Chapter 5 - Kirsten
I make it all the way to the elevator before he catches up with me.
“Going somewhere?”
I jab the down button three more times, as if that will make the doors open faster. “Home. I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.”
I spin around to face him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking completely unruffled by the fact that he just detonated a bomb in the middle of my life.
“Excuse me?”
“Your apartment isn’t safe.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “I suspect anyone with basic lock-picking skills could get in. And after today, there are people who might want to do exactly that.”
“You mean Wallace and Tillman.”
“Among others.” He pulls one hand from his pocket and checks his watch. “Once they realize you’re not reporting back to them, they’ll start asking questions. When they find out you’re married to me, they’ll assume you’ve switched sides. That makes you a liability.”
“I haven’t switched sides. I don’t even know what sides there are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Perception is reality in my world.” The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. He gestures for me to enter first. “You’re coming home with me.”
I don’t move. “Like hell I am.”
“Kirsten,” His voice drops lower, “I’m not asking.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And I’m not agreeing. You’ve already forced me into a marriage I didn’t want. You don’t get to dictate where I sleep, too.”
He steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. This close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks tired. Good. I hope this whole scheme is exhausting him.
“Let me paint you a picture,” he begins. “You go back to your apartment tonight. You triple-check the locks, maybe push a chair under the doorknob for good measure. You lie awake for hours, jumping at every sound in the hallway. Maybe you actually manage to fall asleep around three a.m.”
He pauses, and I hate that I’m listening. Hate that his words are already crawling under my skin.
“Around four, two men kick in your door. They’re professionals, so you don’t even have time to scream before one of them has a hand over your mouth.
They drag you out of bed, shove you into a car, and take you somewhere no one will ever find you.
That’s not a threat. That’s a prediction based on how these people operate.
I’ve seen it happen before. I won’t let it happen to you. ”
My stomach turns. I want to tell him he’s being dramatic. That this is Chicago, not some war zone. Things like that don’t happen to normal people with normal jobs and normal lives.
But I’m not normal anymore, am I? I’m married to a Bratva boss. I have documents burned into my brain that people are willing to kill for. And two men upstairs are probably already plotting ways to silence me.
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “You just spent ten minutes telling me that no one would dare touch your wife. That I’m untouchable now. Sacred, I think you said. So which is it?”
“You’re protected once they know. But right now, Wallace and Tillman are expecting you to report back to them.
When you don’t show up with information, they’ll start digging.
They’ll find the marriage certificate—it’s public record.
And when they realize you’ve tied yourself to me instead of cooperating with them…
” He lets that hang in the air. “They’ll see you as a traitor.
Someone who knows too much and chose the wrong side. ”
“So the marriage is what puts me in danger. It’s not what protects me.”
“The marriage is what will ultimately protect you. But there’s a window between when they find out and when they accept that coming after you means war with my family.
Desperate men don’t always think clearly.
I’d rather not leave you alone in a studio apartment while they decide whether you’re worth the risk. ”
Jesus, this man has an answer for everything.
“Fine,” I grind out. “But I need to get my things.”
“Of course. I’ll drive you.”
“I can take a cab.”
“You could. But you won’t.” He steps into the elevator and holds the door open. “After you.”
I want to argue, to dig my heels in and refuse to cooperate just to prove that he doesn’t control me. But the image he painted is still fresh in my mind, and despite my fury, I’m not stupid.
I step into the elevator. He follows, pressing the button for the parking garage.
We ride down in silence. I keep my eyes fixed on the numbers ticking past, refusing to look at him. Refusing to acknowledge how close he’s standing or how aware I am of his presence beside me.
The doors open onto a concrete parking structure. He leads me to a sleek black car that probably costs more than I’ll make in ten years and opens the passenger door for me like this is some kind of date.
“I can open my own door,” I grumble as I slide inside.
“I’m aware.”
He closes it anyway and rounds the hood to the driver’s side. A moment later, we’re pulling out of the garage and into the city streets.
Menlow enters my address into his GPS without asking for it, and I don’t even bother asking how he knows where I live. I expect him to fill the silence with more explanations or justifications, but he doesn’t. Just drives, keeping his hands steady on the wheel and his focus on the road ahead.
It should be a relief. Instead, it’s maddening.
“You know,” I say after a few blocks, “most people at least buy dinner before they move in together.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I did buy you drinks.”
“One night does not constitute a relationship.”
“We’re married. I’d say that constitutes something.”
“Against my will.”
“You signed the contract.”
“Stop saying that.” I twist in my seat to glare at him.
“Stop acting like this is my fault for not reading the fine print. You deliberately buried that clause, knowing I wouldn’t catch it.
You took advantage of the fact that I was distracted and scared, and now you’re acting like I have no right to be angry. ”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You have every right to be angry.”
“Oh, well, thank you for permission.”
“I mean it.” He glances over at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. “What I did was manipulative. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you safe.”
I turn back to face the window, watching the buildings pass. My building is in a decent neighborhood. Not fancy, but not dangerous either. I’ve lived there for two years without a single problem.
And now I’m leaving because some Russian mobster decided I needed rescuing.
We pull up to the curb, and I’m out of the car before he can come around to open my door. He follows me inside and up three flights of stairs to my apartment. I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of him standing behind me in the narrow hallway.
“Nice building,” he observes.
“It’s fine.”
“The lock on the main entrance is broken.”
“It’s been like that for weeks. The super keeps saying he’ll fix it.”
