Chapter 10 Seventy-Two Hours To Hell
SEVENTY-TWO HOURS TO HELL
KONSTANTIN
Ifound her in the kitchen with my gun on the counter.
It lay in the middle of the marble island like a black omen, slide locked back, safe direction, as if she’d been careful not to “accidentally” shoot herself.
Or me. She sat across from it in one of my shirts and thin pajama pants, bare feet tucked on the rung of the stool, staring at the weapon like it might rearrange the future for her.
Good.
She was finally starting to understand what kind of world she’d wandered into between Christmas trees and gunshots.
“Planning something?” I asked, lowering myself into the chair opposite her.
Her eyes lifted from the gun to my face. Dark. Clear. There was something new there—not panic, not defiance.
Acceptance.
“Just admiring your…” She let the pause hang. “Collection. I’m guessing this is one of many.”
Either she was cataloguing options for killing me.
Or she was thinking hard about how to stay alive.
Both were acceptable.
I reached across and closed my fingers around the grip, sliding the gun back toward me, out of her reach. Her gaze stayed level. No flinch.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“About what?” she asked. “Your interior-design theme of ‘impeccable taste and casual homicide’?”
“Our wedding,” I said.
Her mouth snapped shut.
The word hung between us, heavier than the gun.
I watched her face go carefully still, that protective blankness sliding into place. It took her a heartbeat now; it used to take her five. She was adapting.
“Our what now?” she asked. Her voice was steady. Her fingers were white where they gripped the edge of the island.
“Seventy-two hours.” I checked my watch. I didn’t need to. I could feel the clock in my bones. “That’s how long we have before the council meets.”
“Council?” Her brows shot up. “Like… mafia HR?”
“Old men,” I said flatly. “My father’s friends. My enemies’ sponsors. They sign off on who takes his chair. His routes. His property.” My gaze held hers. “They also decide what to do about loose ends.”
“Loose ends,” she repeated slowly. “You mean me.”
“You.” I put my hand on the wall. “Witness to a hit. American. Not bound by our rules. Maksim is already whispering that you’re a liability. That I went soft.”
“So your solution is…marriage?” Her laugh came out sharp. “That’s your fix?”
“It’s the only thing that makes you untouchable,” I said. “My father’s will is very clear: anyone who kills my wife is treated as if they killed him. Every man in that room would be obligated to go to war for you. They lay a finger on you after the vows, they declare war on me and on themselves.”
She went a little pale. “So if I’m just…a girl you dragged out of a tree lot—”
“They order me to ‘handle’ you,” I finished. “Put you in the ground and prove my loyalty. But a wife?” I shrugged. “A wife is sacred. Off-limits. Protected. You become shield instead of weakness.”
As if a Christmas Eve wedding between a Bratva heir and an ex-mall elf could ever qualify.
“This is what they need,” I said. “Photos. A church full of people to swear on their children they saw us say yes.”
Her brows shot up.
“St. Bartholomew’s. Christmas Eve,” I said. “Candlelight. Bells. They’ve been persuaded to adjust their schedule.”
Of course they had.
“I told you,” I added, “I needed a wife who looks like she’d bleed for me.”
She already had. In my bathroom. On my sheets. On my floor.
“I never said yes,” she whispered.
“But you never said no,” I reminded her. “You don’t have to say anything. You just have to show up and stay.”
Before she could answer, the elevator chimed in the foyer. Right on time.
Heels on marble. No hesitation.
Valentina swept into the kitchen like a blizzard in couture.
Mid-fifties, silver hair scraped into a severe knot, wrapped in a camel coat she didn’t bother to remove.
She air-kissed my cheeks, leaving invisible marks, then turned to Dani with the hungry look of a woman who saw brides as raw material.
“And this,” she announced, studying Dani from bare feet to bedhead, “must be the bride.”
Bride.
Say it enough and it becomes part of the air.
“I’m sorry, there’s been some mistake,” Dani said quickly. “We’re not actually—”
“You don’t have long.” Valentina cut in, already unzipping an enormous Chanel tote on the island. “It is tight, but not impossible. Royal families, oligarchs, celebrities, all think they can call last minute. I’ve never failed.”
