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He smiles and takes another puff. His unnaturally black hair has some gray at the temples. His taut face looks as if he’s had some work done— the pursuit to preserve youth. I study his mannerisms and look for tells. I like studying people, especially those I will have ongoing dealings with. It’s not the words that one speaks; their truth lies in what they don’t say and their body language.
“I’ve been in conversation with your brother, Lennon, about my daughter, Vasilisa. I’m aware that not long ago, you lost a great number of your clan to an ambush. I’m also aware that your clan currently has an alliance with the Italians. With those numbers on your side, you don’t need our numbers, so why request to marry my daughter?” He takes another puff of his cigar. “I know your brother's reasoning and what you’re willing to share in exchange, but I want to hear it from you.”
“If I had to guess, you’re a very intelligent man, Mr. Mikhailov. I’m quite sure that your question is rhetorical, but if you need to hear me say it, I won’t shy away from the obvious. We’re looking to strengthen our numbers from all angles. We don’t wish to simply be under the Italians’ thumb.”
The tall, lanky butler who escorted me appears in the doorway, and Vladimir pauses long enough to ask him to make a drink. “Dalmore 25, neat,” he instructs. “Can I interest you in a gentleman’s drink? I have the finest whiskey selection—better than most palates have had the pleasure to taste.”
“No, I’m good,” I decline, wishing he’d get on with it. I can feel my jaw tighten. How dare he stand on his imaginary pedestal as if this exchange wouldn’t be a benefit to us both?
“You’re right,” he concedes, taking the first sip of the amber liquid. “My question was rhetorical. I already knew your clan’s motivation for wanting to forge an alliance with my Bratva. Having a foot on both sides of the fence gives your clan more power than both us and the Italians. Why should I agree to that? You’re asking to strengthen your foothold in the underworld while lessening our own.”
“Because our alliance would be mutually beneficial,” I retort. “With our clan in the middle, it neutralizes the upper hand on both sides, thus giving the Italians a reason not to take your Bratva for granted. We would be your allies— your leverage. We also have the numbers of additional clan members in Ireland, although we prefer to have more numbers closer to home. You have no such affiliation with Russia. Without our reach, you’re on the bottom of this triad and vulnerable.”
Yes. My brother and I have done our research. He and his men don’t have the support of the Bratva in Russia to engage in any turf wars here. He is correct that merging their numbers with ours would strengthen our foothold in the underworld while lessening theirs, but it also lessens that of the Italians. The difference is that his outfit doesn’t have an alliance with the Italians, so either way, he and his men have less power than us. We’re offering a chance to level the playing field.
“My daughter isn’t the easiest to manage,” he warns while simultaneously changing the subject. “She has a stubborn streak and takes after her old man.”
“Noted,” I say. I couldn’t care less about her stubborn streak, nor do I have any doubts about my ability to break her. No father needs to hear that, so I don’t elaborate. He has to know the type of man he’s giving his daughter to, so we’ll just leave it at that.
“Unfortunately, Vasilisa is not here at the moment, and I have some things to address before our dinner party later tonight. I'm not sure if my princess will grace us with her presence, so why don’t you come over tomorrow morning around ten? We’ll have brunch, and I’ll make sure my daughter is present to meet you.”
There really wasn’t a question in that invitation, but I’ll oblige his request. It will give me a chance to observe Vasilisa in her domain before I bring her to mine. I need to assess just how much work she’s going to take.
“Tomorrow at ten it is,” I agree as I stand. He follows suit and gives me a firm handshake.
My assessment of him is hesitation. He doesn’t like the idea of this arrangement, but he knows it’s what’s best for him and his men. He will tolerate me and my clan as long as we are of benefit to him. We could never fully trust them. We still don’t know if they had a hand in our father’s murder. One thing for certain, if an opportunity arose that afforded them better odds or benefit, they wouldn’t hesitate to end this alliance between us. His daughter will be more of an insurance policy—collateral—than my wife. We don’t trust anyone.
A black Range Rover pulls up as I leave the Mikhailov estate. The driver exits the car and immediately goes around to the passenger back door to open it. Through my rearview mirror, I see a young woman with a fitted white dress and heels being assisted out of the SUV. Her long brunette hair hides her face from my view, but she exudes elegance and grace even from the short distance. The train of her dress drags behind her as she is escorted to the door. She flips her hair once to turn to see my car that's taking its time to depart. A colorful scarf is tied around her neck, adding an additional flair of sophistication. I know she cannot see me, but I turn away and accelerate out through the electric gates anyway. Could that have been Vasilisa—the woman I'm supposed to marry? Hope not for her sake. The unfortunate woman who ends up with me will have to submit. I doubt the woman I just saw even knows the meaning of the word.
CHAPTER TWO
Vasilisa
Irev the engine of my Ducati, feeling the power of the machine between my legs. The rain comes down in sheets, but I don't care. I need to get away from the expectations that await me and forget about the fact that I'm supposed to marrysome Irish Mafia heir. I’ve been successful in sabotaging the efforts to marry the Russian prospects brought forward after Viktor refused me, but this feels different. I’m not confident that I’ll be able to shake this guy.
