Chapter 24
LILA
The restaurant is unreal.
Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen fireworks.
White tablecloths and silverware gleam, catching the light from the Chicago River below.
The city sparkles in patterns that can only be deliberate, choreographed, untouchable.
Every table is filled with people who were born into this, who move like they’ve always belonged here.
And yet I'm here in a dress that costs more than my car used to be worth before I had to sell it. Before my entire life became this.
The menu is weighty in my hands, thick paper that makes my fingers feel too small.
"Isn’t this a place you need reservations for, like… months in advance?"
Ivan hasn’t even glanced at the menu. He’s watching me instead. "Yeah."
"So… how did we—" I gesture at the table, the view, everything that feels impossible. "How did we get in?"
"I made a call."
Just a phone call. Because that's how his world works. You want something, you make it happen. Rules that apply to normal people don't apply to Ivan Petrov. Waiting lists, reservations, six-month advance bookings—none of it matters when you're Pakhan.
I study the menu harder, trying to focus. French names I can't pronounce. Descriptions that sound more like poetry than food. Duck confit with cherry gastrique and something-reduction. Seared scallops with cauliflower puree and microgreens I've never heard of. Wagyu beef.
Everything sounds completely wrong for someone like me.
What am I doing here? A week ago, I was serving coffee to truckers at 3 a.m. Now I'm in a Valentino dress, trying to figure out what "gastrique" means without looking stupid.
The waiter appears as if he materialized from the air. Older man, salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly pressed uniform. His smile is professional.
"Good evening." His voice is smooth and cultured. "May I start you with drinks?"
Ivan orders wine without looking at the menu. Something French. Premier cru. Grand cru. Words that mean expensive.
The waiter nods like he expected exactly that choice. No surprise Mr. Petrov would order the most expensive wine. Anything less would be insulting.
Then he looks at me, waiting and expectant.
My mind goes blank.
What was I looking at? The duck? The scallops? Why can't I remember a single thing from this menu?
Ivan's hand meets my thigh under the tablecloth. Warm and solid against the silk of my dress. His thumb starts tracing circles slowly. The kind that short-circuits your brain and makes coherent thought impossible.
"I'll have—" What was I going to order? Duck. No. Scallops. Maybe. "The, um—"
His thumb presses slightly harder, right at the sensitive spot where thigh meets hip. My brain completely whites out.
"She'll have the salmon," Ivan says smoothly. "With the risotto."
The waiter writes it down. "Excellent choice. I'll have that out shortly."
He disappears as quickly as he came.
I turn to Ivan, trying to summon some indignation. "I can order for myself, you know."
"Could've fooled me." His hand stays on my thigh, still doing those circles. Still making it impossible to think. "You looked distracted."
"Right. Like that wasn’t your fault."
"Hmm." A seriousness settles into his eyes. The intensity build, the playfulness fading into a heavier truth. "You need to be ready."
My stomach flips—the kind that signals a turning point, one I’m not ready to face.
"For what?"
He leans slightly closer. The restaurant noise fades. All the conversations and clinking glasses and low music—it’s all background static. Now it’s just him in this moment.
"Remember the steps, little dove?"
Oh God, the steps. Our absurd progression from kidnapping to whatever this is. From captive to lover to—what? What comes next?
My heart hammers against my ribs. The restaurant suddenly feels too hot. Too crowded. Too full of people who might witness whatever's about to happen.
"It's time for the final step."
The words land like an ending and a beginning at once.
"Which is?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. Breathier.
His hand moves over my thigh. Not sexual. It’s grounding, anchoring me to this moment so I can't float away into panic.
"I choose you." His voice is certain. "Only you. No arranged marriages. No Bratva princesses. No political alliances. I choose you."
The restaurant tilts slightly, but that could be my mind reeling. It’s hard to tell when your entire world is rearranging itself at light speed.
"Ivan—"
"The last step." He doesn't let me interrupt. Doesn't give me space to deflect. "I want you to carry my heir. My only heir. Rule beside me. Be Mrs. Petrov in every way that matters."
Wait. This is real.
The thought crystallizes.