She spread lace and satin over the marble like a general throwing down maps. Ivory silk. Champagne tulle. Beaded snowflake motifs that tossed light around the kitchen. One swatch had tiny gold bells embroidered into the hem.
“The venue is confirmed,” she went on, ignoring Dani’s growing horror. “Christmas Eve, St. Bartholomew’s. Midnight bells. Very classic. Very symbolic.”
The words Christmas Eve landed like another gunshot.
“The florist is on call. White roses, pine, winter berries. The caterer knows the menu. We do not have time for indecision.”
“The invitations,” she added, pulling a stack of thick cards from another bag, “are here.”
She fanned them out. Cream stock, gold edges. Our names intertwined in curling script, a small embossed bell at the top. Below: Christmas Eve Ceremony – St. Bartholomew’s – Midnight Mass & Marriage.
Dani’s eyes darted over the text. Her fingers clenched.
“You’ve already printed invites?” she demanded. “Without even asking if I—”
Valentina smiled, all teeth. “Guests must be notified, dear. It is very rude to spring a wedding on people without warning.”
You abducted me from a tree lot and you’re worried about etiquette now?
Dani didn’t say it. Her face did.
“This is insane,” she choked out. “I haven’t agreed to anything, I haven’t said yes, and I haven’t even been properly proposed to.”
As if rings and roses changed the fact that she’d watched me put a man in the snow and still said yes with her body on my wall.
I stood and rounded the island, stepping into her space until I could feel the heat of her despite my suit and her borrowed clothes.
Her pulse thudded against the delicate column of her throat.
“Consider this your proposal,” I said, taking her chin between my thumb and finger. “Marry me, Dani.”
Not a question.
“How proposals usually work,” she breathed, “is there are flowers. And a ring. And some indication you actually want to marry me instead of just needing a convenient prop.”
“Who says I don’t want you?” I asked, letting my lips brush the edge of her ear.
She shivered.
Valentina, professional to the core, pretended not to notice the electricity arcing across her samples.
“Honeymoon destinations,” she announced, tapping at her tablet. “The Amalfi Coast. The Maldives. Aspen chalet with private slopes. Somewhere warm after Russian winter? Or more snow for your fairy tale?”
Dani jerked back from me like the word had burned her.
“Honeymoon?” she squeaked. “You’re planning a honeymoon?”
Her expression was priceless. Like someone had just told her she was being shipped to a monastery in Siberia.
“Only if you behave,” I said, voice flat.
The threat landed like it was meant to. She turned on her heel and stalked out, muttering about air and space and needing to think.
“Seventy-two hours,” I called after her. “Clock is ticking, kotyonok.”
Tick. Tock.
Valentina stayed another hour, talking fabric weights and seating charts and which elders would sit closest to the aisle.
When she finally left, the penthouse was quiet again, except for the faint murmur of music drifting from the ceiling speakers—a soft instrumental version of “Silent Night,” all tinkling piano and strings.
An hour later, that’s when I walked back into the kitchen and thought I’d lost my mind.
The smell hit me first.
Sugar. Vanilla. Melted chocolate. Butter.
Then I saw her.
Bent over the oven, pulling out a tray of cookies. Not just any cookies—Christmas cookies. Little trees and stars and lopsided snowmen, some already cooling on racks, inexpertly iced with green and white frosting and too many sprinkles.
She wore nothing but black lace underwear and an apron with “Kiss the Cook” written across it in red script, a cartoon mistletoe over the K.
There was soft Christmas music playing from the speakers overhead. Some mournful jazz version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” the singer crooning about hearts being light while mine tried to punch out of my chest.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice coming out lower than intended.
“Stress baking,” she said, still focused on not dropping the tray. “Christmas stress baking. It’s a thing.”
It was a tactical assault.
She set the tray down, then straightened to face me.
The lace covered almost nothing important. The apron strings dug into the small of her back, and the bow sat there like a challenge.
“You’re half naked,” I observed.
“I’m wearing an apron.” She arched a brow. “Very domestic. Very wifely. Isn’t that what you’re going for on your Christmas card from hell?”
I stepped closer.
