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CHAPTER ONE
Anastasia (Stasia) Koslov – Two and a half years earlier
“You are to marry him and that is it, Anastasia,” my father barks.
His cold, blue eyes narrow into beady slits. He practically salivates, hungry with power thinking of how my arranged marriage will benefit him.
“But Papa, I—”
“Silence! You are twenty-one. I promised your mother I would wait until now.”
I should be grateful he didn’t sell me at age ten like the Bratva bosses back in Russia.
I was born in the homeland, but Papa moved us—Mother, my brothers, and me—here to Astoria when we were younger.
“You also promised her I could choose my husband,” I bravely talk back.
I didn’t go to college. My father kept me as his showpiece, parading me around at fundraisers in fancy dresses and high heels.
Now I know why.
“I am Pakhan, and you will marry who I tell you to.” Papa turns back to his desk, stopping to stare at the photos of my brothers.
Remembrances of Alexovich and Sasha line the walls of his dark-paneled office that smells of Turkish cigarette smoke.
After they were gunned down on a train ten years ago, Mother overdosed on sleeping pills, leaving me with Papa.
“When am I getting married?” I clench my stomach, afraid I’ll vomit all over the new gown he bought me for my birthday.
I had a wonderful party tonight, not realizing it doubled as a secret pageant to marry me off to the highest bidder.
Papa lifts his chin, satisfied with my compliance. “One month.”
He and Mother got married at eighteen in a marriage arranged by their fathers, who were business partners in Russia.
But they were never in love.
Now he’s repeating his father’s sins by giving me away to the new Boston pakhan.
“Luka Gideon needs time to plan for this magnificent celebration in Boston.”
Luka probably needs time because Boston is buried under several feet of snow thanks to a rare March blizzard.
Papa advances on me. “I trust you are virgin.”
“Of course, Papa.” I hide my nervous swallow.
He gives me freedom, so long as my guards are with me.
I get wild at a few of my favorite Manhattan clubs sometimes. I wonder whether telling my father that I allowed a stranger to take my virtue one night in a bathroom stall would make him call off the deal or kill me.
“One more thing, Anastasia.” Papa spears me with a deadly glare. “You are not to mention this arrangement to anyone. This is my chance to seize power over the Italians and the Irish.”
His upper lip curls with disdain, mentioning the Irish.
I’m more afraid of the O’Rourkes than the Italians.
The new Irish mob boss is a tortured and cruel man. Not to mention their enforcer killed a priest. Now, Papa is planning this massive power grab to attack them.
