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The door was flung open, and my father stood in the doorframe. “Are you two fighting like children?”
I rose from the bed. I refused to face him lying down in a submissive pose, preferring to demonstrate control in front of him.
Nothing’s changed there. He needed to feel like the most powerful person in the room, which had led to his hatred of Layla’s husband, Zeke. For years, Zeke had made him feel like the asshole he really was, mostly without saying a word. As my father’s right-hand woman, I got a perfect vantage point to take note of their messy interactions.
When I’d realized how crooked and in the pockets of Russians he was, I couldn’t contain my relief. I hadn’t been wrong in my own thoughts. I’d left his organization with no guilt, or so I told myself. How many people did I inadvertently hurt when I’d helped fill his pockets? What had I taken part in with no knowledge whatsoever? Did my ignorance on the subject relieve me of guilt? Probably not. And no matter how far I ran away from home, my worries chased me.
And my mistakes.
Like how not checking to see if my brother’s gun was loaded got me stuck in Russia, preparing to wed some mob guy’s son.
The room was decorated all in white, including the bed sheets and the walls, making it practically glow in sunlight. I hated it. On television, they talked about natural light in rooms on all the home improvement or real estate challenge shows. It always made me wonder if no one else felt safer tucked away in a dark secluded space, cocooned behind blinds and wrapped in warm blankets.
Not that my opinions on home décor would matter, as the bride of a Russian mobster. Hell, none of my preferences might matter anymore, since I might end up locked in a basement.
Usually, Layla had the active imagination in the family, but mine was running full blast with disaster scenarios.
I blurted, “I’m not marrying some guy because you kidnapped me and ordered me to do it.”
My father made a shushing sound. “Keep your voice down. I’ve assured them you’re sweet and compliant.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know why you fucking bothered lying, since I’m not either of those things.”
Out of all three of us, I was the least likely to get along with other people. Layla might be shy, but she could pretend to be glamorous and charming, if the situation required it. Zeke, her husband, made sure she usually didn’t have to pretend anything, preferring to provide his bride with a safe place for her sweet nature. Hope was the most naturally nice sister, but even she would’ve put her foot down at the idea of forced marriage to a stranger. Her husband took care to make sure people didn’t take advantage of her good nature anymore.
Funny, I hadn’t thought about the fact they both found people to protect them, but then again, I had very little good nature to protect. Since my father knew quite well I would be the least cooperative daughter, it proved how completely ridiculous and desperate he had to be, if he kidnapped me. No way a mob boss and his son would think I was docile and eager to walk down the aisle to warm his bed and keep my mouth shut.
“Bridget…” Justin tried to speak, but my father held up his hand.
“You’re going to do this, because if you don’t, they’ll kill us all.” He spoke in a low voice. “Not just your brother and me, but you as well. You’ll either leave that man’s wife or you won’t leave here at all.” Foam formed on the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away. The small detail caught my attention more than anything else. He was really worked up and meant every word.
My stomach clenched. “Why would you do this, Dad? I could help you raise money, or I could do it for you. Why do this to me?”
“They don’t just want our money anymore. They want to own us. They want him to be an American citizen. I don’t even know all the reasons why. I can’t touch your sisters anymore, but Bridget, you’re going to do what I want because otherwise, you’re a dead woman.”
Maybe it’s better to be dead than owned?But I was too cowardly to find out. “I hate you,” I whispered to the man who had sired me and then turned on my brother. “Both of you. I just want you to know that.”
2
After two days, I was pretty sure that I knew everyone in the house, at least. Maybe. No one spoke English—or if they did, they didn’t speak it to me—besides my father and Justin who dragged me out every morning. Apparently, our wedding needed to be undisputable. They wanted photos, evidence, to prove I loved the person I would marry—Konstantin—lest the United States question whether we swore our vows for the sole purpose of his citizenship.
I was a very well-educated person. I’d attended the best schools while my father traveled the world, breaking rules everywhere he went. Due to that education, I understood the State Department would likely be interested in our marriage when we returned home, but I figured they likely had some insider ways to ensure no one investigated too closely. Maybe my distant cousin? Hard to say, though I could likely have Hope try to contact the cousin, if I managed to survive my upcoming wedding.
In the meantime, I simply tried to avoid arguing with anyone. I didn’t want to be killed instantly for being too much trouble or become the reason they killed my family—although how much I cared about the latter waned as the days continued. It seemed things would proceed as planned, and neither my father nor my brother would get me out of it.
Konstantin and I posed for the third time for a picture. We kept changing outfits and hairstyles, so it looked like we’d taken the pictures at different times.
I wished I could say he was ugly. He wasn’t, but then again, he was the son of a Russian oligarch. He always had the best of everything—clothes, cars, probably education. My limited experience with him proved he smelled clean and his teeth were straight. I couldn’t understand a word he said, not that he talked to me anyway. Everything he owned seemed designer, making the outfits a procession of one label after another. Layla would probably be impressed by the garments, since she’d likely worn all of them on purpose over the years.
Not me, though, since I wasn’t known for being particularly fashion forward. The vlogs and reports online always called me the Girl Next Door of the triplets, which was funny because I was never wholesome enough to claim the title. Most people found me cold and unapproachable, and so far, Konstantin seemed like he did, too.
He took his pictures and then tore out of the room to get away from me. I was pretty sure he spoke English, he just chose not to speak with me.
Which was fine. It wasn’t like I wanted to chat with him, either.
I just wanted to scream and throw things.
Going through with the marriage would probably save my father and brother, but it would also probably end my life—but most likely by some fast method, like a machine gun or something.
