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Soon, Dad barges into the room again. He looks disgusted at Drake, probably noticing the tears, and then snaps at me, “The car’s here. Time to go.”
Drake bursts into tears, and Dad roars, “Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
Of course, that gets Drake crying even more. When Dad marches across the room, his hand raised, I quickly leap to my feet and get between them, cringing as my body gets ready for whatever happens next. Then Dad scowls, lowering his hand. “You’re lucky you have stayed pretty for your new husband.”
I hug Drake one last time, and the staff carries my suitcases to the chauffeured car. Several staff members assemble at the front of the house, and two cleaners have tears in their eyes. I give them hugs, and then it’s time.
The drive begins. I put headphones on, listening to heavy metal, eyes closed, not even looking out the window. I want to enjoy these moments, my last ones of freedom, or semi-freedom, anyway. I’ve neverreallybeen free.
As we drive, I mentally note what I know about my husband. I’m twenty-three, and he’s in his forties. He’s now the Pakhan, or boss, of the Las Vegas Bratva. I don’t even know what he lookslike, but it won’t make any difference. I’m a fully grown woman, but sometimes, it doesn’t feel like that. It’s like this cloistered life has stunted me. I seriously need to stop thinking like this. It won’t help anything.
I open my eyes when the car comes to a stop, taking off my headphones. I haven’t checked the time once, but my body feels sore and drained from travel. We’re in the middle of the Vegas desert outside a large estate. From what I can see, it’s huge, with two large mansions set within massive grounds surrounded by walls. As I peer between the front driver’s seats, I spot long, green lawns—starkly contrasting the desert—and a tennis court. Is that a basketball court, too? Yep, I spot the hoop.
“Miss Petrov,” the driver says. “Your father asked me to remind you gently that Dimitri Sokolov is of vital importance. He also asked me to say that Anatoly would much prefer if things went well.”
“What lovely phrasing for a threat!” I practically shout.
The driver flinches. He’s not used to me talking back, but I can’t help myself. My throat feels like it’s closing up with nerves.
A man approaches the gate from the other side. He’s wearing the clothes of a butler, his head shiny with white hair, his posture straight. He presses some buttons, and the gate begins to open. Two guards stand just beyond the gate holding weapons, but that’s nothing new.
“You should get out,” the driver says.
I climb from the car. “Miss Petrov,” the white-haired man says, rushing over to me as one guard walks toward the rear of the vehicle, presumably for the suitcases. “We’re so delighted to welcome you to the Sokolov compound. My name is Yuri, and I am the Chief Steward. You must be starving.”
“Uh, sure,” I say, “but could I clean up first?”
“Of course, of course! We’ll show you to your room. It’s in the main house.”
My driver leaves without saying goodbye. He doesn’t care about me. Sometimes, people call the Bratva afamily, but I’ve never felt that. As I walk toward the larger of the two houses with Yuri at my side, I try not to think about the threat and Drake. Yuri is talking, telling me who people are, pointing out the grounds, but I barely hear him. Dread rushes in my ears.
Maybe Yuri can sense I want to be alone. After dropping me at my room, he says, “I’ll give you some time, miss. Please, if you need anything, do not hesitate …” He gestures to a landline telephone, then leaves.
The room is large and luxurious, with another four-poster bed, tall windows overlooking the grounds, and a lemony-clean scent. I drop onto the bed, pressing down on my belly.
A knock on the door comes in a few minutes. I wonder who it could be. Maybe Yuri told me when he was talking during the walk here, but I only heard a few words. My mind fixated on Drake, the marriage, escaping, and how futile even thinking about it is.
“Hello?”
“Mila?” a man speaks. His voice is deep but also somehow friendly. I’d put money on it that he’s wearing a smirk.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Can I come in? Figured it’d be cruel, you coming here without a Sokolov saying hello.”
Ah, a Sokolov. So this is my future husband.
I stand up, fixing my hair. Not because I want to look good for him but because I know I have to. I know what my duty is.
“Yes,” I say, turning to the door.
I bite down on a gasp when I see him. Is this what desire feels like? He’s tall, broad, and strong, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and stylish glasses slotted into the collar. His hair is long on top, shaved on the sides, flopping over his forehead. He has a casual smirk on his face, and his light beard makes him look oh-so-appealing in a way I can’t quite define.
Suddenly, the world doesn’t seem so bleak. To stop Dad from hurting my brother, I have to be withthisman?
Okay, maybe I can deal with this.
“It’s nice to meet you, Dimitri,” I say after a pause, realizing I’m just staring at him.
