3. Chapter 1
X iomara
I’m finally in my private quarters after a day of sitting in on one meeting after another. Just as I kick off my shoes to relax, a knock on my door startles me. I invite the person in, and my nanny, Luise, steps inside. A soft smile spreads across her aging face as she takes in my tired frame.
“Mija, look at you all grown up.” She says, pride shining in her eyes.
She had taken care of me as a baby, and still fusses over me no matter how much I protest.
“Your baby is a woman now.” I smile, knowing how much it irritates her to hear me or anyone point it out.
“Say no more,” she gives an exasperated breath. “You are a woman, alright, a beautiful one at that, and men are beginning to notice.”
I give her a questioning look, and she informs me that Cristóbal was here to see me. He is the son of my father’s late friend and one of the few people who have direct access to me. Cristóbal is like an elder brother and has always looked out for me.
When I walk into the private lounge, I see him lolling on an armchair.
“Hey,” I greet, but his usual playful personality seems to be missing. “Is everything alright?
“No.”
“What is the matter?” I ask, feeling alarmed.
“Your father is about to shop for a husband for you.”
I stare blankly at Cristóbal, certain I must have misheard him. The afternoon sunlight filters lazily through the large windows, warming my skin but doing nothing to melt the ice suddenly gripping my heart.
“My father’s doing what?” I ask slowly, hoping he'll correct himself. My voice trembles slightly despite my best effort at control.
Cristóbal sighs, leaning back against my plush velvet armchair, his casual posture at odds with the gravity of his news. His dark eyes meet mine, softening with a sympathy I don’t want to acknowledge.
“He’s looking for a suitable husband for you, Mara,” he repeats carefully, gently even. “He thinks it’s time.”
“Time?” I echo, irritation edging out shock as I rise abruptly and pace the length of the room. My heels click sharply against the polished marble floor. “Time for what exactly? To auction me off to the highest bidder?”
Cristóbal watches me carefully, quietly absorbing my agitation. “You know that’s not how he sees it,” he murmurs.
I whirl around to face him, temper flaring. “Then how does he see it, Cris? Enlighten me.”
He rubs a hand over his face, clearly reluctant to say more. “Your father wants stability. Security. With his health being fragile lately, he feels he needs someone strong, someone dependable, to ensure your protection.”
My throat tightens at the mention of my father’s health, anger and fear mingling dangerously in my chest. "I don’t need protection, Cristóbal. I’ve never needed protection."
He gives a small, wry smile. "That's not how he sees it. To him, you'll always be the little girl who needs safeguarding."
Frustration bubbles beneath my skin. Four years of attending the university, studying international relations, earning my master's degree, proving my intelligence and capability—and still, all my father sees is a fragile doll in need of protection.
“Did he say who?” I ask bitterly, clenching my hands tightly at my sides.
Cristóbal hesitates, shaking his head slowly. “No, not yet. But I’m guessing he already has someone in mind. Someone loyal, powerful, and capable enough to carry your father’s mantle.”
My stomach churns uneasily. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the anger draining out of me, replaced swiftly by dread. "So I’m to be married off to one of his enforcers or lieutenants, someone I've barely spoken two words to, let alone care for?"
Cristóbal leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze earnest. "You know your father adores you. If you speak to him, appeal to that bond you two share, he might let you have some say in this."
I stare at him silently, weighing his words. He has a point. My father has always doted on me, giving in to my every wish and whim, even those he disapproved of. Perhaps Cristóbal is right—perhaps I still have a choice.
“Who would you suggest, then?” I ask softly, my mind already spinning with possibilities. “Someone he’d approve of and someone I wouldn’t despise spending my life with?”
Cristóbal shrugs, a thoughtful look crossing his handsome features. “You’ve always been smart about these things, Mara. Pick someone strategically—someone who’d benefit your father’s cartel, someone your father would respect enough to approve of, and someone you could tolerate.”
A faint tremor of anxiety moves through my limbs. I look down at my lap, considering his words carefully. One name rises quickly in my mind, unbidden and unstoppable, sending heat across my cheeks.
Zasha.
My pulse quickens traitorously at the thought of him.
Calm, powerful, and dangerously controlled.
I've watched him quietly over the years, studied him from afar, every measured word and rare, guarded smile stored secretly in my heart. He’s one of the most feared men in our kind of business, respected and admired by even the most hardened cartel men.
Yet, Zasha has always felt impossibly distant—untouchable.
A silent shadow existing on the edges, ever-present but forever just out of reach.
Could I really be bold enough to propose Zasha as my choice?
“Mara?” Cristóbal’s voice breaks my reverie, pulling me back sharply into the present.
I lift my gaze to meet his questioning eyes. “What?”
“You have someone in mind, don’t you?” A small smile curls his lips, faintly teasing. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Heat floods my cheeks again, but I refuse to look away. “Maybe.”
“Is he someone you are confident can take care of you and lead our organization?”
I nod shyly but refuse to mention his name.
He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Then speak to your father soon. Propose this man, whoever he is. Do it now before Don Thiago settles on someone else.”
I nod slowly, dread and determination swirling uncomfortably inside me. The thought of marriage, of surrendering myself into the care of another person, fills me with unease. But the alternative—the loss of my autonomy, the fate of being shackled to someone I despise—terrifies me more.
“I’ll talk to him tonight,” I say firmly, forcing strength into my voice. "Before he has time to set anything into stone."
Cristóbal stands, crossing the room to stand before me. He gently takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Whatever happens, Mara, I'll always be here for you. You know that, right?"