“And the deadbolt on your door?”
I finally get the key to turn and push inside. “Works fine.”
He steps in after me and surveys the space. It’s small. A studio with a kitchenette and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. My bed is tucked into one corner, my desk in another. Everything I own fits into about four hundred square feet.
“This is it?” he asks.
“Not all of us live in penthouses.” I grab a duffel bag from my closet and start throwing clothes into it. “Some of us have student loans and entry-level salaries.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Just watches me pack with that unreadable look on his face.
“You could help, you know,” I snap. “Or are you just going to stand there and judge my life choices?”
“I’m not judging anything.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
He picks up a framed photo from my nightstand. My mom and I, taken at my college graduation. “Is this your family?”
“Put that down.”
He sets it back carefully. “I wasn’t going to break it.”
“I don’t care. Stop touching my things.”
I finish stuffing clothes into the bag and move to the bathroom for toiletries. When I come back out, he’s exactly where I left him, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder and take one last look around. I’ve spent two years of my life in this tiny space, building my independence and something that was mine and mine alone.
And now I’m walking away from it because a man I barely know says I have to.
The drive to his place takes about twenty minutes. We leave my neighborhood behind, passing through increasingly upscale blocks until we reach a high-rise that looks like it belongs in a magazine.
A doorman greets us by name. An actual doorman. With a uniform and everything.
“Mr. Karpov. Good evening, sir.”
“Evening, Thomas.”
The lobby is covered in marble floors and modern art. I feel underdressed just standing here in my work clothes with a beat-up duffel bag over my shoulder.
We take a private elevator—because of course he has a private elevator—up to the top floor. The doors open into his apartment, and I stop dead in my tracks.
It’s huge. Enormous. The kind of space that makes my studio look like a closet. Top-to-bottom windows display the Chicago skyline, and the furniture looks like it came from a designer showroom.
“Welcome home,” he states.
The words make me flinch. “This isn’t my home.”
“It will be. For now, at least.” He takes my bag, sets it on a black leather sofa, and gestures toward a hallway. “The guest room is the second door on the right. Private bathroom attached. You’ll have your own space.”
I blink at him. “I get my own room?”
“What did you think? That I was going to chain you to my bed?”
The mental image makes my cheeks flush, and I quickly look away. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Fair enough.” He heads toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I can have my chef cook you something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway. It’s been a long day.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” I drop onto the sofa beside my bag, suddenly exhausted. “I’m so sick of being told what to do.”
He pauses mid-step and turns back to face me. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I can’t read what’s going on behind those ice-blue eyes.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he finally concedes. “I know you feel like I’ve taken everything from you. Your autonomy. Your choices. Your life as you knew it.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve done.”
“Maybe, but despite what you believe, I haven’t taken your freedom. I meant what I said before. You can still go to work, see your friends, and live your life. The only difference is that you’ll have protection when you do.”
I narrow my eyes. “What kind of protection?”
“Bodyguards. One or two, depending on where you’re going. They’ll keep their distance unless there’s a problem.”
“Bodyguards.” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to walk around with bodyguards following me everywhere.”
“Staying alive will require some adjustments to your routine. I’d say it’s a fair trade.”
“And what if I refuse? What if I just walk out that door right now and go back to my apartment?”
He just shrugs and answers, “Then I’ll have someone watching your building around the clock. Less convenient for both of us, but the result is the same.”
“So I’m a prisoner either way.”
He pushes off the counter and closes the distance between us. I resist the urge to shrink back into the sofa cushions as he stops a few feet away.
“Kirsten, you’re my wife, and I take that seriously. I’m not going to lock you in a tower or forbid you from living your life. All I ask is that you let me keep you safe while we figure out how to handle Wallace and Tillman.”
“And after that? After they’re dealt with?”
He pauses. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
It’s not the answer I want. Not even close. But something in his tone makes me believe he’s telling the truth about the rest of it. That he really will let me work and go out and maintain some semblance of normalcy.
Not that any of this is normal.
I drag a hand through my fine hair and let out a sigh. “I don’t even know if I can trust you, Menlow.”
“You shouldn’t. Not yet. Trust is earned. I intend to earn yours.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. In my mind, there’s no possible way to reconcile the man standing in front of me with the criminal he claims to be. He speaks about protection and safety like they’re gifts he’s offering, but all I can see is what he’s taken away.
My choice. My consent. My right to decide my own future.
He tricked me into marriage, uprooted my entire life without asking permission, and now he expects me to be grateful because he’s giving me a nice bedroom and permission to leave the apartment?
It doesn’t matter how sincere he seems. It doesn’t matter how many times he says he’s trying to protect me.
He’s still the villain of this story. And I’m not going to forget that.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce before grabbing my bag and standing. “Which door did you say?”
“Second on the right.”
I head toward the hallway without another word. I can feel his gaze on my back the whole way, but I don’t turn around. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled I am.
The guest room is beautiful. Tastefully decorated with a queen-sized bed, a writing desk by the window, and an en-suite bathroom with a rainfall showerhead. Under different circumstances, I might actually appreciate it.
Instead, I close the door behind me and lean against it, finally allowing myself to breathe.
I’m married. To a mobster. Living in his penthouse with bodyguards tracking my every move.
Two weeks ago, my biggest worry was whether I’d survive the merger layoffs.
I press my palms against my eyes and take a shaky breath.
What the hell am I going to do now?