4. Mila
4
MILA
T he smell of sawdust is what I wake up to.
I feel my nose crinkle from it and note the hard mattress beneath me. Something is off, but I’m not quite awake enough to know what it is. Not until my chest expands in a stretch and aches ricochet throughout my rib cage, halting my movements.
My eyes fly open.
All at once, I remember the job Nikita gave me, the men he sent after me, the man with the hood, the needle he stuck in my neck.
I try to sit up too fast and cringe as I fall back to the bed, a low groan crawling from my throat. Lifting a dull-colored quilt exposes the black T-shirt I’m wearing with an unfamiliar masculine scent stuck to it.
He undressed me.
My teeth clamp down as my ears heat. If my naivety didn’t piss me off so much, I might laugh at my initial assessment of the hooded figure, thinking he was some sort of vigilante. I feared for the sick bastard’s life.
I should’ve known better. Never in my life has someone been there to rescue me. Why would the universe send someone now?
Tossing a glare at the bowl of soup on the rickety nightstand, I brace my arms beneath myself and sit up slowly, my face twisting in pain. Once I’m fully upright, I lift the shirt to survey the damage, praying not to see a rib protruding from my skin or something as terrible as I feel, but my torso is wrapped in a white bandage.
My lips pulling into a frown, I rub my fingers over the cloth.
I take another look at the nightstand where the soup is, which, now that I look closer, isn’t just soup. It’s authentic-looking borscht. There’s a glass of water and a couple of pills next to it as well.
As if I’d ever consume anything this stranger gave me.
Who is he?
My narrowed eyes move to the door as I try to solve the impossible mystery without ever seeing his face. Based on his voice, his scent, this house… I don’t know him, at least not personally, but the borscht is a dead giveaway that he’s Russian. Or knows that I’m Russian.
Is he a stalker?
I look around the small room. It feels dirty, but I think it’s just worn down from age. There isn’t much in sight—an old looking rocking chair, this bed, the nightstand, a boarded-up window, and a frayed rug on the dilapidated wood floor.
Planting my feet on the rug, I eye the door. If he boarded up the window, it’s almost certain that he locked the door. Still, with my teeth gritted, I get up from the bed and force myself to stand straight despite the urge to hunch. That tall bastard really did a number on me.
My spine stiffens as I freeze.
The job. The money .
The stranger must’ve found it.
Whipping my head around, I don’t find my clothes, including the coat the money was stashed in.
Fuck .
My hands clench and unclench as I continue to the door in nothing but the man’s T-shirt hanging to the middle of my thighs like a dress, my bra and panties underneath a nice surprise. When I make it to the knob, my jaw relaxes. The door is unlocked.
It creaks open to reveal a short hallway that leads to the living room of what I now realize is a log cabin. A fire crackles, and when I near the end of the hallway, orange flames appear, being fed a log by the man in the hood.
I think. He isn’t wearing the hood now, so it’s hard to say for sure.
My eyes squint at the back of his head, studying his thick, wavy locks of brown hair that look glossy, like he’s recently showered. A gray T-shirt hugs his biceps as he works the fire with a poker, and tattoos cover his arms, leaving little space for his natural skin.
The man is a stranger to me. Nothing about him looks familiar.
But as he turns to me, setting the poker down, my stomach drops.
His face is different. There’s a scar across his cheek, and his skin looks so rough in comparison to the flawless face I saw nine years ago.
But those eyes... Those golden, relentless eyes.
Those I could never forget.
Nausea roils in my gut as I take a startled step back.
“ Vitaly .”
Mila
Nine years ago…
In the back seat of the Petrov’s SUV, I rub at a splotch of brown on the skirt of my white dress.
It’s a tiny bit of coffee from the airplane. I hate coffee—it’s far too bitter for my tastes—but I’m told Americans love coffee, so I’ve been trying to adapt my tastebuds to it. Today, I regret the gesture. One careless swipe across my lips with a hand I then rested in my lap cost the symbolic white of this dress its purity. While my father hasn’t noticed the slip, there’s still the question of if my future husband will.
One half of me is terrified he will. Terrified he’ll rear his head in disgust, admonish me for my clumsiness. But the other half would be impressed at the attention to detail. This man will one day be Pakhan of the Petrov Bratva. He needs to be strong. Be observant. Accept nothing less than perfection from his people. Certainly nothing less from his wife.
