His hand extends toward me, twirling a strand of my long hair, as if the threat in my tone was nothing but noise. I flinch, and his jaw clenches.
“Do not.Ever. Flinch from me when I touch you.”
That change in tone. That commanding look on his face. I shouldn’t push this monster too hard, I know that, but I hate him. I hate him so much for the way he toyed with me.
“If you don’t like my reactions, then push me off this cliff and be done with it!” I look up at him.
“Don’t be a coward, Cecilia. Doesn’t look good on you.Fight. Me. In fact, fight anyone who tells you what you can or cannot do.”
“Fight you…? Fightyou? You took me away like a pet on a leash. I have nothing—nothing—and I’d never win against you!”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But trying would at least give you something to hold on to.”
“And what is that?”
“Hope. Dangerous, but sometimes necessary. If I were you, I’d take it.”
I shake my head slowly. “The hell you would…”
A faint smile is his only answer before a black Bentley rolls in, stopping directly in front of our car at the viewpoint. I scowl, confusion gripping me. Mikhail continues to smoke, unfazed by the vehicle.
The passenger door opens first, and a man gets out.
He’s tall, broad, his dark hair buzz cut on the sides and longer on top, fading into black tattoos that give him a deadly calmness. When he glances my way, his eyes seem vacant, like the soul inside his body is occupied by demons from the deepest depths of hell. Black jeans and a fitted dark t-shirt cling to his impeccable form instead of a suit, making him look rakish—damaged, but magnetic.
Another door opens and then shuts.
The driver steps out, radiating pure, homicidal intent. Like the previous man, he’s all sharp edges and a mountain of sculpted muscle. The difference lies in his eyes: one gleaming and vicious, a different color from the other. Brown and blue. Strange and menacing. As if nature couldn’t decide what kind of monster to make when he was born.
There’s something oddly hypnotic about them that makes it impossible to look away. Not just the danger they exude, but the raw confidence, the ink that adorns their necks—a testament tothe things they’ve seen and done. When they mosey closer, they look like fallen gods walking between mortal riffraff, almost as arrogant and deadly as my new captor. Almost.
Without having to ask him, my intuition tells me what they are. Russians.Bratva. Men who want the Ferraras dead, the enemies I’ve been hearing about since I was a child. The tattoos mirror those on Mikhail’s skin, giving them away.
“Nu chyo, zhivoy?” the first one says to Mikhail. “You look like you died two weeks ago and forgot about it.”
My future husband offers a curt nod as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Wish I could say I missed seeing your fucked-up faces, but the rotten walls of Antonio’s basement were more interesting.”
Then, the other man—the one with the mismatched eyes—extends his hand to Mikhail for the pack of cigarettes. “Wolfgang is fucking fuming,” he says. “He had to tell the Bratva about Chicago this morning. They might rough you up some more when you get back. Niko’s right, though. You already look like shit.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Rodion.” Mikhail dips his head back, eyes closed, letting the sun simmer on his pale, beaten face. “So it worked then? Chicago is split, and there was no bloodbath?”
“Minor casualties,” Niko chimes in. “You know how theboeviksget when they find filth on our territory.”
Filth. As in, my father’s men? Was Chicago the thing that ripped my life away from me?
I stand here, listening to them while feeling utterly invisible. Mikhail’s jacket is keeping my shoulders warm, but the wind still blows my hair in various directions, draining me. Who even are these people to him? Why did we have to meet them in the middle of nowhere?
Releasing a sulking sigh, I go to the car, grabbing the door handle. I’m about to pull it open when?—
“Leave it. Unless you want to take a dip in the ocean,” Niko mutters in my direction.
I flinch, pulling my hand back. I don’t understand what he means, but his tone isn’t sharp or cruel—just matter-of-fact. Still, I’d rather not test my luck anywhere near him.
“So this is her, huh?” Rodion asks, his eyes gliding over my body with the kind of slow, clinical patience I didn’t expect a man like him to have. It makes my pulse hike, but I try not to cower. “Good luck.”
Mikhail flicks his cigarette onto the pavement at last. He saunters toward the Bentley, leaving my father’s Mercedes behind.
“Get in the car, Cecilia,” he summons me.
