She wasn't wrong. That's the thing about Grace. She’s never wrong and far more intelligent than people give her credit for. Apart from her husband, who utterly worships her and makes sure everyone knows how brilliant she is. I’d been sighing dreamily about finding a man like that when another wave of nausea washed over me.
The car arrives as I take one last look in the mirror. I slip my feet into the heels, feeling the immediate shift of pressure through my pelvis. I take another pain killer. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to stand in these for approximately two hours before the pain becomes visible. Two hours should be enough.
In the back of the car, I open the folder Grace gave me. Inside are photographs, names, financial summaries. Men from various families. All Bratva.
But one name catches my eye.
Mostovoi.
There are five of them. A family that operates in the space between legitimate business and the kind of power that doesn't require legitimacy.
I've done my research. Three weeks of it, late at night, with my laptop balanced on my knees and a hot water bottle pressed against my stomach because the cramping is always worse aftermidnight. I know their names, their ages, their estimated net worth. I know which properties they own, which politicians they've purchased, and which businessmen owe them favors.
Rovin, the eldest, is rumored to be selecting a wife tonight. And if that’s the case, his brothers will likely follow. At least that’s what Grace thinks.
I'm not here for romance or passion or a love story worthy of a Netflix deal.
I'm here because there’s a surgery that will stop my body from destroying itself, and I can’t afford it, but the men at this dinner can.
That's the transaction. My body, my loyalty, my future fertility, in exchange for the medical care that will allow me to have a future worth living at all.
I close the folder. The cramp tightens in my lower stomach and I press my hand flat against it, breathing through the pulse of it. The car moves through the city, headlights slicing through the drizzle, and I watch the wet streets blur past. I’d laugh at how ludicrous this was if it weren’t for the wire of desperation threaded through my veins.
What scares me is dying at twenty-six with nothing to show for it except a filing cabinet of medical records and a body that betrayed me before I ever got the chance to use it properly.
If men like the Mostovoi’s want wives badly enough to buy them, then I intend to make myself invaluable.
Akyl
The house where the dinner is being held is the same as last time. Same furniture, same lighting, same careful arrangement of crystal and candlelight designed to make an auction feel like a social event.
I despise these evenings.
"Stop looking like you're attending a funeral," Rovin says without turning his head.
"I'm attending something considerably less dignified,” I mutter, craning my neck slightly to see if it was Theo Nevolin who just walked by or if my eyes were playing tricks on me.
"It’s important for your future."
"My future involves sitting in a room while women are paraded past me like selections at a particularly upscale restaurant. Forgive me if I don't radiate enthusiasm."
Rovin's mouth twitches. He finds my discomfort entertaining, which is a quality I tolerate in him only because he is my brother and because he could kill me with relatively little effort.
"Choose someone," he says. "Tonight. I won't ask again. That goes for all of you.” His words are a warning to our three brothers standing just behind us. Serik rolls his eyes and Dayan looks bored. Volody wears the same grin he always does, like mischief is just around the corner waiting especially for him. You wouldn’t believe he has killed men twice his size.
"You'll ask again. You always ask again."
"Akyl." His voice drops, and the humor leaves it. "The family needs this. Stability. Wives. Children. The other families respect legacy. Without it, we're exposed."
He isn’t wrong. I know he isn’t wrong. The Bratva runs on bloodlines and permanence. A single man, however rich, however dangerous, is a loose end. A married man with heirs is something nobody can pull apart.
I understand the strategy. It’s the execution I find distasteful.
"I'll look," I say. "I'm not promising anything else."
We enter the reception room. It is arranged identically to the previous dinners, low lighting, heavy drapes, a fire burning in a marble fireplace to combat the gray, drizzly night outside. The hostess, Rita, materializes at Rovin's elbow with a stack of folders.
"Mr. Mostovoi. We have an excellent selection this evening. I have profiles prepared for your review."
