Chapter 3
ROSIE
The car ride is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
The driver is polite and silent. His large hands are clad in gray leather gloves, and he grips the steering wheel with familiar ease.
Occasionally, his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, but never meeting mine.
Dad bounces his knee and mutters about traffic, about “just a small talk,” about “nothing you need to worry about.” He’s been saying that since he showed up with this chauffeured town car to pick me up to accompany him to a “business meeting” that required my presence.
It’s like he thinks repetition will make me not worry true.
It doesn’t.
I twist the hem of my long--sleeved shirt with my fingers.
The fabric crumpling under my grip. I’m wearing slightly nicer jeans than I wear at the bar, a black cardigan over the shirt, and my one pair of real boots, the ones that don’t creak with every step.
I did my hair. I brushed my teeth twice.
I’m trying to look like someone who isn’t terrified.
Like someone who doesn’t know that whatever this meeting is that I have to attend, it will not bring good news. Like someone who doesn’t know that any business meeting my father makes me go to will ruin my future, financially and emotionally.
But he’s my only family. So, once again, here I am, prepared to bail him out.
My mind is running sums as I try to figure out how much in debt he might be.
Trying to figure out if there’s anything left for me to sell to get him out of another shady deal.
Last time, I sold my car and pawned the last of my mom’s jewelry.
Neither had much monetary value, but it hurt to let go of mom’s stuff.
The building we pull up to looks like lawyers or architects work here, not loan sharks. Gray stone, dark windows, a brass sign with a generic company name I don’t recognize and could mean anything. A man in a suit stands at the door, on the phone, then steps aside as the car stops.
The door opens from the outside. I’m expected.
“See?” Dad says as he climbs out. “Professional. Very… professional.”
He’s trying so hard to sound calm. His voice cracks on the last word.
I follow him into the lobby with marble floors and columns.
A large, round table of the same material displays a giant glass vase filled with white lilies.
That, combined with the climate control system set to freezing, makes me think of a funeral home, and I shudder from more than just the cold air.
My boots click loudly against the floor, and the air smells of lemon and metal.
In silence, we ride an elevator several floors up and are then escorted down a hallway, past doors with frosted glass, past portraits of serious men in suits. My palms are damp. I wipe them on my jeans and tell myself I will not cry. I will not break.
My dad keeps trying to catch my eye, but I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll either explode from anger or melt in a puddle of angst.
At the end of the hall, the door is open. Another suited man steps out, nods to our escort, and then stands aside for us. “Mr. Kedrov is expecting you,” he says, and his accent is the same as the gray-eyed stranger in the bar.
My stomach twists into a knot, and I force my legs to continue through the doorway.
The office is big, but warmer than the lobby. A table-top lamp casts a yellow glow on a heavy wooden desk. Behind it, tall windows show a city view topped by a washed--out gray--blue sky. Heavy clouds hang low, waiting to release the rain they’re holding onto.
Off to the side, a couch and two chairs surround a coffee table.
A man rise from the couch, and I recognize him as one of the older Bratva men who visited the Tankard a few nights ago.
He’s dressed in a navy suit, a silk shirt, no tie.
He looks like someone who’s already had a long day, not someone who’s about to ruin a life. But I know better.
Another man steps out from a side door I didn’t notice, and I freeze. It’s the gray-eyed guy who ordered the non-paint-thinner vodka.
He nods to me, like we’re friends or something, and then leans one shoulder against the door frame, crossing his arms. He’s in black again, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the sharp line of his forearms, which are covered in ink.
His hair is slightly messier than at the bar, like he’s been running a hand through it.
“Dad,” my voice shakes. “What’s going on?” I tear my eyes from the piercing gray eyes and look at my father. His face is flushed red, but before he can answer, the older man gestures to the couch and the chairs. “Sit,” he says with a smile. It’s not friendly.
Dad sits down on the couch and pets the material. “This is really nice, Mr. Kedrov, sturdy.” He looks up, his eyes darting all over the office. “Nice digs in general.”
The man ignores him as he keeps watching me, eyebrows raised.
I hesitate, then lower myself into a chair. Back straight, hands clasped in my lap, I perch on the edge.
“My name is Danyl Kedrov,” the man says, sitting down in the other chair. “You are Rose Morgan.” His blue eyes focus on my face with a scary intensity.
