Chapter Three #2
Luka's just messing with me. He'll show up tomorrow, laugh his ass off, and that'll be the end of it.
Even if he had a sister, there’s no way he could trust any of us with her.
Right?
Wrong.
The next morning, I wake up to a text from Luka.
Luka: Be ready at 11:30. Wear something decent.
I stare at the screen, my stomach sinking.
Me: You're serious about this?
Luka: Dead serious. See you in an hour.
"Shit."
I drag myself out of bed, shower, and throw on the least wrinkled button-down I can find. My hands are shaking slightly as I make coffee, which is ridiculous because I never shake, and this is still probably a prank.
Probably.
At 11:25, there's a knock on my door.
I open it to find Luka standing there, wearing jeans and a Henley, looking annoyingly calm.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Ready for what, exactly?"
"Picking up my sister. I told you."
"Luka—"
"Come on. We don't have a lot of time."
He's already heading toward the elevator, and I have no choice but to follow.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we step inside.
"You'll see."
"Can you at least tell me what the hell is going on?"
He glances at me, and for the first time, his expression softens—just a fraction.
"I'm asking you to help my sister," he says quietly. "And I wouldn't ask if it weren't important.”
And that comment… I actually believe.
The sincerity in his voice stops me cold.
"Help her how?"
"I'll explain on the way."
We go to a private airfield on the outskirts of Seattle.
I realize this about two seconds before Luka pulls into the parking lot, and my stomach drops.
"Luka. What the hell—"
"Just listen." He cuts the engine and turns to face me, his expression serious. "My sister needs a visa renewal. She only has six weeks before hers expires.”
My frown deepens. "And you want me to… what, exactly?"
"Marry her."
I stare at him. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Maybe. But it's the only way to keep her here long enough to get it."
"Here? In the U.S.?"
"Right. If she goes back to Russia, she's stuck. Our father won't let her leave again." His jaw tightens. "I promised our mother I'd protect her. This is how I do that."
"By marrying her off to me?"
"By giving her a choice." He meets my eyes, and there's something raw in his expression. "If she marries you, she can get a green card if the visa renewal doesn’t work. A green card will give her more time. Time to figure out her career, her life—time to be free."
I lean back against the seat, my head spinning.
"Luka—" I say again.
"I know."
"You hustled me into this."
"I did."
"And you think I'm just going to go along with it? I could go to jail for lying to immigration."
Luka's quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I know, but immigration is a last resort. You told me once that your family means everything to you. That you'd do anything for them."
"Yeah, but—"
"Katerina's my family. And I'm asking you to help her." He pauses. "You don't have to stay married. Just long enough for her to get her visa renewed with the ballet company or go through immigration. A year, maybe two. Then you can annul it quietly, and everyone moves on."
"A year?"
"Or two."
“Jesus…” I say, running my hands through my hair.
"I know it's a lot. But I wouldn't ask if I had another option."
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to think.
This is crazy. This is absolutely, certifiably insane.
But Luka's my teammate. My friend. And the look on his face right now—the desperation he's trying so hard to hide—tells me this isn't a joke.
I’ve never seen him like this.
This is real.
"I mean it, East. You help her, and I've got your back. No matter what happens with my sister down the road, I’m your brother… always. I’ll owe you my life for this. And you know I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option."
I stare out the window at the airfield, my mind racing.
This is a bad idea.
This is a terrible idea.
But when I think about my own family—about my dad in that wheelchair, about my mom's endless worry, about the way I'd do anything to protect them—I understand why Luka's asking.
And I know I'm going to say yes.
"Fine," I mutter. "But you owe me. Big time."
Luka exhales, and I swear I see relief flicker across his face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I haven't met her."
"You're about to.”
He nods toward the runway, and I follow his gaze.
A sleek private jet is descending, its landing gear already down.
My heart starts pounding.
"That's her?" I ask.
"That's her."
The only thought I have is that if she couldn’t find anyone else to marry, she must look like a long-haired version of Luka. Seven-foot-something Russian woman with a mustache, a unibrow, and a deep voice. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… It’s just not my type.
I’m sure she slays with the men at the Russian wrestling meets.
I grimace at the thought, but I’m in too deep now.I can’t believe I’m fucking agreeing to this. Maybe I’m a bigger pushover than I thought. Maybe marrying Anika wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
The jet touches down smoothly, taxiing toward the hangar. I watch, my mouth dry, as it comes to a stop and the door opens.
A set of stairs unfolds.
And then she steps out.
The first thing I notice is that she's small.
Not short exactly—probably around five-five—but delicate. Graceful. Like she's floating down the stairs instead of walking.
She's wearing a blue sundress, heels, and a mink wrap that probably costs more than my car. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, and even from a distance, I can see the sharp, elegant lines of her face.
She looks as if she stepped out of an old Hollywood movie.
Behind her, two guys in dark suits follow—bodyguards, I realize. They're scanning the area as if they're expecting a threat.
"You didn't mention the bodyguards," I mutter.
"She's a Popovich," Luka says simply. "It comes with the territory."
"Luka… please tell me you didn’t just force me into a marriage with a mob princess."
He glances at me and then back at her without a word.
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?”
Katerina reaches the bottom of the stairs, and her gaze sweeps across the airfield before landing on Luka.
Her expression softens—just barely—and she walks toward us.
I should move. Should say something. Should do literally anything other than stand here like an idiot.
But I can't.
Up close, she's even more stunning.
Her eyes are this icy blue-gray that seems to look right through me, and her posture is so perfect it makes me want to stand up straighter just by proximity.
She stops in front of Luka, and they exchange a few words in rapid Russian. I catch my name—Scottie—and see her gaze flick toward me.
Her expression doesn't change.
She has the same cold, assessing stare that Luka has.
Luka switches to English. "Katerina, this is Scottie Easton. East, this is my sister, Katerina."
I extend my hand, trying for a smile. "Hey. Nice to meet you."
She looks at my hand for a moment—like she's deciding whether to take it—and then places her fingers lightly in mine.
Her handshake is brief. Polite at best.
"Hello," she says, her accent faint but unmistakable.
And then she lets go and turns back to Luka, saying something else in Russian.
I glance at Luka, who's smirking.
"What'd she say?" I ask.
"She asked if I’m at least marrying her off to the hockey player on the team with the most brain cells and real teeth."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
Katerina's gaze flicks back to me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of something in her eyes.
Amusement, maybe.
Or disdain.
Hard to tell.
"Your friend showed me your Instagram," she says coolly. "You seem very… athletic."
The way she says it makes it sound like an insult.
I open my mouth to respond, but Luka cuts me off.
"Let's get out of here. We've got a lot to talk about. And I guess Scottie should know."
He starts walking toward the car, and Katerina follows without a word.
I stand there for a second, staring after her.
Then I mutter, "What the hell did I just agree to?"
And follow them to the car.