Chapter 3
PETYR
People always think, because I grew up the way I did, that I’m spoiled. Entitled. That anything that doesn’t taste like a silver spoon is hardly worth having.
There goes a Gubarev boy, rotten to the core.
They’re right that I’m rotten.
They’re wrong as to why. Dead fucking wrong.
I’m hungry like this because I grew up having everything. Having shit given to you is one thing—but keeping it? That’s another.
In my world, the sweetest things life has to offer are dangled in front of your face. But a dozen sets of hands sit waiting in the shadows to snatch it right the fuck away from you. They want what’s yours.
You learn fast to start chopping at the greedy paws.
And now, this pretty thing has fallen right into my lap. Hands are reaching for her—the hands of fate, the hands of lurking enemies, the hands of this and that and the fucking other.
I’ll sever them all at the fucking root if they reach too far.
Sima. I roll the name on my tongue. It’s unusual. Russian, perhaps. The name “Simona” could easily be shortened to “Sima” in my native language. Lately, it’s become more and more common for second- or third-generation parents not to bother with the long version at all.
But it’s not the etymology that grips me. Frankly, I couldn’t give less of a shit about where her name comes from.
It’s that I’m certain I’ve heard that name before.
I think back to the moment she pointed at her nametag. She wanted me to see her role in today’s event, assure me there was no way we could have met before today. Wedding Something, it read. Coordinator, maybe.
I nodded along, but the truth is, I didn’t really look that hard. I don’t bother reading things I don’t have to. Dyslexia makes that a pain in the ass.
And she told me her name was Sima. That was enough for me.
Now, though, I’m thinking about it again. Because she ran, and because I know I’ve seen that face before. I may not be great at reading books, but reading people is a different matter entirely. And I meant what I said to her: I never forget a face.
I flex my jaw, impatient with myself. I despise not knowing things. I don’t like unsolved pieces floating around on a day when everything else has to be locked down tight.
And right now, everything has to be locked down tight.
It’s the only way I make it out alive.
Though I doubt the delicious wedding planner is secretly an enemy spy.
If she were, she wouldn’t have looked so scared.
Instead, she kept babbling, her soft brown eyes as wide and frightened as a doe’s.
Her lips, red and shiny, kept parting like she couldn’t catch her breath.
They looked full, juicy. Positively fucking edible.
If Lev and Luka hadn’t walked in, I don’t know what would have happened.
Or maybe I do—and that’s the problem right there.
I would have backed her against the wall. Seen if her mouth stuttered like that when it wasn’t words coming out of it, but moans instead. I would have run my hands up those hips, slid that blazer off her petite shoulders, tugged her zipper lower, lower, lower.
She would have begged.
And I would have given her exactly what she was begging for.
She was trying so hard to stay professional. To pretend she wasn’t imagining what it would feel like to touch the goods. She didn’t want to want me—and that’s what made it real.
Most women want something from me. In the single week I’ve been in charge of my family’s Bratva, I’ve seen socialites fall over themselves to snatch me up, circling like vultures.
Power, money, status: you name it, I have it. And they want it, badly.
On the other hand, Sima just wanted out.
I picture her against the door. Dark brown hair, cut just past the shoulder. Practical, but charming in the way it fell around her heart-shaped face. Whoever styled it, they knew they were framing a work of art.
She was enough to send all my blood rushing south. It’s a shame I met her on my wedding day, of all days. Whichever daughter of his that Boris Sidorov stuck me with can’t be half as mouth-watering as those pretty pink lips or that tight, supple body.
A little minx in a cropped blazer and a sleek pantsuit. A fucking temptation with—
“—tyr? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”
Lev’s words fly right over my head. It’s the first time since the accident that anything has commanded my full focus like this, and I’m not looking to split it.
Instead, I bend down to pick up the purse Sima dropped. “No,” I answer flatly. “And unless it’s life-or-death, I wouldn’t bother repeating yourself.”
Luka shrinks where he’s standing, even though I wasn’t speaking to him. He’s a recruit, fresh off the streets, with only his six-foot-nine stature to recommend him.
“Your blushing bride’s still in the limo,” Lev says, voice flat. “Been crying for the last fifteen minutes. Ruined all of the makeup artist’s hard work.”
“Pity.”
“She won’t come out, Petyr.” He rounds in front of me, searching for my gaze that’s busy scanning Sima’s dropped belongings. “She says she can’t go through with it. Says she’s not gonna marry you.”
I search through her things. Cheap lip gloss. A folder. A half-eaten burrito.
“Sounds like her problem,” I remark. “Not mine.”
“You’re not hearing me!” A pack of breath mints. A pocket hairbrush. Another pack of breath mints. “It’s over, Petyr. The wedding’s off.”
That’s when I finally lift my gaze. “No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.” Lev looks as exasperated as the day I appointed him as my second.
Which, to be fair, was less than a week ago.
“Christ, brother. I’m not surprised your future wife decided to become future Mrs. Nothing instead.
If this is what was waiting for her, she might have had better luck with a potted fucking plant. ”
I should probably take offense at Lev’s tone, but I don’t. Years of friendship tell me he’s only speaking this way because he cares. About me. And about them.