“Yes,” I say, feeling stupid for confirming my name. My voice is smaller than I want it to be.
He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Let’s not waste time.” He slides a folder across the table toward me. “Read this now, if you like. Or wait. It doesn’t really matter when.”
I stare at the folder, clasping my hands together harder so I don’t have to touch it. Like that’s going to save me from whatever mess Dad has gotten himself into this time.
My father clears his throat. “I told you, Rosie, it’s just about a small debt. We’re restructuring the terms. New terms, maybe more time. I just need a cosigner”
“Is that what you told her?” Danyl asks him without looking away from me. “That’s not what this is about.”
Dad’s face tightens. “I was trying to make it easier—”
“Make it easier,” Danyl interrupts, “by telling her the truth.”
The man leaning against the door frame shifts, and my gaze flicks to him. He’s still watching me, but his expression is guarded, unreadable.
“What… what’s going on?” I ask, and my voice wavers.
Danyl laces his fingers together. “Your father owes us money,” he says. “A lot of money. He has been delaying, racking up interest, making promises he never delivered on. We have been patient. Today, that ends.”
“That’s what I told you, Rosie,” Dad says quickly. “This is just a formality. You just have to sign this one—”
Danyl holds up a hand, silencing my father without looking at him. Instead, he turns and gestures toward the gray-eyed man. “This is my cousin and valuable employee, Alexei Kedrov. You met him a few nights ago.”
Alexei gives me the faintest nod. His gaze is steady and heavy. I can’t tell if he’s assessing me or pitying me.
“My cousin needs a better immigration status,” Danyl says.
“Work visas are… tricky and not enough for the type of work he does. He needs a marriage that satisfies the legal requirements for residency, ideally citizenship. For that, he needs a wife with no criminal record and an okay credit score. A believable story of how you met is a plus. Your dad does some jobs for my company. Alexei works for my company.” He shrugs.
“It’s believable that you met at a company function. ”
For a second, the words don’t connect.
Then they do, and my entire body breaks out in a clammy sweat.
“You’re saying…” My throat goes dry and I have to swallow. “You want me to marry him?” Alexei shifts again, clearing his throat, but he says nothing. I refuse to look at him.
“Yes,” Danyl says, as if he’s ordering coffee.
“No,” I say automatically.
Dad leans forward. “Rosie, listen—”
Even though there’s a table between us, I jerk back in the chair to get away from him. “You knew about this? You brought me here for this?”
“Drew?” Danyl says mildly. “Why don’t you let us talk.”
Dad hesitates, then drops his hand. His face is pale. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters.
“From what?” I ask, but I don’t really want the answer.
“From what happens when you owe Bratva money,” he says, voice thin, scared. “It’s not like a bank loan, Rosie. They make a statement when you don’t pay. They make you a cautionary tale for others.” He’s shaking now.
“You’re making it sound like they’re going to kill you,” I say, and even as I say it, I feel stupid. I know he’s exaggerating, but I can see how scared he is. Beads of sweat covers his forehead.
“Kill?” Danyl repeats, almost amused. “That’s a little extreme.” He leans forward, hands on his knees, and my dad flinches. “If you don’t pay, you lose things. Property. Respect. Friends,” Danyl continues, “Maybe fingers. Maybe limbs. Maybe your daughter’s future.”
“That’s a lie,” I say, but my voice wavers. Because I can feel all my dreams about college, about a legal career, crashing down around me.
“It’s a possibility,” he says. “Your father owes a lot of money. If he can’t pay, we must make an example of him. Do you mind being his caretaker for the rest of your life? To help him wash, to change his adult diapers because he can no longer walk?”
“Rosie,” my Dad keens, “help me.”
My mind races and I can’t think. One of my legs starts bouncing like it does when I’m anxious or overwhelmed. I’m so scared. These men are serious, but at the same time, anger fills me. How could Dad get himself into this situation? Why do I always have to be the adult in our family?
Danyl watches me for a beat and then turns to Alexei. “Explain it to her.”
Alexei pushes away from the door frame and walks over to the couch, but doesn’t sit.
He stands beside it, his cold gray gaze boring into mine.
“You marry me,” he says simply. “I gain permanent residency. Your father’s debt is cleared.
Your father keeps his fingers, his kneecaps, his life. You get… stability and protection.”