Death’s Favor (The Moretti Men #2)

Chapter 1

DANIKA

I’ve never had cancer, but I suspect this is how a patient might feel as they walk back to their doctor’s office to learn their diagnosis. Stomach wedged high in my throat. Heart jackhammering inside my chest. Uncertainty sending my panicking nervous system into chaos.

Memories of the last time I came to this place provide an endless supply of ammunition to the fear assaulting my body and mind.

I swore I’d never come back here, but I had no choice.

When Biba Mikhailov, boss of the Russian bratva, summons you, you come, especially when he’s your father.

Not that I think of him as my father—I’ve never even met the man.

But in this part of the city, you don’t have to be on a first-name basis with Biba to know you don’t refuse him.

I can’t fathom what I’ve done to earn this summons.

That’s the worst part. I have no clue what this is about, and the less-than-courteous man who came to deliver Biba’s message was about as informative as a brick wall.

Which brings me here—to a run-down auto repair shop deep in the heart of Brooklyn.

I’m walking down a dimly lit hallway so saturated with tobacco that the substance is literally dripping from the yellow walls.

The sickly sweet odor does nothing for my already rioting stomach, but I do my best to hold myself together.

You avoided him the last time you were here. Maybe you’ll manage to avoid him again.

Right, and if he kills me, I’ll be too dead to care.

Hate to break it to you, but that’s not how optimism works.

Debatable. But not right now.

I’ve come to the last door in the hallway.

A door guarded by a bald man with a gruesome scar on his cheek and eyes bleached of any possible empathy.

This is where Biba is hiding. Word is he’s rarely ever seen anymore.

I’m taking that as a good sign—that perhaps the guy is terminally ill or hopelessly agoraphobic.

Though, it appears he doesn’t have to leave his hidey-hole to be a menace.

It’s a lesson I won’t soon forget, should I be lucky enough to leave this place alive.

The guard utters a few guttural words in what I assume is Russian as I approach. I’m about to tell him I don’t understand when a single syllable resonates from inside the office.

“Da.”

The guard presses the door open enough for me to enter, eyes trained on me the entire time as though ready to take me down should I make the slightest wrong move.

He isn’t taking a single inch of my five-foot-two, hundred-and-ten-pound frame for granted.

As if I’d try something. I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Instead, I nod and take the final steps on wobbly legs to discover my fate.

“Danika, so good of you to join me.” Biba sits at a large intricately carved desk, papers spread across it with a bottle of vodka and several crystal glasses atop them.

His skin is noticeably more leathery in person than photos had conveyed, and his voice grates like a hacksaw thanks to a lifetime of smoking.

He’s tried to overcome a receding hairline with a classic combover.

It looks somewhat incongruous with the rudimentary tattoos etched on the backs of his hands.

Everything about this man is designed to intimidate, and it’s working.

I have to clear my throat twice before I can coerce my voice to function.

“Mr. Mikhailov.” I nod, unsure what else to say or do.

“You know who I am, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” I wish I didn’t.

He flashes a wide, yellowing grin. “Good, and you should call me Biba. We’re family, no?” He motions to a chair. “Sit and talk.”

The slur of his Russian accent rings in my ears as I hear the word family echo repeatedly in my mind. Technically true but irrelevant until now. Why? What could he possibly want from me? I can’t think of a single answer that ends well for me.

I sit and wait for him to pull the rug out from beneath my feet.

“Your mother, she’s good?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“She’s done well with you. Such a beautiful young woman.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, feeling increasingly awkward and desperate for him to tell me what I’m doing here.

“And my men here tell me you’re quite an artist. Isn’t that right?” He looks at the guard and my escort and waits until they each murmur their agreement while I mentally unravel.

Why is he talking about my art? Has he seen my paintings? What else does he know about me?

Pleased by his men’s affirmation, he looks back at me. “Yes, very talented,” he continues. “And I’m sure you are also very curious why I’ve brought you here.”

I offer a thin smile, my heartbeat thudding against the inside of my skull.

