Twisted Proposal (Ivanov Crime Family #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

ARTEM

I knew taking this meeting was a mistake the moment I agreed to it.

Zaitsev had been relentless, hounding me for days, desperate for a deal.

That alone set my teeth on edge.

Desperate men made reckless decisions.

And Zaitsev? He was a fool. Brash, impulsive, lacking the foresight needed to survive in our world. And his son, Matvey, was even worse.

When I pulled up to the isolated cabin nestled deep in the Virginia woods, my instincts screamed danger. It was too remote, too perfect for an ambush.

My men swept the perimeter while I waited in the Range Rover, my patience wearing thinner with each passing minute.

"Clear," one of my men murmured through my earpiece.

I stepped out into the biting winter air, snow crunching beneath my boots. The cabin loomed before me, its windows glowing with warm light that promised a comfort I knew wouldn't be found inside.

When I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the stench of fear hit me first.

Then I saw her.

Huddled on a weathered wooden chair in the center of the room, her head bowed, lush, chestnut brown hair spilling over her shoulders, hiding her face. Ropes cut into her wrists, binding her, but there was no mistaking the tension in her shoulders.

Fury burned through me, sharp and immediate.

My fingers twitched with the need to curl into a fist.

Zaitsev emerged from the shadows, his son lurking behind him like the coward he was. Both men grinned as if they'd presented me with a gift rather than a twisted indecency.

In my world, women were protected and sheltered from the brutal reality of our business.

"Artem, my friend." He stretched out a hand in greeting.

"We are not friends." I pointedly ignored his outstretched hand. "And I don't recall giving you permission to use my given name."

He hesitated, his son shifting uneasily behind him.

The air in the cabin grew thick with tension.

My men flanked the doorway, blocking any chance of escape.

A small sound came from the woman—not a cry or a whimper.

Just a sharp inhale of barely restrained pain.

My fury sharpened to a lethal edge.

I met Zaitsev's eyes; he was going to see the moment I decided he wasn't leaving this cabin alive.

"We had to secure our merchandise." He gave a dismissive wave, dropping into a chair opposite his captive. "She can be…stubborn. Nothing a firm hand won’t fix.”

My gaze remained fixed on the woman bound in the chair.

I let the silence stretch like a stranglehold around his throat.

Zaitsev mistook it for patience. A deadly mistake.

He smirked. "I'll get right to the point, then. I know you're making moves in the States."

He thought he knew something. Amusing.

"You shouldn't put stock in rumors," I said flatly. "Your men must be bored if they've taken to gossip."

Zaitsev chuckled, like we were old friends sharing an inside joke. "A shift in power is coming." He stood and circled the woman, placing his hands on her shoulders. She flinched. The small movement ignited something dark inside me. "This is my daughter."

A muscle in my jaw twitched.

Daughter.

I glanced at her, then back at him, my face unreadable.

What kind of man tied up his own flesh and blood?

"I'd rather not have her running wild, like these American women," he continued, oblivious to my growing rage. "She could be useful."

Useful.

The word curdled in my gut.

"She's not much to look at," he added, waving a hand like she was a piece of livestock. “But she'll make a good wife. Quiet. Won't ask questions. Won't expect fidelity." He grinned and winked. "And, of course, this marriage would come with certain advantages."

I stared at him. Silent. Calculating.

One of the few useful lessons my father had ever taught me—silence was a weapon.

Zaitsev, arrogant as ever, mistook it for interest. He kept talking, filling the space with his own noise.

"I wouldn't expect you to marry her, of course," he went on. "She's beneath an Ivanov. But a loyal underling? Someone who needs a reward, perhaps.”

Beneath an Ivanov.

Fucking idiot.

I let my gaze shift back to her.

She sat stiffly in her bonds, her spine straight despite her restraints, not in submission, but in defiance. A woman holding herself together by sheer will.

I needed to see her face.

Look up , I silently commanded.

She didn't move.

But then, a flicker.

Just for a fraction of a second, dark blue eyes met mine.

And I saw the truth.

Zaitsev was wrong.

His daughter wasn't plain. Far from it. She was beautiful.

But more important than that, she was furious. Not afraid. Not broken.

She wasn't cowering. She was calculating. Waiting. Biding her time.

My interest deepened.

Then I saw it, the shadow of a bruise forming on her cheek.

The pounding in my ears grew deafening.

He hit her. Hard.

This man, who dared stand across from me and prattle on about alliances, had raised a hand to his own daughter. Had tied her in a chair in a freezing cabin wearing barely anything but a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

He thought our families were alike.

He thought we were the same.

He thought wrong.

"Of course," he said, still unaware he'd already sealed his fate, "she is merely a gesture of goodwill. The real deal is in the contracts. My men will run girls from Russia straight through to California. No one will touch them if they belong to the Ivanovs. And you? You'll get a cut."

My lip curled.

Ivanovs did not get involved in the sex trade, in any form. Period.

He leaned against the cabin wall, smug. His son slouched beside him, picking at his teeth, unconcerned.

I inhaled deeply, letting the rage simmer just below the surface.

Control. Always control.

I turned my attention back to her.

"What's her name?" I asked.

Zaitsev blinked, as if surprised I cared enough to ask. "Viktoria."

Viktoria.

I let the name settle. Let the weight of it press against my ribs.

"Do we have a deal?" Zaitsev asked.

I looked at my right-hand man and gave a single nod.

The gun was out before Zaitsev even registered the movement.

His son lunged for a weapon.

My men were faster.

Zaitsev senior was pinned to the rough-hewn table, a gun pressed to the back of his skull. His son restrained on the wood floor, zip ties cutting into his wrists, a boot pressing into his spine.

Their pathetic cries and pleas were white noise as I focused on the soft rasp of Viktoria's breathing.

I crossed to her, pulling a knife from my pocket. Her eyes widened as I approached, but she didn't flinch when I bent to cut her bonds. The ropes fell away.

I took her wrists in my hands. So pale and fragile, as if I were holding the bones of a bird. My thumb swept across the angry red welts.

She shivered and tried to pull back.

My fingers closed around her wrists. "You've heard what your father and brother planned," I said. "What do you want?"

She refused to respond.

Accustomed to being obeyed, I leaned forward, resisting the urge to brush her hair away from her face. "Viktoria? I asked you a question."

After a long moment, the lush black fans of her lashes shifted. She lifted her gaze to clash with mine.

There was cold fury in their ocean depths.

She was something different.

Something unexpected.

She swallowed. "I—I didn't hear."

Liar. It was clear her refusal to answer had more to do with ill-advised defiance.

Her voice wavered. Not in weakness. In restraint.

My hands moved to the tops of her bare thighs, my fingertips brushing the hem of her cloth shorts as I stood. "Tell me what you want, princess."