Page 6 of Bleed with Me

“Really?” He ran his hand through his perfectly styled hair, tousling it. “Now you start with this nonsense?”

“It’s the truth,” I said, my voice trembling. His understanding was my last chance to avoid the bullet. “Sonny already attacked me in our garden house years ago. Who will stop him from beating me when I am his wife?”

“Enough, Nina,” Dad grumbled, shaking his head. “Enough of this fabricated nonsense to avoid your responsibility.”

“Responsibility?” I echoed, surprise lacing my voice, but he didn’t allow me to say more.

“Yes,” he barked, his eyes gleaming angrily in the light from the street lamps. “You have a responsibility toward your entire family and me. And I’m done listening to your excuses and objections. You will marry Sonny Carlile.”

“I won’t—” I started, but he cut me off instantly.

“You. Will. Marry. Sonny. Carlile!” He repeated in a deadly voice that enveloped my chest like an iron chain. “Am I clear, Nina?”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, knowing that starting another round was pointless. He never listened to me. His only goal was getting off Zyon’s radar. And I understood it, I really did, but I refused to be the sacrificial lamb.

My last hope had been convincing Dad that Sonny was a monster. It failed. At least the party at Starlight was only two days away.

-4-

Nina

The loft at the Upper East Side was always my sanctuary. Dad bought this place so I could have peace and privacy to play music, but I hadn’t touched the piano in more than three years. The car accident in which I broke four fingers on my right hand stopped me from playing and writing the music I loved so much. It also cut off my favorite hobby, archery.

Grandpa took me under his wing the moment I showed up at my father’s doorstep, and we quickly became close. He loved archery and spent hours on the training grounds he’d built because, according to him, it helped him think. His whole life, he’d hoped for a grandson to pass the skill on to since my father had no interest, but he got me instead. And he did a damn good job. I fell in love with the sport and trained with him every day until a drunk driver hit my car and destroyed what had given my life meaning.

The best surgeons in the country repaired my hand, but they couldn’t restore full mobility to my ring finger. No one would notice, but I couldn’t clench my fist completely or control the finger well enough to always hit the piano key correctly.

Before the accident, I used to perform three times a week at Four Seasons, consistently selling out the hall. Then, I locked myself up in this place and composed. The accident took that from me.

Archery suffered, too. Grandpa had taught me the Mediterranean draw, using my index, middle, and ring fingers to pull the string, but with an injured hand it was no longer possible. My trainer suggested changing techniques or trying a different bow, but I refused. The thrill of hitting the target was gone.

I sat on the chair before the grand black piano, tracing my fingers along the keys. I didn’t allow anyone to touch it. My housekeeper dusted everything, but she followed my orders and let me take care of my precious instrument. I wiped the dust off slowly, imagining the tones each key would make.

The music echoed in my mind, calming my nerves, but I flinched at the sound when I accidentally pressed the key. It was alien to me, almost violent when it pierced my ears. In my head, it was gentle and beautiful, like a melody resonating through the blossoming meadow. But the reality was harsh and forceful, almost as if it represented the disaster I was drowning in.

Sighing exasperatedly, I threw the rag away, grabbed my bag, and entered my bedroom. In the walk-in closet, behind my robes for special events, I kept my most recent secret obsession.

Dorian Zhumagulov.

His photos, newspaper pictures, and the front page of Vogue magazine were pinned to the handmade board, designed precisely for this occasion. I cut his gorgeous face from the pages and arranged them all over the wall, musing on whether taking some secret shots of him on my own was too stupid and dangerous. If he noticed me following him around, he might think I did it because we were enemies. The truth was, I simply couldn’t stop thinking about him.

I took the magazine from my purse and opened it to the page with an interview with him. I gently touched his photo, my heart going wild.

He sat behind a massive glass desk, surrounded by his medical team, smiling into the camera. His eyes glowed with the excitement of someone who had achieved everything he wanted. His dark hair was combed back, and tattoos peeked from under the right sleeve of his lab coat. Only his fingers stayed untouched. A luxurious golden watch and a set of bracelets encircled his wrist, and he held an expensive, custom-made silver pen with his monogram.

The picture was perfect, underscoring his tremendous success in opening a hospital in such a short time. My father claimed that the Zhumagulovs used all their influence and money to secure permits and licenses, but at least they used their unlimited resources to help people.

Carefully cutting out the photo, I focused mainly on Dorian. No one else interested me but him. My eyes traced the lines of his face while I worked, memorizing every inch of him: the high cheekbones, chiseled jaw covered in gentle stubble, and, most importantly, big hazel eyes framed by curtains of long eyelashes that stared right into my aching heart. His contagious smile, even when it was only from paper, had the power to lift my spirit like nothing else.

Despite being identical triplets, his brothers didn’t possess that charm. They looked at people like demons ready to eat their souls. They were impossibly handsome but frightening, true crime lords, while Dorian was full of smiles and winks and was always in a good mood. I was sure he was the family sweetheart.

I pinned the photo into my collection and sat on the ground. Leaning on my palms, I admired the man, but my mind wandered to the upcoming event. I had already picked a stunning dress that would surely catch attention, and worked on plans to get as close to Dorian as possible. Still, showing up uninvited could cause trouble.

When I asked Dad if our invitation got lost in the mail, he grimaced like he had swallowed something spoiled. Every Italian family was invited to Dorian’s party, except mine. It was obvious the Zhumagulovs ignored us because of the current situation. It was part of the punishment for my grandpa’s plans.

I spent two hours in the quiet of my walk-in closet, thinking about my options. Lucas had already bought me a ticket to Europe if nothing else worked, but I wasn’t very open-minded about that possibility.

First, if Zyon didn’t kill my dad, my dad would easily find me and drag me back, and second, I didn’t have full access to my money. I would get it after my twenty-fifth birthday. Grandpa believed eighteen-year-olds were still kids and needed their parents’ oversight, so he conditioned access to his millions by age. As the only grandchild, I would inherit Grandpa’s money as he wished in his will, while Dad got the other assets. Still, surviving a year in poverty or a marriage with Sonny seemed impossible.