My lungs constrict at the thought, and I continue to rub uselessly at the stain until my father’s hand lays over mine.
“You need to be still, Mila. Your new family will be able to feel your nervousness if you fidget.”
When he removes his hand, I lay my palms in my lap, lifting my head from the stain to stare at the back of the driver’s seat headrest. “Yes, sir.”
“You understand how important this is…” he adds, his voice low so the Petrov’s driver can’t hear. I nod to ease his mind, but his cryptic words weave a vine of anxiety around my spine.
My entire life, I’ve known my purpose was to be the wife of a powerful man. Every lesson of my upbringing pointed to it, every spare moment of the day a moment to train.
Everyone wants to have a boy, but my parents understood the opportunity that came from having a girl. They knew that one day my value would be even greater than my brothers, that with the proper presentation, the proper training, I would be able to bring more power to our family than either boy could.
And finally, six days after my thirteenth birthday, that day has come. The only son of a Pakhan heir has just turned eighteen, which means his father has been searching for a bride. The moment Papa caught wind of it, he flew me to America to stand in front of the man, along with five other candidates. Ultimately, I was chosen.
But nothing is set in stone. As the days have passed since that initial meeting with my future father-in-law, Papa has grown more and more anxious. None of us will be able to breathe easy until my vows are said and a wedding band is placed on my finger.
This marriage will mean power for my family, making my father a top lieutenant in the Petrov Bratva and the primary ambassador between them and our people back home. But if it doesn’t go through, it will make a mockery of us all.
My value will be diminished. No one will want to marry the rejected bride of a Petrov. They’ll trust his judgment, and they won’t see it as him only rejecting me, they’ll see it as him rejecting my family. My household will be disgraced right along with me, and a woman without value is not a woman worthy of family. I’ll be shunned, forced to live in foster care, probably in America because I doubt Papa would even take me back.
So yes, I understand how important this first impression is. There is nothing more he could say to make it any clearer.
When the SUV stops at a set of iron gates, I sit up straight and take steady, deep breaths to prepare myself.
I won the father’s approval. I will win the son’s.
If not today, then tomorrow.
“Bow your head,” Papa hisses next to my ear. “They like their women meek.”
I do as he says, the anxiety he puts off next to me fueling my own. I can tell he’s anxious because he’s repeating himself.
I know, Papa , I want to say. I remember everything. I’ll do well for you.
The car stops, and I wait for the driver to open the door. He helps me out then leads us inside a mansion that makes my nerves buzz. I don’t allow my eyes to wander, but when I imagine inheriting this home, raising a future Pakhan here…
It excites me.
My lips curve ever so slightly, but I push them down by reminding myself it could be decades before that happens. The grandfather and my future father-in-law both must die before this house is officially mine. I don’t know what those decades will consist of. For all I know, my mother-in-law could be as horrid as my grandmother who still lives in our home. My old home.
Once we make it to a sitting area, the driver leaves Papa and I to drown in discomfort by ourselves. I eye the couch but don’t sit when Papa opts to stand. His nervousness is making me want to rub at the stain on my dress, but I settle for covering it with my cupped hands. I keep my head down and try to wait patiently while my father paces the room.
“Hello.”
My heart skips at the velvety voice, my arms tensing. I peer up, unable to help myself, and lock onto a dark set of eyes in the doorway.
For a moment, a half second, I think it’s my future husband, and the warm smile he gives me threatens to melt me into a puddle on the floor.
But the lines on his forehead—visible beneath combed-over, blond hair—hint at his age. He’s at least a decade older than the eighteen-year-old I’m to marry.
“You must be Mila,” the man says, sharp canines gleaming at me as he crosses the room and holds out his hand. “Nikita Petrov.”
Petrov .
He’s one of them.
My palm feels sweaty as it meets his, but if he notices, he doesn’t voice it. I don’t take my eyes off his nearly black irises. The darkest I’ve ever seen.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, my voice smooth, showing none of my nerves. Pride bathes my shoulders with ease as I give him a slight smile and dip of my chin.
Papa clears his throat beside me, pulling Nikita’s eyes to him. “Fyodor Alekseev.”
