle of vintage champagne chilling in a silver bucket nearby. The ice rattled—a sharp, jagged sound in the heavy silence. “And queens don’t get taxidermized. They rule.”
She popped the cork with a practiced flick and poured two glasses. The bubbles hissed, a frantic, tiny sound that mimicked the static in my brain.
“Here,” she said, pressing a crystal flute into my hand. “Drink. It’s the good stuff. Alexei’s private reserve. Apparently, he thinks a hundred-year-old vintage can solve existential dread.”
I took a sip. It was crisp, cold, and tasted like ash.
“I heard a joke this morning,” Anya revealed, chuckling. “What do you call a Lobanov wedding with no security? A funeral.”
I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t even manage a polite curve of the lips. The reality was too close. The estate was under a level of lockdown that felt more like a military occupation. From the window, I could see the black SUVs lined up in the driveway. Armed men in dark suits patrolled the perimeter, their hands never far from the holsters beneath their jackets.
I was safe here. Safe in the way a prisoner is safe inside a fortress.
