Chapter 6
ELLE
My life breaks down like this: twenty-six years of being watched round the clock, one night of freedom, and now whatever fresh hell this is.
I'm standing in our living room like a disobedient pet while Nik sits tied to a chair nearby. We're straight out of some sick crime show, except the set design costs more than most people's houses.
We've been here over an hour. Just when I think it can't get worse, the elevator doors slide open with a cheerful ding that doesn't match the thunder in the new arrival's eyes.
The man who steps out is older, silver threaded through dark hair, but the resemblance to Nikolai is instant.
Not in the face. In the gravity. That same don't-fuck-with-me energy that made my knees malfunction last night, except aged into something harder, like a blade that's been sharpened so many times there's barely any metal left.
Perfect.
This must be Viktor. Whoever the hell he is.
He doesn't look like a monster. He looks like he eats monsters for breakfast with a silver fork and a pressed napkin. Dark suit, darker eyes, the kind of stillness that makes your spine remember its manners. He brings two men with him, armed, of course.
My mother is already center stage, queen in her glass terrarium. She doesn't rush to meet him. She lets him arrive. It's her favorite trick: make power cross the room.
"Viktor," she says. Voice like a velvet guillotine.
"Gayle," he returns, smooth and low. His gaze slides over everything like he owns the patent on eyesight: the windows, the exits, me, and then the sunroom where they've parked Nik like modern art. Wrists zip-tied behind him. Ankles bound. Jaw set.
Viktor stops at the threshold, and the temperature drops two degrees.
"What is the meaning of this?" His accent is thicker than Nik's, vowels rounded and carrying an old-country weight. "Untie him."
Mother's smile flickers. She hates being told what to do.
"He's under restraint for a reason," she hisses.
Viktor's eyes don't leave Nik. "Untie my nephew right now, Gayle, or my men will paint your floor red before you can even say sorry."
Nephew. So Nikolai doesn't just work for Viktor. He's blood. That explains the matching murder vibes.
I steal a glance at Nik. He's watching his uncle like this whole thing is a show he didn't buy tickets for but plans to review.
Viktor takes a step forward. Jeffrey moves to block.
"Untie him," Viktor says again, ice and thunder in every syllable, "or I will untie him myself after I kill you."
Something raw crackles in the air between my mother and Viktor. Power meeting power. The room feels sudden, heavy, charged with something older than both of them.
Then she lifts her hand. Just the slightest flick. That signature, soul-level gesture I've seen her use to make men kneel.
It says: I'm not obeying you. I'm allowing this. Because I choose to, not because you asked.
"Let him go," she tells Jeffrey, her voice bored and sharp at once. "We're all adults here. Mostly."
That last word slices in my direction.
Like I'm twelve. Like I didn't just go nuclear to feel alive for one fucking night.
I force myself to stand still. Chin lifted, spine straight. But inside, I'm shrinking. Small and furious and embarrassed that there's a part of me still wanting her to be... soft. Just once. To look at me like a daughter instead of a bargaining chip she's negotiating terms on.
But no. She plays empires. Not motherhood.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep from saying something that'll make this worse.
Jeffrey cuts Nik free.
Nik brings his hands in front of him, flexes, rotates his wrists like he's taking inventory of every bone. He looks up at Viktor and something passes between them. Some kind of masculine Morse code, calculating exactly how many people in this room they could take out before someone stops them.
Mother snaps her fingers without looking at me. "Stand."
I stand. Like her little puppet.
Viktor's eyes narrow as he studies me. "This is your daughter?"
"Yes," my mother answers for me. "My only child. Whom your nephew ruined in a hotel room."
Heat floods my face. Ruined. Like I'm a piece of furniture someone scratched. Like my worth just depreciated and she's filing the insurance claim.
Viktor's eyes come to me and hold. He doesn't leer. He evaluates. I've never felt more like inventory in my life.
He turns to Nik. "Is it true?"
Nik doesn't blink. "We met. We went upstairs. I didn't know who she was."
Simple. Honest. A clean blade.
Viktor pinches the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly tired. "Nikolai, your recklessness will be the death of us all. Did I not warn you about thinking with your cock instead of your head? How many times have I told you not to behave like the world won't bill you for it?"
Nik's mouth twitches. The ghost of a smile that's all teeth. "You lecture, but you never send the invoice."
"Consider this collection," Viktor replies.
Cool. Great. Looks like I'm a line item now.
I'm still not sure why the sky is falling. Yes, we had sex. Yes, I loved it. Yes, my thighs are filing thank-you notes. But this level of drama feels excessive even by Gayle Donovan standards.
Mother tilts her head, diamond studs winking like little knives. "We will be adults about this," she says.
"We're listening," Viktor says.
Of course he is.
"I have several assets I've been considering divesting," Mother says. "A Midtown holding company that owns this building. A promising biotech stake. Certain riverfront parcels. A package deal, premium price, for the right buyer."
Viktor's brows lift a millimeter. "And you think I enjoy lighting money on fire?"
