Chapter 1
Nadia
I bolted upright, gasping for air, tearing myself out of sweat-soaked sheets.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Between my legs, that hollow ache from the dream still lingered. I dragged my fingers through tangled hair, frustrated.
Two years. Two goddamn years since that impossible elevator incident, and I still dreamed about him—a man whose name I didn't even know. His cold, sharp features. That worn ring on his knuckle. The devastating force of him inside me, branded into my body like a scar.
I sucked in a breath, shoving his shadow out of my head.
I swung out of bed, bare feet hitting cold floor, and headed for the kitchen. The apartment was pathetic—bedroom, living room, kitchen crammed into two hundred square feet. Eight steps from bed to sink. I opened the fridge. Empty except for half a carton of expired milk and three eggs.
I filled a glass with tap water and leaned against the counter, staring out at Chicago's skyline in the dead of night.
June humidity pressed against the windows.
Outside, sirens wailed. A drunk shouted curses.
The neighborhood wasn't safe, but the rent was cheap.
Six hundred a month, utilities included, landlord asked no questions.
For a nursing school dropout surviving on odd jobs, it was the best I could manage.
I tilted my head back and drained the glass, cold water dousing the restless heat in my throat. My phone buzzed in the bedroom. I froze.
Who the hell calls at four in the morning?
I walked back and picked it up. When I saw the name on the screen, my fingers locked.
Eleanor.
I stared at it, my stomach clenching on instinct. We hadn't spoken in almost five months—not since she'd asked me to "invest" in Leon's new venture, I'd refused, and she'd hung up on me with a parting "You selfish bitch."
The phone kept buzzing.
I inhaled and swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Nadia! Baby!" Her voice was too bright, too forced. Pots clanged in the background. "Happy birthday!"
I blinked, glancing at the calendar. September fifteenth.
I'd almost forgotten I turned twenty-seven today.
"Thanks." My voice came out cautious.
"Come home for dinner tonight!" She rushed on, words tumbling over each other. "I made your favorite—lasagna! And garlic bread, roast chicken, mashed potatoes. It's been too long since we've all been together. We miss you."
That last sentence hooked into my chest like a barb.
I closed my eyes.
I knew it was a trap. I knew every time they said this, they wanted something. I knew—
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Seven o'clock."
"Perfect! Baby, I love you—"
I hung up.
The screen went dark, reflecting my pale face.
I hated that I still couldn't cut the cord completely. Hated the stupid, stubborn hope still buried somewhere inside me.
Chicago in June—darkness took its time coming.
I traded my usual oversized t-shirt and faded jeans for something better.
From the back of my closet, I pulled out that red dress—hadn't worn it in forever.
Nana gave it to me for my twenty-second birthday.
But it's your birthday, Nadia. You deserve it.
God, I missed her. Last time I saw her was a year ago.
I grabbed my keys and climbed into my secondhand Honda with its rattling exhaust, heading north toward the rich neighborhoods.
The Cross house sat in the North Shore district—a three-story Victorian, white walls glowing dull in the evening light. Ten years ago, every brick here spoke of Cross family glory. My great-grandfather had been a prominent Chicago lawyer. Grandfather ran a successful import business.
Now the paint peeled in sheets, exposing mottled gray underneath.
A second-floor shutter hung crooked. The attic window was thick with grime.
The lawn, though, was immaculate—because Mother insisted on keeping up "appearances," even if it meant Dad pushing the mower himself on weekends instead of hiring a gardener like before.
In the driveway sat Father's fifteen-year-old Cadillac, polished to a shine but with a patched crack in the bumper.
I took a breath and pushed through the door.
The smell hit me immediately.
Lasagna, garlic bread, roast chicken, mashed potatoes, corn chowder, and Mother's twenty-year apple pie recipe. The dining room chandelier cast warm light over a white linen tablecloth loaded with food. A bouquet of carnations sat in that nineteenth-century silver vase.
This was too much.
"Nadia!" Mother emerged from the kitchen in her puppy-print apron, pulling me into a hug. "You're here! Come, come sit—everything's getting cold—"
She tugged me toward the table, beaming. Father sat at the head, three-piece navy suit, silver cufflinks catching the light. He gave me a nod. "Happy birthday, Nadia."
His voice steady as always, that upper-class cadence bred into his bones. But I noticed new gray at his temples, deeper lines around his eyes.
I settled into my chair and glanced around. "Where's Leon?"
The air froze.
Mother's hand stopped mid-pour, wine bottle suspended. Father's jaw tightened, his throat working.
"Leon... he had something come up." Mother forced a smile, filling my glass. "Let's eat first. We'll talk later."
"Talk now." I set down my fork, looking between them. "Why did you really call me here?"
Silence.
Only the antique wall clock ticking.
"Leon's missing." Father finally spoke, voice low, each word dragged through his teeth.
My heart skipped. Much as I hated that selfish bastard, he was still my brother. "What do you mean, missing?"
"Four days ago." Mother took over, voice trembling. "He said he was meeting friends. Never came back. Phone's off, apartment's empty, car's still in the garage—"
"Did you call the police?"
"We can't." Father cut me off, eyes fixed on the roast chicken. "Because he owes money. A lot of it."
The room started spinning.
"How much?" My voice shook.
Father looked up, his usually controlled eyes now bloodshot. "Two hundred and fifty thousand."
The fork slipped from my hand, clattering against the china plate.
"He owes it to the Bratva." Father continued, hands folded on the table, veins bulging. "Underground casino. Loan sharks. Their people came three days ago. Said if Leon doesn't show up, they'll... take action."
Blood turned to ice in my veins.
Bratva. Chicago's Russian mob. The kind who cut off fingers one by one, wrapped bodies in wire and concrete blocks, and dropped them in Lake Michigan.
