He’s beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—elegant, dangerous, designed to cut.
“Sophia Moretti.” His voice is deep and smooth, with the barest hint of an accent I can’t quite place. Russian, maybe? “Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“My name is Mikhail Artyomov.” He takes a step closer, and I instinctively step back. The men behind me block my retreat. “Your father and I have…unfinished business.”
“I don’t know where he is.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I swear, I haven’t talked to him in months. He doesn’t tell me anything about his business?—”
“I know.” Mikhail’s lips curve into something that might be a smile on anyone else, but on him it looks predatory. “Your father is very good at disappearing when debts come due. He owes me three million dollars, Miss Moretti. And he’s left you to pay his tab.”
Three million? My father gambled and drank, but three million dollars? That’s impossible. That’s…
“I don’t have that kind of money,” I whisper. “I’m a college student. I work part-time at a bookstore. I can barely afford ramen?—”
“I’m not interested in your money.” Mikhail moves closer, circling me like a shark. I force myself to stand still, to meet his gaze even though every instinct screams at me to run. “Your father took something far more valuable from me than money. Something that can never be replaced.”
There’s something in his voice now—a razor edge of pain beneath the cold control.
It makes him more terrifying, not less. A man driven by pure vengeance is unpredictable, dangerous.
“I’m sorry for whatever he did,” I say, and I mean it. My father destroyed everything he touched. “But punishing me won’t bring back whatever you lost.”
“No.” Mikhail stops directly in front of me, so close I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that doesn’t belong in this rotting warehouse. “But it will make me feel better.”
He nods to one of his men, who produces a length of chain from somewhere in the shadows. My heart kicks into overdrive.
“Please.” I hate the pleading note in my voice, but I can’t stop it. “Please don’t do this. I’m not my father. I’m not?—”
“You’re his daughter.” Mikhail’s green eyes bore into mine. “That makes you his legacy. His responsibility. His debt.”
The man cuts the zip tie from my wrists. For one wild second, I consider running. But there’s nowhere to go. Three men block the exit, and Mikhail stands between me and any hope of escape.
Cold metal encircles my wrist—a shackle attached to the chain. They drag me to a thick pipe running along the wall and secure the other end. I pull against it uselessly, the chain rattling with each futile tug.
Mikhail watches with detached interest, like I’m a specimen under glass.
When I finally stop struggling, breathing hard, he crouches down to my eye level.
This close, I can see flecks of gold in his green eyes, can count the faint lines at their corners that suggest he’s closer to mid-forties than I initially thought.
He’s even more devastating up close, and I hate myself for noticing.
“Your father took everything from me,” he says softly, each word precisely enunciated. “Now I’m going to take everything from you, starting with your freedom.”
2
MIKHAIL
The drive to the chapel takes twenty minutes, but it feels like seconds.
My hands grip the steering wheel of the SUV with enough force to make my knuckles white.
Behind me, in the back seat, Sophia sits silent between two of my men.
I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. Not yet.
If I look at her now, I might see Nicole’s face instead.
