Chapter 7
I should punish Liliya for running.
Leave her out here alone to suffer in the dark.
That was my one of my father’s favorite punishments.
If I lost a fight, or my aim was off, or if he was just having a shitty day, he’d drag me out into the woods. I wasn’t allowed to come back home until sunrise.
That bullshit stopped when I turned fourteen, punched him in the face, and broke his nose.
Rain pelts down on us harder, and anger seeps through my veins as I keep my weight on Liliya. Pulling my head back, I can see her shaking beneath me.
She’s scared. Good.
“I’m going to stand,” I warn sharply. “If you run, you’ll fucking regret it.”
She doesn’t say a word.
I press her wrists deeper into the dirt. “Confirm you won’t fucking run.”
“I won’t run,” she says, forcing the words through hitched breaths.
I slowly release one hand, then the other, before standing. The moonlight filters through the tree branches, giving me a low-lit view of Liliya as she flips onto her back.
Her breasts move in sync with her heavy breathing. Dirt covers her dress and skin, and leaves are tangled in her hair.
She grunts while pulling herself to her knees, careful not to put any pressure on her right foot. I cock my head to the side in confusion.
“A stick jammed through my foot,” she explains like I care.
My only concern is that she gets her ass back inside the house.
I glance at her foot, fighting back the urge to say that’s what she gets for running.
She attempts to pull herself up again but winces in pain, falling back down.
Even though my little runner doesn’t deserve it, I offer her my hand.
She stares at it like it’ll bite off her finger.
I stretch it out farther, leaving it hang for a few seconds, and just as I’m about to tug it back, she takes it. Leveling her palm to the ground, she lets out a painful gasp as she lifts herself.
“You pull out another switchblade, I’m running again,” she warns. “I don’t care if I die doing it.” She drops my hand the second she’s stable. “You’ll have to drag me back to that house.”
I scrub my hands together. “Would you prefer I drag you by the hand or hair?”
She lets out another huff and then staggers toward my childhood home in defeat. With every step, she hisses in pain.
I follow a few paces behind her, giving her space. When she nearly face-plants, I grab her arm and drape it over my shoulders. She stiffens for a moment before giving me her weight, no longer having the energy to fight me.
The smell of her floral perfume trails up my nostrils. It fits in with the rain and trees around us.
Bringing her here was a mistake.
Before tonight, I hadn’t set foot inside my family home in years. I pay caretakers to tend to the maintenance, but I want nothing to do with it.
People have tried to purchase the estate. I turn down every offer. Even the ones double its worth.
My mother’s great-great-grandfather built the estate, and she inherited it after my grandparents’ deaths. She made the mistake of putting my father’s name on the deed. He made it clear she’d lose it if she ever tried leaving him.
I help Liliya inside, up the stairs, and to her en suite bathroom. She shivers as I settle her onto the vanity stool, kneel in front of her, and take her filthy foot in my hand. I’ve seen enough wounds to know she’ll be fine. It just needs to be cleaned and wrapped.
“I’m a nurse.” She attempts to pull out of my grasp. “I’ll fix it myself.”
I clamp my hand around her ankle. She should consider herself lucky I’m not wrapping it around her fucking throat for running off.
I almost didn’t chase her, but the last thing I need is for her to go missing. With my reputation, people would believe I killed her.
I’m known as a ruthless killer.
They’re not wrong. I’m ruthless, and I’ve killed.
But I’m not guilty of all the rumors.
I allow people to whisper and don’t bother correcting them.
I prefer men to flinch when I enter a room.
Fear keeps people at a distance.
Liliya sits silent as I pull the first-aid kit from a drawer.
Tonight, I won’t be my father. Liliya won’t tend to her own wound, no matter how capable.
She watches as I clean her foot, dry it, and rub antibiotic ointment over the wound.
A tense silence fills the room, but neither of us says a word.
I wrap her foot and smooth a hand over it when I’m finished.
“You try running off again, and I’ll cut off your fucking feet.” I secure the bandage and press my hand around her ankle.
Her gaze rises from her foot to my face. “Why are you keeping me prisoner here?”
“I’m not keeping you prisoner.”
“You threatened to cut my feet off if I left. Those are words for prisoners.”
I must give it to my new wife. She’s fucking brave.
Very few men would speak to me like that, let alone in that tone.
“Fine, I’ll take a toe. How’s that?” I tighten my hold on her ankle. “But each time you attempt to run, I’ll take another—because I’ll always fucking catch you.”
“That leaves me ten tries then.”
“Depends on which day you get me.”
Her shoulders slump. “Why did you go through with the wedding?”
“Why did you?”
“I had no choice. You did.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“You have more say than I do.”
“You’re my wife,” I say. “And you’ll be my wife until the day you die.”
