A child. An heir.
And then, unbidden:Her.
I push the thought down where it belongs. Into the frozen ground with the rest of my sentiment.
This is a transaction. A contract. Two signatures. Two copies.
I am the Pakhan. I do not make deals with my heart.
But hours later, when the contracts arrive—crisp paper, black ink, clauses sharp enough to cut—I find Riley in the library. She has showered. Changed into clothes my assistant bought without asking: dark jeans and a burgundy wine-colored sweater. The bruise on her cheek looks better. Or maybe I am simply getting used to the sight of damage on her skin.
She reads every word. I watch her lips move. She does not trust me. She is right not to.
She signs first.Riley Miller. The handwriting is vivid. Slanted. Alive.
I sign below her.Mikhail Kutuzov. My signature looks brutal besides hers.
Two copies. Two signatures.
She holds hers against her chest like the placard in the warehouse. A shield. A claim.
“Now what?” she asks.
“Now,” I say, “we begin.”
She looks up at me. The morning sun softens the bruise on her cheek. She is twenty years old and walking into a cage I built, and I want to protect her. The realization unsettles me. It terrifies me more than any bullet ever has.
I step back. Put distance between us. Distance is the only armor I have left.
“The doctor comes tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight...” I stop. Tonight. The word suddenly feels dangerous.
“Tonight, what?” she asks.
“Tonight,” I say, “we do nothing. Rest. This is already enough for one day.”
She nods. She does not look disappointed. But she does not look relieved, either. She walks past me to the window. The same window she stood at last night. She presses her palm to the glass, and her breath fogs the cold surface.
Riley turns her head. Just slightly. And because this girl is full of nothing but surprises, she says, “Hey, Mikhail?”
“Yes?”
“You better not fuck me over.”
I almost smile. “I am many things, Riley. But I am not a man who breaks contracts.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not a girl who allows it.”
She stays at the window. I stay at the door.
The deal is done.
Chapter four
Mikhail
The alarm’s keypad reads 2:14 when I finally return home. The city skyline is purple and amber, the last of the nightlife coughing its final breath into the gutter. My shoulders ache from the weight of the evening. Dealing with Jayshaun’s remnants—four men in a shipping container by the harbor, four mouths that will never speak again. Violence is a tax I pay daily, and tonight the levy was steep.
I expect darkness. Silence. The penthouse breathing its usual sterile rhythm around the girl who sleeps somewhere inside. Instead, Riley is waiting, coiling her fury into something sharp and bright. The combination makes my blood roar.