"I think you enjoy control," Gayle says sweetly. "And this acquisition buys you a great deal of it."
"I see buildings," he says. "Where's the control?"
She points at me like a sales rep with a laser pointer. "Her."
I choke on air. I swear.
"Here's the solution I offer for what your nephew did to my daughter." Mother's eyes never leave Viktor. "You buy my assets. And with that, we get an engagement. Raphaella and Nikolai are to be married. Immediately."
"Now why the hell would we want that?" Viktor roars, just as Nikolai turns red and furious. As for me? It's a miracle I'm still standing and not flat on the floor. Just what the hell does my mother think she's doing?
"Look at her," my mother says to Viktor. "My daughter. Sheltered. Protected. Innocent. Until your nephew got his hands on her."
I want to scream that I'm not a child, that I made my own choices last night. But the look in my mother's eyes stops the words in my throat.
Viktor turns to Nik, who stands with his shoulders back, defiance radiating from every inch of him despite the dried blood on his face. "Did you really not know who she was?"
Nik doesn't even look at me. "I swear. I didn't know she was Gayle Donovan's daughter."
"And yet here we are," my mother says. Too sweetly. Like poisoned honey.
"I still don't understand," I say. "So what if we met? So what if we..." I wave my hand, not wanting to say the word sex with my mother right there. "Why does it matter who he is?"
My mother's smile is so tight it might shatter her face. "Because, darling, Nikolai Ivanov is the nephew of one of my most important business partners. And more importantly, you were promised to Egor Barinov."
Wait. What.
I can hear the word promised like it's a gag in my throat.
I met Egor once, at a rare dinner Mother allowed me to attend.
He was a terrible appetizer of a man. Sixty-something, hands big and soft like overripe sausages, breath like old cigars.
A man who calls women "it" and thinks "no" means "raise your price. "
I lived through one dinner with him and started planning rooftop escape scenarios as a hobby.
"Mother," I whisper, horror dawning. "You weren't really going to..."
"Quiet." She snaps it like a leash. Then, to Viktor: "When it gets out that your nephew defiled Egor Barinov's bride, there will be hell to pay.
I would prefer you paid me first. So I'm selling my interests, this building included, at double the rate.
And you're going to buy it. Along with my daughter as a bride for your nephew. "
"I'm sorry, what?" I screech, unable to believe I'm being thrown in like a freebie with a bulk order.
"The building's value is inflated," my mother continues like I hadn't spoken, "but you'll pay it. Because when Egor Barinov finds out your nephew took what was promised to him, the brotherhood will fracture. And we both know what happens when the brotherhood fractures, Viktor."
Brotherhood. What the actual fuck.
Nikolai steps forward. "No. Hell no. I'm not part of this."
"You became part of this," Viktor says, voice cutting clean through the room, "the moment you couldn't keep it in your pants. You think you can fuck whoever you want without consequences? This is the consequence."
"I'm not marrying her," Nikolai snaps, his blue eyes blazing cold. "I don't care who her mother is or what you promised."
I should be offended. But honestly? I'm co-signing that statement with glitter gel pen. This is batshit.
"You don't get a choice," Viktor replies, tone pure law. Then, to my mother: "Shipping routes stay at market value. I'll pay double for the Brooklyn properties. And yes. Your daughter will marry my nephew. It's that or war with Barinov."
War?
What the actual, flaming fuck kind of business is my mother running? They're literally negotiating like I'm livestock at auction.
"Mother, stop," I snap, my voice finally cutting through. "I'm not marrying anyone. Especially not him." I gesture at Nikolai, who looks just as horrified by the concept as I do.
My mother turns that ice-cold gaze on me. "You lost your right to opinions when you climbed out of your tower last night, Raphaella. Now you will do as you're told."
"And if I don't?" I push. Because screw it. What's left to lose?
"Then Egor Barinov will learn what happened," she says simply. "And your one-night stand's family will pay for it. Blood for blood. That's how it works in their world. As for you, there'll be another Egor to marry you off to."
Their world?
It clicks. Hard. Violent. Obvious.
The tattoos. The scars. The guns.
These men aren't businessmen.
"You're... you're with the mob," I whisper, feeling the room sour around me.
Nikolai's eyes meet mine. Regret flickers for half a heartbeat, then goes dead.
"Bratva," he corrects quietly. "Not mob."
Holy. Shit.
I slept with the Russian mafia.
And my mother is negotiating my hand to keep Manhattan from becoming a bloodbath.
This is insane.
This is horrifying.
Something inside me trembles, and I clamp it down. This is the moment I should scream, throw a vase, start a tiny revolution. Instead, I do the math in my head like a bored accountant.
This is... also a door.
Option one: marry someone my mother picks. Probably someone old and slimy and smelling of cigars, like Egor. Stay in the cage. Just a different cage with a worse lock.
Option two: marry the silver-haired Russian who just took my virginity like it's Black Friday and I'm on clearance.
Both suck. Both lock me into something I didn't choose.
But the second one at least lets me breathe.
I raise my head.
"Fine," I say. "I'll do it."