I smile weakly up at him, comforted by his familiar presence. Cristóbal has always been there, steady and reliable—the closest thing I've had to a brother, a confidant through every challenge. "I know. Thank you."
He nods, releasing my hand. "Good luck."
As he quietly leaves the room, I’m left alone with nothing but the rapid beating of my heart and the uncertainty of my future. I stand slowly, moving to the window and gazing out over our sprawling estate, the gardens peaceful and serene, oblivious to the chaos brewing within me.
I have to take control. If my father insists on marriage, it must be on my own terms.
And my choice is already clear, even though it terrifies me.
Zasha.
The one man I’ve always secretly wanted, yet never dared to reach for.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I push aside my fear. Cristóbal is right—I have the power here. My father loves me too much to deny me this. I just need to convince him that my choice is the right one, not only for me—but for the future of our entire family.
Later that evening, as I get ready for bed, my mind refuses to quiet down.
I pace restlessly across the cool marble floor of my bedroom, twisting a strand of my hair around my finger in agitation.
My reflection stares back at me from the ornate mirror over my vanity, eyes darkened with uncertainty and nerves.
How exactly am I supposed to approach my father about arranging a marriage to Zasha?
The very thought of speaking those words aloud sends my heart racing wildly beneath my ribs, an unfamiliar rush of excitement intertwined with fear. Yet even as I start to form the words in my mind—carefully rehearsing what I might say—another thought strikes me like a sudden flash of clarity.
Maybe there’s an even better way.
My father’s pride in the Bratva men is no secret.
Viktor, Lev, and Zasha built their empire here in New York from nothing, transforming it into one of the most respected and feared organizations in the criminal underworld.
My father openly admires their resilience, strength, and unshakeable loyalty.
He speaks of them like legends, his voice filled with reverence.
And whenever he mentions Viktor, Zasha, and Lev, it’s always with a hint of envy and awe.
My father had once desperately sought an alliance with Viktor himself—offering him marriage into our cartel. But Viktor swiftly and decisively rejected the offer, choosing instead a woman he loved fiercely. It was an embarrassing blow to my father’s pride, although he never openly admitted it.
Then came the second chance two years ago. Viktor’s sister had been unmarried, a perfect opportunity for a union between our organizations. But that, too, had fallen apart, leaving my father once again bitterly disappointed.
Two unsuccessful attempts at a coveted alliance. But as they say, the third time’s the charm.
My heartbeat accelerates. Yes, this is it—the perfect plan. If the Bratva men themselves propose the match, my father won’t refuse. A marriage proposal coming from the bratva for me would feel like a personal victory rather than a concession.
A faint smile curves my lips. There’s just one thing I need to do: convince Zasha to approach my father about arranging our marriage.
My cheeks flush at the thought of facing Zasha directly with such a proposal.
There is no doubt he still sees me as nothing but trouble.
He has always been distant and impossible to read—a puzzle I’ve never dared try to solve.
Yet even now, the mere memory of his quiet, commanding presence sends warmth rushing through my veins.
I shake my head lightly, banishing foolish daydreams. If I’m going to approach Zasha, I need to do it strategically, practically. He needs to understand that this arrangement will benefit him as well. I’ll need to offer something compelling enough to persuade him. But what?
Freedom. My pulse quickens at the idea. Zasha’s reputation is that of a cold, detached enforcer, loyal and dedicated, but ultimately controlled by duty.
Surely a man like him would welcome the promise of an arrangement with clear terms—one year of marriage, after which we both would be free again.
That way, he could cement the alliance my father desires while knowing that it would come with an expiration date. No strings attached. No entanglements.
My heart sinks slightly at the thought of only a year with him, but I push the irrational disappointment aside. I have to stay realistic. I can’t afford fantasies or na?ve hopes—not when so much depends on this going exactly according to plan.
I walk toward my balcony doors and push them open, breathing in the cool night air, seeking calm.
Beneath me, the sprawling gardens of our estate stretch into darkness.
The gentle fragrance of blooming flowers drifts upward, soothing my frayed nerves.
But despite the beauty and peace surrounding me, my mind remains restless, carefully piecing together my strategy.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll approach Zasha privately, quietly, discreetly. I'll propose my arrangement clearly, confidently. I’ll tell him he only needs to suggest the alliance to Viktor. Viktor will in turn approach my father. It will look like their initiative, their victory, something my father won’t be able to refuse.
My stomach flips anxiously. I've admired Zasha from afar for years, watching quietly from the edges of crowded rooms, always careful to never let him suspect my attraction. I’ve studied his strength, his calm authority, his unshakeable loyalty to his friends.
Everything about him captivates me, from the sharp edge of his jawline to the dangerous intelligence that gleams in his eyes.
And now I'm planning to approach him myself, laying bare my intentions.
I exhale slowly, steadying my nerves. This is my moment—my chance to finally grasp control of my own fate. If I succeed, I'll not only secure my future but finally have Zasha within reach, even if only for a short while. If I fail…
I shake the thought away fiercely. I won’t fail. I refuse to consider any other possibility.
I turn away from the balcony, closing the doors behind me and drawing the curtains. My mind races forward, already rehearsing what I’ll say, how I’ll say it. My pulse quickens once more, not with fear, but with excitement—an electrifying rush of adrenaline and anticipation.
Tonight is the last night I'll spend wondering what it would feel like to be close to Zasha. Tomorrow I'll stop dreaming—and finally take action.