The wind whipsaround me as I ride through the streets of Monterey. I’m three hours from home, but this is where the drive took me. The sound of the rain hits my helmet like a thousand tiny drums. I feel alive in a way that I haven't in months, the thrill of the ride pushing all my worries to the back of my mind. I only feel like this when I’m on the brink of danger or the outskirts of my comfort zone. Fear morphs into adrenaline. My ability to conquer that fear makes me feel more in control of my fate. I haven’t been able to ride lately because it’s not exactly approved of. My father hates when I ride. He wants me to be this perfect little princess for the world to envy and for men to beat down our doorstep for a chance at my hand in marriage. Except now he’s handing me over to the Irish for whatever deal he’s arranged. My three brothers have done nothing to thwart this plan.
I turn onto the highway,the rain coming down even harder now. It's almost like the universe is trying to stop me from riding, but I refuse to be deterred. I know that I need this, that I need to escape the suffocating world that awaits me … even for just a little bit.
As I ride,I take in the beauty of the California coastline, the waves crashing against the rocks in a fierce dance. It's breathtaking, and for a moment, I succeed at forgetting about everything else. I'm just a regular woman on a motorcycle, living in the moment. As the rain starts to let up, I decide to prolong returning home and get something to eat. There is no way I’m attending the dinner party with my father and the woman of the month. I agreed to the stupid brunch in the morning to meet the man he’s betrothed me to, but I refuse to sit around dinner and pretend I’m happy about any of this. I pull off into a small diner on the side of the road, the sign flickering in the fading light. The inside is warm and cozy, the smell of coffee and bacon filling my senses.
I sitat a booth by the window as the server comes over to hand me a menu. I look over it and smile. None of it is what I usually eat at home.Perfect. I order a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. The rain is still coming down, but it's not as heavy now. I watch as cars and trucks drive by, their lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
While eating,my mind lingers on thoughts of Viktor. He didn’t want me—said I was too boring for him. He wants a wife who can keep up with him in all aspects of his life. We grew up together, and I think I’ve always loved him. If he knew my secret, would he still reject me? Our world changed him. Midway through our junior year, his family moved back to Moscow so his father could take his rightful place as a Russian Mafia boss for the Sokolov Bratva. Viktor is now the heir to the throne and in search of a wife. My family thought I was the obvious choice since our family used to be so close. Viktor has made numerous trips back to California since he has a second residence here as a vacation home, but he respects my father’s reign here. My father salivated at the chance to merge our family into such a powerful family with ties back to Russia. He blamed me for not being enough for Viktor and then tried several times to betroth me to other Mafia heirs in Russia after Viktor rejected me. Our family is isolated here, and it’s our father’s fault. The weight of his past mistakes shouldn’t rest so heavily on my shoulders, but they do.
I finishmy meal and pay the bill before returning to my motorcycle. The rain has stopped completely now, and the air is fresh and clean. I dread the ride back and what the future holds, but I know I have to face it head-on. I have a duty to my family, and I’m tired of my sabotaging efforts. If marrying the Irish heir will help my family because our Russian family turned their back on us, I can’t continue to be a part of the problem.
I ride back toward Sacramento,the wind in my hair as I hold back the tears. I don't know when I’ll be able to ride again. Will my future husband allow it? I’ve witnessed firsthand the dominance of a Mafia man. I would have submitted for Viktor, but I can’t say the same for this unknown man. I will marry him as expected, but I will not just hand over my submission blindly. He will have to earn it.
CHAPTER THREE
Kai
Brunch is being served in the gardens. There are no signs of last night’s dinner party. I walk through a maze of hedges, cobblestone walkways, and statues. The grounds are large enough to house hundreds of people. Freshly baked bread, a variety of cheeses from around the world, cured meats, and an assortment of fruits, nuts, and vegetables make up the spread over the wrought-iron table—definitely enough food for more than three people. I take a seat at the table and pour myself a cup of coffee. Vladimir has his hand wrapped around his glass of whiskey as he leans back in his seat. He wastes no time diving into the timeframe for the wedding. He pauses mid conversation when a young woman appears along the pathway to where we’re seated. Vasilisa’s heels click along the pavement as she walks with her head held high and an air of confidence. The first thing I notice is her long, luscious brunette hair that cascades down her back in soft waves. Each strand seems to glisten in the sunlight. Her hair frames her face perfectly, accentuating her delicate features and giving her an almost ethereal appearance. I may have seen her from afar yesterday, but I have no doubt she is the woman I saw in the long white dress with a train.
As she approaches, her piercing blue eyes catch the light, her familiarity becoming more and more pronounced. Her bright eyes are a striking shade of blue, like the clear waters around the Maldives. How could I ever forget them after having an opportunity to stare at them as I denied her of oxygen. She’s wearing a colorful Hermes scarf around her neck, similar to the one yesterday, but I bet if she removed it, my fingerprints would be visible at the base of her neck.
Her face is flawlessly symmetrical, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Her lips are full and pouty, with a natural pink hue that gives her a soft and innocent look. Only I know differently. She shares an obviously practiced smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