My throat closed. I couldn't speak. "So... you think he's hiding?"
"We hope so." Mother's eyes reddened, voice catching. "But they said even if he's hiding, the debt remains. They said the Cross family pays, or—"
"Or what?"
"Or they make us pay another way." Father's voice went cold as ice, but I saw his clenched fists. "This house, my business, your mother's jewelry—all of it. Still not enough."
I stared at them, mind reeling. "So you brought me here to—"
"They offered another option." Mother interrupted, standing and moving beside me, gripping my hands. "The Sokolov family. Their head, Roman Sokolov. He said he'd forgive the debt if—"
Her voice died.
"If what?" I looked at her, nausea surging up my throat. My fingers went numb. Some instinct screamed that this was worse—worse than owing the mob money.
"They need a woman." When Father said it, all the air left the room. "A marriage. In exchange for Leon's debt."
"Nadia, listen—" Father stood.
"Listen?" My voice shook. "You want to sell me to a mob boss? Like the nineteenth century, trading your daughter to settle debts?"
"Not selling!" Mother's voice went shrill. "Marriage! A proper, legal marriage! He just needs a wife to—to stabilize his public image. You won't be in danger, it's just on paper—"
"On paper?" I laughed, tears spilling over. "Are you kidding me? A mob boss's trophy wife? Listen to yourselves!"
"It's the only way." Father's voice suddenly went cold, desperate and final. "They'll find Leon. Kill him. You want to watch your brother die?"
"That's his debt!" I shouted back. "He gambled! He borrowed from loan sharks! Why should I clean up his mess?"
"Because he's your brother!" Mother's voice cracked, tears streaming, ruining her makeup. "Because we're family! Can you really stand by and let him die?"
"Then let him die!" The words flew out.
"CRACK!"
The slap knocked my head sideways.
My ears rang.
My cheek burned. Tears came instantly.
The man who used to carry me on his shoulders at the zoo. Who got misty-eyed when I got my college acceptance letter. Who said, "My daughter's going to be the best surgeon."
Gone.
Enough.
All of this—enough.
My heart felt like it was tearing apart. I couldn't stay here another second.
I spun around and bolted for the door. I had to leave. Leave this sick asylum, leave this city, get as far away as possible.
A heavy sound came from behind me.
My hand was already on the doorknob. I looked back instinctively.
Richard Cross—a man who'd been proud his whole life, who valued face above all else—knelt on the debris-covered hardwood floor.
My pupils contracted. Nausea twisted my stomach.
"Nadia, please." His eyes were red. "I'm begging you. They'll torture Leon to death. Sokolov doesn't make empty threats. If you don't agree, tomorrow Leon's head arrives in a box."
"Get up!" I turned away, voice breaking. "Don't manipulate me like this! He brought this on himself! I won't marry some goddamn—"
"What about Nana?"
Mother lunged forward, nails digging into my arm. Her face twisted with terror. "You'd leave your grandmother to die too?"
I went rigid, like I'd been hit with a hammer. "What are you talking about?"
"They know Nana lives on that farm!" Mother sobbed, completely unhinged. "Sokolov's men went there yesterday! Stood outside watching her! They said if the Cross family doesn't deliver a bride, after Leon dies, the farm's next! They'll burn it down with her inside!"
Something broke in my head.
The air thinned. The walls closed in, crushing me. My breathing came fast and shallow. Vision darkened at the edges.
The hallucination hit. This wasn't the mansion anymore—it was that supply closet. Door locked. No light. No air. Only endless darkness and despair.
I gasped, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs. Nothing worked.
Nana was the only person in this world I cared about. She'd stroked my hair with those rough hands after I was bullied, told me to be brave. She'd slipped me money behind my parents' backs, encouraged me to apply to medical school.
She had a bad heart. Couldn't handle stress. If the Bratva really went to the farm...
Panic attack draining my strength, I slid down the door until I sat crumpled on the floor, arms wrapped around my head, trying to block out the despair crushing me.
"Nadia..." Mother knelt beside me, reaching for my hair.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I screamed and slapped her hand away. Mother's hand froze.
I looked at my parents, both on their knees, staring at me.
They weren't seeing their daughter. They were seeing a bargaining chip they could trade for their son's life.
All my anger, my resistance, my fight—it drained away the moment I heard Nana's name. All that remained was bone-deep helplessness.
I couldn't run. As long as the Bratva had us in their sights, as long as Nana was on their radar, I could run to the ends of the earth, and Sokolov would drag me back.
"I hate you," I said it so quietly I barely heard myself. "I'll never forgive you. Not in this lifetime."
Mother choked on a sob.
"But I'll do it." Each word felt ripped from my throat. "I'll marry him. Not for you. Not for Leon. For Nana. Only for her."
Mother's head snapped up, tears still wet on her face. "Nadia—"
"Don't touch me." I backed away from her outstretched hand. "From now on, this is just a transaction. I marry him, you clear Leon's debt, save this house. That's it."
Without another glance, I yanked open the door and plunged into Chicago's cold night air.
Night pressed down heavy. City lights streaked past my windows in twisted neon trails.
I don't know how I drove back to that crappy studio apartment.
I shoved through the door—moldy carpet smell, cheap air freshener hitting my nose. I locked it behind me, didn't even kick off my shoes, just frantically slapped every light switch on the walls.
Living room overhead, kitchen sconces, bedroom lamp... until harsh white light flooded every inch of that tiny space, not a shadow left. Only then did I collapse against the wall and slide to the floor.
I hated darkness. Even a sliver of it brought back that supply closet, that locked door.
And now my life was about to be shoved into an even deeper, darker hole.