Page 1 of Claimed By River

Prologue

Nadia

Two Years Ago

The elevator doors slide open to the top floor of my father’s building, and my stomach sinks before I even step into the hallway. Home is supposed to be where people feel safe. Mine never has been.

I tighten my fingers around my purse strap as I walk toward the massive double doors leading into my father’s apartment. The laughter from dinner with my friends still lingers in the back of my mind, already fading beneath the familiar knot of anxiety that always returns the closer I get to him.

For a few hours, I’d almost forgotten whose daughter I am. Reality has a cruel way of reminding me.

The guard outside the apartment nods once before unlocking the door. He doesn’t stay here to keep people out. He’s here to keep tabs on me: where I’m going, who I’m with, how long I’m gone. Never has there been a boy, never a party without a driver waiting at the curb, never an hour of my life my father hasn’t accounted for. I thank him quietly and step inside, instinctively keeping my footsteps light across the polished marble floor. The penthouse is beautiful in the way expensive museums are beautiful.

Every piece of furniture costs more than most people earn in a year. A Chagall hangs in the entry, a Klimt nearby. Purchased at an auction, hung where guests would notice them, and never thought of again. Crystal chandeliers drop from impossibly high ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the glittering lights of Los Angeles.

Yet despite all the luxury surrounding me, the apartment feels cold—always has. Empty. Like every room is holding its breath. My father likes control more than comfort.

Most people know Damir Aronov as the wealthy owner of a successful construction company. His name means “giver of peace.” My mother told me that once, and then she laughed in a way that frightened me. He donates to charities, attends fundraising galas, and shakes hands with politicians while photographers capture every smile.

People see an influential businessman. They never see the man who comes home. They never hear the threats delivered in a calm voice or witness the fear that follows him from room to room. They certainly never see the darker business conducted behind the closed doors of his office as the head of the bratva.

I learned a long time ago that survival means staying invisible.

I quietly slip off my shoes and start toward the hallway leading to my bedroom, hoping he’ll already be asleep. My pulse steadies with every silent step until I notice the faint strip of light spilling across the hallway from beneath his office door.

No.

My heart rate immediately spikes. I tell myself that if I move quietly enough, he’ll never know I’m home. Maybe he’s busy with one of his associates. Maybe he’s on the phone. Maybe…

“Nadia.” His voice slices through the silence like a knife.

Despite the years he’s spent in America, his voice still carries Russia in it, and the accent thickens with rage. Every muscle in my body freezes. Slowly, I close my eyes before turning toward the office. I step inside, lowering my gaze automatically.

My father sits behind his enormous mahogany desk, wearing one of his perfectly tailored charcoal suits, despite the late hour. He looks exactly as he always does: impeccably groomed, broad-shouldered, completely composed.

His shaved head gleams beneath the overhead light while his brown eyes remain as cold and unreadable as polished stone. Several folders lie open across his desk.

“You wished to see me?” I ask quietly.

“I did.” He studies me for several long seconds, making me feel like an object being inspected rather than his daughter. “You’ll be joining me for brunch tomorrow morning.”

I blink in surprise. “Brunch?”

“Yes.”

His clipped tone tells me not to question him, but my question slips out anyway.

“Who are we meeting?”

“The Sorokins.”

My stomach tightens. I’ve heard that name countless times over the years. One of my father’s closest business associates. Which means one of the men whose business keeps my father so wealthy.

“In particular,” my father continues, “their son, Ivan.”

The knot in my stomach hardens into something heavier. Ivan Sorokin. Everyone in our world knows who he is. He’s almost ten years older than me. Wealthy. Entitled. Violent. Rumors follow him everywhere—about the girlfriends who stop appearing in photographs, about a temper that never quite makes it into a police report. I’d always told myself they were only rumors. Lately, I haven’t been so sure.

“I’m not certain why I’d be needed,” I say carefully. “Surely this is a business meeting. I’d only be in the way.”