35. Brooke
Alarm trickles through me, and I freeze. “What do you mean?”
Lev pushes away from the wall and crosses the room to his desk, where he picks up a yellow envelope.
My spine begins to tingle. Something is wrong. Whatever is in that envelope is not good.
“He has no intention of returning for you. The night he left your apartment, he fled the US. He took a flight to the UK and then on to Ibiza. And not by way of Oregon.”
He’s lying.
Wilson is an ass, but he wouldn’t do that knowing I might be killed.
“No,” I whisper.
Lev hands me the yellow envelope.
“Go ahead, take a look for yourself.”
I open the envelope, and my stomach drops. He wasn’t lying. Inside are a series of photos.
“These were taken yesterday and today by the men I have following him.”
I turn away from Lev as I look at the photos. I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t want him to see the hurt already registering on my face.
Trying to keep my feelings in check, I shuffle through the photos.
In one lot of images, Wilson is at a bar drinking shots and laughing and looking more relaxed than a man in trouble with the bratva should. In the next lot of photos, day has turned to night, and he’s dancing and drinking, fist pumping and sloppily kissing a young girl in a bikini. More photos show him sunbathing around a pool and, on another day, at the beach.
Wilson is living his best life while I’m here in bratva hell trying to save his dumb ass.
Just when I didn’t think he could disappoint me further, he proves me wrong.
I let the photos fall through my fingers and drop to the floor. “He’s really not coming back.”
“No, he’s already purchased a new life. New name. New ID.”
“Are you going to kill him?” I brace myself because I know the answer. Lev doesn’t accept disrespect. He’ll make Wilson pay with his life.
“That depends on you,” he says.
I turn around to face him. “What do you mean?”
“It means I need a wife, and your ex needs to keep a pulse.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes, zayka. Marry me, and the mudak lives.”
“You keep changing the goalposts,” I say.
“No, I don’t, Wilson does. He broke our agreement, so I should order my men to kill him. But I find myself in a predicament that you can help me with. So I’m willing to forego the killing part and offer you his freedom in exchange for your hand in marriage.”
“And how long will this marriage be?”
“Twelve months.”
Jesus Christ. A whole year.
“In name only,” he adds.
Which answers my next question. Does he expect to consummate our marriage?
“You will be well taken care of. In exchange, I need you to appear as my devoted wife in public.”
“And if I don’t agree, you’ll kill Wilson?”
“Yes.”
“What if I don’t care about that anymore? I mean, why would I? He’s let me down so many times, why would I keep putting my life on hold to save his?”
“Because I know you can’t walk away when there is a chance to save him, even if he isn’t worth it.”
I think I hate him in that moment.
He’s right, of course.
I can’t walk away, no matter how much Wilson doesn’t deserve my help. Because I couldn’t live with his death on my shoulders.
My hands aren’t just tied. They’re shackled to the monster standing in front of me.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, feeling so let down I can barely breathe. Not just by Wilson but by Lev. Only a couple of hours ago, he held my hand and made me feel beautiful, and I let myself get carried away, thinking we were on a real date.
But everything has turned on a dime.
Again.
“It’s just a means to an end,” Lev says coldly.
I shake my head as if I can shake myself out of this nightmare. “Half an hour ago, you were downplaying my presence to Lydia. Now I’m to marry you?”
“What I said to Lydia bought me some time from her annoying, meddling ways. Announcing you as my fiancée to the bratva will secure me as pakhan in the eyes of the old vory who think I don’t value family as much as I value money.”
“Either way, I’m just a pawn in all your chess games,” I mutter.
“If it makes you feel better thinking that, go right ahead.”
“It’s the truth.”
He scoffs. “The truth is always subjective, zayka.”
“Then I feel sorry for you,” I snap. “What if I decline?”
“Then I will have my men dispose of Wilson.”
“And me?”
A frown flickers on his face. It’s like no one has ever questioned their fate to him. “I haven’t decided.”
Inside, I die a little.
“I need time to process all of this,” I say quietly.
Oh, I know I have no choice about the whole marriage thing. I have to marry Lev no matter what, or Wilson dies. But that’s not what I need to think about. I need to process what my reality has become. A loser ex who doesn’t care if I live or die. And a bratva fake boyfriend who controls if I do or don’t.
I have no control of my life, and I feel the loss so profoundly.
But I can’t let Wilson die, even if he is an asshole who deserves it. While I can do something to save him, I will. Even if he’s doing nothing to save himself.
And if that means marrying this man who has my future in his hands, then I will.
But I’m not in the mood for details tonight. I need some space to think. “Let me sleep on it.”
Lev nods. “Fine, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
I excuse myself and flee to my bedroom.
I go through the motions of getting myself ready for bed. I take off my makeup and take a long shower, standing under the warm water and praying it will wash away the disappointment and sadness.
Then I crawl into my bed and start to cry.
Not because I have any feelings of love for Wilson—they were gone the day of the wedding that never happened.
No, I cry because now I have to marry a man I can’t stand to save a man I truly hate.