Nikita’s smile falls in a pointed way, and he makes no move to shake Papa’s hand when he holds it out. Turning back to me, Nikita lifts his lips once more. “I better go get my nephew… He’s a lucky guy.” He gives me a friendly wink before turning and strutting from the room.
The moment he’s gone, my father makes a fist in my hair and yanks my head back, pulling a gasp into my lungs.
“I swear to God, if you spread your legs for any man who isn’t your husband, I will give them my blessing to fucking kill you. I’ll do it myself , do you understand me, shlyukha ?”
Shlyukha… Whore.
My eyes burn more from the moniker than from the pain in my scalp. “Yes, sir. I would never?—”
“You were flirting with the uncle! What happens when he tells your husband? What kind of man would want a slut ?”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Shut up,” he spits, hot, angry breath hitting my cheek. When footsteps sound nearby, he lets go of my hair and steps to the side, giving my future husband a better view of me.
My eyes threaten to water, but I bite my cheek and force my hands to still, picture the nervous energy leaving my body—a trick my mother taught me.
I keep my eyes lowered as two men enter the room. I’m afraid to make eye contact with the wrong man again, especially in front of my future husband.
Nausea coils in my stomach, and although I promised my mother I wouldn’t cry, right now I want to. I can feel Papa’s disapproval, even as he talks lightheartedly with my future father-in-law. It eats away at me, digs into my pride, and slices across the part of me that craves perfection. Acceptance. Approval.
I’m standing in the most important moment of my life. This moment, right now, determines my family’s destiny. This decides whether my father grants me his forgiveness, his love .
With a steady breath and a shot of bravery, I lift my eyes to a set of amber irises, so light they look like gold. Despite their shine, they hold no warmth. No compassion. Not a drop of kindness. These are something from my worst nightmare, and before anything is out of his mouth, I know I’ll be seeing these eyes every night when I lay down to go to sleep.
“No.” He shakes his head in disgust before turning to his father. “Pick someone else.”
My lungs stop working.
“ Vitaly ,” his father scorns, as if he can feel my heart breaking.
Vitaly. I didn’t even know that was his name.
Yesterday, I might’ve liked it. Today, it sounds like hatred.
The look Vitaly gives me next, one of pure disdain, is so hard to take that I lower my head. It’s what a submissive wife would do. I hate that it feels natural.
“Not her. Jesus Christ, look at her.” I catch him waving his hand at me and feel like it reached my face somehow, a slap across my cheek.
“No,” he says one last time before turning and storming from the room, his father going after him.
I know what’s coming before the sound of their footsteps ceases.
“You useless fucking whore,” my father growls, his anger bubbling over. He grips my shoulder and jerks me around just to slam the back of his hand across my face, sending me to the floor.
The taste of blood sits on my tongue as my lip swells. The pain is nothing. It’s nothing but a butterfly kiss on the cheek in comparison to Vitaly’s cruel words, his gaze.
Not her. Jesus Christ, look at her.
Papa’s belt rattles as he removes it. I close my eyes and brace for the pain to come, knowing it’s only an appetizer. A taste .
I promised Mama I wouldn’t cry.
So when the first tear slips, I mourn the loss of my word, my pride, my dignity, my purity, my value .
I’ve spent my life—short as it may be—training to become worthy of a man like Vitaly. In a thirty-second assessment, he managed to make it all for nothing. To tear away everything I’ve ever been. Everything my family’s ever been.
My identity, gone.
By the time the beating stops, I’m unable to stand. Papa leaves me on the floor, disappearing with Vitaly’s father to discuss what’s to be done about me. What gutter to throw me into. Maybe they’ll just kill me.
I let myself wail, let myself be weak in a way I’ve never been allowed. I’m ashamed of it. Ashamed to the point I wonder if maybe I wish they’d just kill me.
But no. I may never be a Petrov, but I am an Alekseev.
Alekseevs are not weak. We do not die without honor.
We do not quit.
My lip trembling, I push onto my knees, one final tear slipping onto my bloodied, white dress.
I make a promise to myself this time instead of Mama. One so sacred even a monster like Vitaly will not be able to make me break it. I will never give up. I will never stop fighting to fulfill my destiny, no matter how many suitors I have to meet. And most importantly…
No matter what happens, these tears will be my last.