Father. Dimitri.
The two people I swore I’d avenge.
The problem is, I need a bride to do that.
I’ve never met Polina Sidorov. Never bothered to look her up, either. Rumor says she’s soft, spoiled, the kind of girl raised to be more ornamental than useful.
I don’t hold that against her. It’s not her fault her father decided to throw her at me like a white flag in a white dress.
The Sidorov Bratva is a small, weak sideshow in the grand scheme of things. But her daddy wants the protection I offer, and I need the legitimacy of a marriage to solidify my newfound position.
On top of that, we both have problems with the Danilo scum crawling into our territory. We both lost people to them. Last year in particular was a massacre. I’m tired of playing defense, and I know Boris Sidorov is, too.
So, when he offered me one of his daughters, I accepted.
If not for those reasons, I never would have done something as stupid as taking a wife, let alone commit to a child.
But it was my father’s will, both figuratively and legally.
He wanted his successor to be married, his bloodline to continue.
So much, in fact, that he put it in writing the day Dimitri was born.
It was never me who was supposed to wear the crown. To continue the Gubarev legacy. It was Dmitri.
But he’s half-dead in a hospital bed right now, breathing through a fucking tube. So it falls to me to carry us forward.
I couldn’t give less of a shit about legacies. All I care about is what I need to do next: secure the throne and then wipe the Danilo name off the map for what they did to my family.
That’s what this whole wedding charade is about. Not some misguided delusion of affection, but blood.
Honoring mine.
Spilling theirs.
So, no, I don’t care that my bride is bawling her pretty eyes out. This isn’t a love story—it’s a goddamn contract.
But I can’t say I’m too disappointed. Or embarrassed. Or that I regret in any way that my bride decided to no-show one hour before we were supposed to speak our vows.
Because I didn’t want to marry her, either.
I still need a bride. But honestly, anybody will do. Polina can ride off into the fucking sunset for all I care.
Just as I’m thinking that, my fingers find something other than gumdrops and half-eaten snacks inside Sima’s bag.
Her laminated ID card.
I turn it over between my fingers and focus hard on the words stamped on the front.
Banks, Samantha.
Suddenly, I think of her nametag. Of the letters swimming before my eyes. I couldn’t make the words out then, too busy focusing on other things, but now, I remember.
It said “Samantha” on there, too.
But that’s not what she said to me. When I pressed her for her name, she blurted out, “Sima.” That can’t be right. It’s Samantha, Sam, or Sammi—but Sima? That’s a wholly different name.
Which can only mean one thing.
“… She lied to me.”
Lev frowns. “Who, Polina?”
“No. The wedding planner.”
He buries his face in his hands. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?!”
“It has everything to do with it.”
As if to confirm my suspicions, my gaze darts to Sima’s listed birth year. I do some quick math. Thirty-three, according to this. No fucking way. She doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five, tops. Either she’s aging backward, or she’s lying about more than just her name.
I stare at the ID, piecing it together. My mind clicks through every face, every name I’ve ever filed away. No, no, no…
Wait. There.
“Oh, shit.” Lev squints at me, eyes filled with worry. “Why do you look so happy all of a sudden?”
Because I’ve got a way out.
Slowly, my lips curve into a smirk. I don’t smile often, but when I do, it’s because I smell victory.
The door creaks open. Mikhael strolls in like he owns the place. He’s grinning already, which never means anything good. A trait we share. Not for nothing, we’re cousins.
“She’s gone,” he announces, clearly trying—and failing—not to sound giddy. “Polina. Took her uncle’s car and peeled out of the parking lot like it was Fast & Fuckin’ Furious. Boris is having a meltdown. Wants us to go after her.”
Lev groans. “Christ. She could be halfway across the city by now.”
I keep my eyes on Sima’s ID for another second, then tuck it into my pocket and look up. Mikhael is still smiling. He seems to think that Polina’s daring escape was a gift to him.
He’s half-right. It was a gift—but not to him.
“Call Boris,” I say, voice calm. “Tell him the deal’s off. I’m not marrying his brat daughter.”
Lev’s jaw drops. “You’re serious?”
“She ran, didn’t she?” I glance at Mikhael, who’s now openly gloating. “Look. Even Mik agrees.”
“You still need a wife,” Lev protests. “You still need—”
“And I’ll get it—but not from Sidorov.” I fix him with a pointed look. “Tell him I won’t be insulted. He offered a bride, and she fled the scene. We’re done. He’s lucky I don’t gut him for the disrespect.”
Mikhael laughs under his breath. “You’re in a good mood for a man who just got stood up at the altar.”
I step in close enough for his smile to die in his throat. “There will be a wedding,” I snarl, keeping my voice low and even. “Just not the one we planned.”
Mikhael goes quiet.
Lev straightens. “What are you talking about?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I look out the window toward the service hallway. Toward the path she took when she ran. Sima—or whatever name she’s hiding behind now.
If I’m right, she doesn’t want to be found.
Which is exactly why I’m going to find her.
“The wedding’s still happening,” I repeat. “We’re just making a few changes.”
“Such as?”
I let my smirk bare my teeth. “I’ve found a new bride.”