“I have wonderful news for you. As part of my family, you have the honor of uniting us in a very important alliance.” His eyes glint as he grins at me as if eagerly anticipating my excited reaction.

As if this man genuinely believes I will feel honored by his proclamation rather than the gut-wrenching horror now coursing through my veins.

“Alliance?” I ask shakily. Between the blood draining from my head and the utter disbelief, I’m having trouble thinking coherently.

I’m pretty sure he’s hinting at an arranged marriage, but that can’t be right.

I never even considered that as I racked my brain on the way over here about what he could want since I’m nothing more than a distant afterthought to this man.

Hell, I’ve never even met him until today.

Why now? Why me? I know I’m not the only female family member he has.

Why not one of his two sons if the alliance is so important? This can’t be happening.

“There is a man—a very powerful man—known as The Reaper.” Biba waves his hand dismissively.

“Ignore the silly nickname. He has displayed an impressive ability for leadership, and I’ve decided to bring him into the fold.

Together, we are stronger. Once we are all family, we own this city.

And you … you get to be the one who makes it all happen. ”

I can’t even balk at his audacity because my brain snags on the name Reaper.

Holy hell .

What kind of monster earns a name like The Reaper? And Biba wants to marry me off to this man for his own selfish reasons? This is so grossly unexpected that I can hardly comprehend it. I thought … I don’t know exactly what I thought, but it wasn’t this. Never this.

My head begins to shake in small, jerky movements. I know I can’t outright refuse, but rising panic overrides my logic with the need to escape.

“Now, Danika.” His tone lowers with an edge of warning. “You need to understand how important this is. It will be a huge honor, and he is a very wealthy man. This will set you and your mother up to live like queens. I know you’d like that. No more living in that shithole apartment of yours.”

For a man who’s been clever enough to control a small army of Russians in the middle of New York City, he sure is clueless.

Instead of reassuring me, every word he utters incites my anger.

As if I want to marry a stranger for money.

Our apartment may be small, but it’s no shithole.

That’s my home . A place my mother worked hard to provide and where so many happy memories have been made.

I collect myself and make my very best attempt to respond without offense. “I appreciate your effort to provide for me, but I don’t think I’m the right person for this responsibility.”

His features take on a frightening savagery as he stands and slowly stalks around the desk toward me.

He doesn’t speak until he’s close enough to look down his nose at me.

Close enough that his menthol-laden breath constricts my lungs to a painful degree.

“You misunderstand. I am not asking your permission. You will marry The Reaper, or I will take everything you love in this world and burn it to the ground. Your mother included.” His slowly enunciated words drip with malice.

The temperature in the room plummets to arctic lows. I have to fight back a shiver.

My head spins, and tears burn the backs of my eyes.

This can’t be happening. What do I do? I can’t let him hurt my mom and gran. They’re all I have in this world. All that matters, that is. And if the threat came from anyone else, I’d call it a bluff, but not coming from Biba. The man has no humanity left. Where does that leave me?

I slowly nod, my eyes unable to meet his.

“I am glad we understand one another, Danika, because disobedience is messy, and I have too much riding on this marriage for childish games. My hope is that in one week, you will be married, and life will be much more peaceful.”

“A week?” I squeak, unable to stop myself.

“Da. I suggest you spend the time wisely. Learn to see this as the opportunity it is. We will get you all new clothes, and you will never have to work again. It will be good, you will see, so long as you don’t do anything stupid.

Giving me a reason to punish you will only make you miserable. I promise.”

He returns to his chair opposite the desk, fingers twining together with finality.

With the issuance of one final threat, I’ve been dismissed.

I stand on unsteady legs and walk robotically down the hallway, feeling as though I am not in control of my own body, but rather a puppeteer is pulling my strings. That’s exactly what’s happening in a figurative sense, and I have no idea how to free myself.

God, please tell me this is a nightmare.

This can’t be real. I can’t spend the rest of my life—however short that may now be—bound to a psychopath.

What choice do you have? You can’t risk Mom and Gran.

He won’t just kill them. He’ll torture them to get back at me.