“What if I don’t want to be?”
“Too fucking bad.” I drop her foot and stand.
“Told you!” She throws up her arms. “I am a prisoner.”
“Are you behind bars? Shackled to the wall?” I snatch her wrist, raising it to show her free use.
She jerks out of my hold. “Give me the freedom to come and go as I please then.”
“You have to earn that privilege.”
She tilts her head up to meet my eyes as I step closer and loom over her.
“Follow the rules, Liliya. Don’t fuck with me, and I won’t make your life miserable.” I jab my finger in her face. “But if you spy on me or try to run again, I’ll bury you in those woods so fucking deep that not even your ghost will be able to escape.”
“You can’t kill me. My brother will start a war with you.”
“Your brother sold you to me.” I raise a brow and pet the top of her head. “I’d also gladly welcome a war. Killing men is my favorite pastime.” I rap two knuckles against the door and leave the room.
It’s after midnight when I enter the back door of Lucky Kings Casino, the business run by the Lombardi family. As far as the IRS knows, Lucky Kings is my employer and only source of income.
As soon as I left my home, I called a meeting with the others to discuss my shit show of a wedding.
Before entering the boardroom, I power off my phone, toss it in the basket with the others, and walk inside. Everyone is already here, and Antonio sits at the head of the table.
When the Lastros immigrated from Sicily with nothing but desperation and the clothes on their backs, Antonio’s great-grandfather took mine in and gave him work. Our loyalty to them was born from that.
My father was a capo, but he fucked up that loyalty when Antonio’s father died. Instead of accepting Antonio as the new boss, he sided with Antonio’s Uncle Sonny and died for it.
I was there when he died.
Saw the light leave his eyes and the last breath leave his lungs.
And I didn’t do or feel a goddamn thing.
Damien and my fellow capos, Julian and Leo, are also seated at the table.
These men are all I have.
We’ve shed blood and gone through wars together. They have my back as much as I have theirs. It’s why I chose Antonio over my father. Loyalty is thicker than blood in my veins.
“There’s the groom.” Julian smirks. “Celebrating his wedding night like a true romantic.”
I shut the door and then lift my middle finger in his direction. “Fuck off.”
Damien chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve spent three hours this evening explaining to my wife why you didn’t mention it was the wrong bride.”
I ignore their amusement. Fuckers wouldn’t be joking if the roles were reversed.
Strolling to the bar cart in the corner, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and then take the chair beside Julian. It’s a rarity for me to drink this much, but it’s been a fucking night.
“I don’t like this,” I say. “The Russians are playing games.”
“Aleksy isn’t smart enough to play games,” Julian argues.
“Aleksy isn’t smart enough to fucking lead,” Antonio chimes in.
I point my glass at Antonio. “Which is exactly my concern. I don’t want us affiliated with his fuckups.”
I never wanted to marry, but we ended up in a tricky situation with the Russians. In exchange for clearing his debt, Carlisle Astor had agreed to marry off his daughter, Genesis, to Dima Morozova. Julian went to Dima’s father, Yaroslav, and brokered a deal behind his back, making Genesis his.
Dima lost his shit, allegedly murdered Yaroslav, and abducted Genesis. The problem was that Dima didn’t know Genesis was as batshit crazy as Julian, and she murdered him.
Now, Aleksy is the boss, and he offered us a peace deal and a cut of the Russian businesses if we signed a marriage contract. That was the only smart decision he’s made since becoming Bratva boss. He wants a seat at the big-boy table, an in with the Mafia families who run New York.
Four mob families run New York City: Lombardis, Marchettis, Cavallaros, and O’Connors. The Morozovas aren’t even on the list.
“What do you want to do with the runaway sister?” Antonio asks me.
“I have a wife. I’m not interested in hunting down another.” I shrug and take a drink. The whiskey is cool as it slides down my throat.
“If a man helped her run, he’s dead,” Damien adds. “We won’t tolerate that level of disrespect.”
This isn’t about Dasha.
We couldn’t give two fucks about her.
I scrub my hand over my face. “I’m aware. We’ll start looking into it tomorrow. I’d rather Aleksy do the heavy lifting with this problem. It’s his sister who fucked him over and made him look like the idiot he is.”
Damien studies me, flicking his Zippo lighter open and closed. “I don’t think you have a problem with the wife swap. In fact, you prefer this one.” He opens the Zippo again, staring at me through the flame. “I saw the way you looked at her at the engagement party.”
I shake my head, not responding.
He’s not wrong, but that’s not the point.
“Next order of business.” I down the whiskey. “How do we fuck over the Russians and take every dollar their businesses bring in? I want to know every outside deal they have and steal it from them. Their income. Every-fucking-thing.”
Antonio leans in, resting his elbows on the table. “Let’s proceed.”