Chapter Two
Slava
My foot stomps out the cigar I just took the last pull from, eyes locked on the wooden cabin miles below, where I'm parked between the trees.
"Pakhan, are—are those fucking binoculars?" my second-in-command, Ilya, mutters beside me.
"Da," I say, half-minded, too busy watching my woman fight with her sister.
They don't seem to like each other much.
Every time I watch, they're either screaming at each other or doing that cat-like slapping thing women do.
But every night, they sleep next to each other, even though there's another bedroom in the cabin. Must be a sibling thing.
"Should I be worried you've lost your mind, Pakhan?" Ilya asks, lighting another cigarette.
He's the only man alive who can speak to me like that and keep his head attached to his shoulders. He makes good use of the privilege. Well—Nora too. I'd probably find it endearing if she slapped me.
What a bitch of a man I've become.
"Da." I mean to say it with venom, but the sight of my little butterfly slamming a fistful of dirt into her sister's face has me fighting back a laugh instead.
I lost my mind the moment I met her. She abandoned me in the middle of a war zone, left me standing in a parking lot covered in someone else's blood, and still—all I feel looking at her is warmth. Anyone else who pulled a stunt like that would be missing a few limbs by now.
"You're smiling," Ilya says.
"Am I not allowed to smile at my own woman?"
"You don't smile at anyone. I've known you twelve years, Slava. I've seen you smile maybe three times."
"Then this makes three and a half."
He shakes his head. Through the corner of my eye, I watch him straighten, glaring down at something in the yard before he catches himself, clenches his fists, and leans back against the car.
The same car we retrieved from the CVS lot after my smart girl, suspecting it was tracked, left it running and walked away.
Truthfully, my girl is far smarter than anyone gives her credit for.
She did everything right. Blocked me everywhere.
Changed her number, changed her phone, because yes—I had a tracker buried in the old one.
Packed a bag, left her apartment behind, and disappeared to her sister's place in the middle of nowhere.
I remember the day I put that tracker in. She'd thanked me for checking out why her phone battery was draining fast, kissed my jaw, and called me her savior. I let her believe that instead of telling her I took advantage of the issue to tap her phone.
I remember another night when she was curled into my side on the couch, tracing the scar above my collarbone with her finger, asking who did it. I told her a car accident. She believed me.
But this isn't an ordinary mafia syndicate she's running from. This is the Bratva. And my men found their future pakhanessa within a few hours.
If I look at what happened through glasses that aren't rose-colored by my obsession with her, I'll admit she ran because a few dogs from the Cosa Nostra tried to corner me in an alley, still whining about missing shipments we absolutely did not touch.
They've been throwing tantrums for months over drugs some other fool stole.
My little butterfly just felt betrayed that I lied to her about what I do for months. Maybe she got scared. She'll learn soon enough that standing next to me, there's nothing to be scared of.
I remember the first time she found blood on my cuff, and I told her I'd cut myself shaving. She believed that lie too, that time. Innocent little thing.
Soon, when my ring sits on her finger, the whole Bratva will die before they let so much as a scratch touch her.
As for the violence, she'll get used to it. She's a firecracker who might end up inflicting some of her own one day.
I just need to give my little butterfly the right garden to grow in. One full of blood-red roses. And I will. Even if she fights me on it at first. Even if I have to drag her back to it by the wrist.
I forgive her for the stunt she pulled. For thinking, even for a second, she could run from me. Because very soon, she'll be back in my web, right where she belongs.
"So this is her?" Ilya asks, nodding toward the cabin. "Our future queen?"
I raise the binoculars again. She and her sister are rolling in the mud now, hair tangled, leaves stuck in it, dirt smeared up both arms. My Nora has the upper hand. I watch, smirking, as she executes a move on her sister that leaves the girl withering on the ground—a move I taught her myself.
That's my good girl, Nora.
I give Ilya a smile—which used to be a rarity for me but is now becoming common—and nod once.
"This is her."