The scent of cookies was almost thick enough to taste. Sugar and spice and the underlying heat of her skin. The oven hummed softly behind her. The tree’s white lights reflected in the stainless-steel appliances, bouncing off the edge of the cooling racks.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Dani?” I asked.
“I’m trying to frost snowmen.” Her tone was innocent. Her eyes weren’t. “Unless you’d prefer something else.”
Dangerous little elf.
I closed the gap between us, backing her gently until her ass bumped the island. The music swelled, strings sliding into another verse. Somewhere, sleigh bells were being shaken for ambiance.
“You have frosting,” I said, nodding at the smear of white on her index finger.
“Hazard of the job.”
I caught her wrist.
Brought her hand to my mouth.
Never took my eyes off hers as I slid her finger between my lips and sucked.
Sweet buttercream exploded on my tongue. Underneath: salt and skin. Her pulse stuttered under my grip.
I dragged my tongue along the pad of her finger when I released it, slow enough to make sure she felt it.
Her stare was transfixed. Lips parted. Breathing not nearly as steady as she wanted me to think.
“Konstantin,” she whispered. My name sounded like surrender, like she hated that she meant it.
Almost.
Almost there. Not yet.
I stepped back, palms smoothing down my shirt like not a single part of me was on fire.
“The cookies smell good,” I said. “Don’t let them burn.”
Then I turned and walked away.
Let her think about that. Let her remember I could taste and walk, devour and deny in the same sixty seconds.
I made it three steps before she found her tongue.
“You bastard,” she called after me. “This is psychological warfare.”
I smiled.
“I prefer to call it foreplay,” I said without turning.
Her sharp inhale followed me down the hall. I had to adjust myself before I stepped into the office.
All I had to do was make it through Christmas Eve with my new bride intact and my enemies convinced.
Later, I found her near the bookshelf, fingers trailing along the spines. She lingered by the section where the panel that concealed my war room sat flush with the wall.
Too sharp. Too curious. Too much like me for comfort.
Voices murmured on the other side of that door—my men, discussing routes and targets and which rival operations didn’t intend to send us Christmas cards this year. Dani heard enough to know there was something there. She moved away before she caught details that could get her killed.
She was learning to listen. To watch. To survive.
“Find something interesting?” I asked, settling into my chair.
“Just browsing,” she said, but there was wariness in her eyes now. The thought that every bookshelf might hide a secret was a good one for her to carry.
In the evening, Valentina returned with seamstresses and navy garment bags. Dani disappeared into the bedroom with them and emerged an hour later in white silk, pins marking where the dress would be taken in.
“For the bride,” Valentina said then, producing a small velvet box and opening it between us.
The necklace nestled inside was delicate gold. Simple. Classic. The kind of thing you could call an heirloom and no one would question it.
It was also exactly heavy enough to house the tracking chip embedded in its clasp.
“Let me,” I said, taking it before Dani could.
She turned without protest, lifting her hair. The skin at the back of her neck was warm under my fingers. Vulnerable. I fastened the clasp, the tiny mechanism clicking into place with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with sentiment.
Now I’d always know where she was.
My bride. My leverage. My liability.
“My God,” Valentina breathed, stepping back. “She is perfection. You will make a stunning couple on Christmas Eve.”
We already did.
Dani’s fingers went to the pendant as soon as Valentina’s eyes shifted away, testing its weight, the chain, the way it lay against her collarbones.
She frowned.
She could feel there was more to it than metal and love story. She just didn’t know where to press yet.
“Seventy-two hours,” Valentina reminded us cheerfully as she gathered her things. “Then bells, candles, music, and happily ever after.”
Happily ever after.
I didn’t bother to fake a smile.
When the door finally shut behind the last assistant, Dani turned to me, necklace glittering against her throat in the kitchen’s soft light, the smell of baked sugar still hanging in the air.
“What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “And don’t you dare lie to me.”
I looked at the woman who’d become the axis my world was tilting around, standing in my kitchen in a half-pinned white gown, wearing my tracker like a promise.
“You have three days.” I said. “To become my wife by Christmas Eve. Or disappear.”
I didn’t say which option scared me more.
Either way, the clock was ticking.