This is him asking me to have his child. To be his wife. To rule a criminal empire.
Real Bratva royalty. Real violence. Real risk. Real forever.
I knew this was coming. After yesterday. After the shopping, the penthouse, the sex on every surface. After "I love you" in silk sheets. After choosing to stay when I could have run.
But why now? Why here?
The weight crashes over me all at once, suffocating me.
This is the price of fucking Bratva lords. Of wearing ten-thousand-dollar dresses and living in penthouses with views that make you forget other people exist. Most importantly, the price of loving someone like him.
No. Not someone like him.
Him specifically. Ivan.
Why does saying yes feel so impossibly hard?
I look around the restaurant, desperate for air. Space. Perspective.
All these people eating expensive food. Drinking pricey wine. Wearing luxury clothes. Living lavish lives.
But they're normal. Right?
They have normal partners. Normal jobs. Normal problems. Traffic. Taxes. Whether to renovate the kitchen. What school to send the kids to.
Nobody's brutalized in their name. Nobody's running from rival crime families. Nobody's sitting at dinner wondering if their boyfriend killed someone today, might kill someone tomorrow, and will definitely kill someone next week.
Why do I suddenly want that? The boring. The safe. The predictable.
If I say yes, will this be my life? Constantly looking over my shoulder? Always wondering when violence will find us? Never knowing if today's the day it all falls apart?
Can we ever be normal?
Wait. Why do I want Ivan to be normal?
Wasn't the whole point the thrill? The danger wrapped in safety? The darkness that makes everything else feel alive? Isn't that what I've been craving for months? What I drew in those secret sketches?
Or does the thrill stop the moment reality hits? When you have to live in the web instead of fantasizing from safety?
FUCK. Why am I overthinking this?
Just say yes. Be his queen. Live in luxury. Have a life most women dream about.
Except—
I don't care about luxury. That's not why I'm here. That's not why my heart races when he touches me or why I stayed when I could've run.
I want HIM.
But what if I say no?
What then?
Go back to normal. Face reality. Live a safe, boring, completely ordinary life where nothing ever happens, and nobody ever makes me feel like I'm on fire just from being in the same room.
But relationships like this don't have happy endings.
Right?
But what if it does? What if this is exactly like the books? What if love really does conquer all the logical reasons why this is insane?
How do I go back to normal when normal means—
"Lila?"
His voice cuts through the spiral.
How long have I been sitting here in silence? Seconds? Minutes?
"I need a moment." The words come out shaky. "Just—give me a moment."
His eyes sharpen. Does he think I'm going to say no? Does he think I'm going to choose normal over him?
"Take all the time you need."
The words are patient, but there’s tension in his jaw. His hand tightens slightly on my thigh. He's nervous. Ivan Petrov, who never shows fear, is nervous about my answer.
That should make me feel powerful. Instead, it makes me even more terrified.
I stand too quickly. My chair scrapes against high-end flooring. People at nearby tables glance over.
"Bathroom," I manage, not looking at Ivan. I can't look at him. "I just need—bathroom."
I walk before he can respond, passing tables full of people who know who they are and what they want. Passing waiters who move like dancers, perfectly choreographed. Passing wealth, certainty, and belonging.
The bathroom sign points left, but the glass doors leading to a balcony call to me. I need air more than I need a mirror. I need space. The ability to think without Ivan's hand on my thigh and his eyes seeing straight through every defense I try to build.
The balcony is empty. Thank God. Cold air hits my face. Sharp. Clarifying. The river reflects city lights below—gold and white and impossibly pretty. Like a postcard. Like someone else's life.
I set my purse down on the ledge—the designer one Ivan bought me this afternoon. It’s light with the essentials: lipstick, wallet, and a tiny bottle of jasmine and amber perfume Ivan had sourced for me this afternoon, as promised.
I see my reflection in the glass doors and hardly recognize myself.
Valentino dress. The red one from the boutique that Ivan bought without blinking.
Diamonds at my throat that he fastened himself this afternoon.
Hair professionally styled because he called someone to the penthouse.
Makeup applied by trained hands that weren't mine because apparently, Mrs. Petrov doesn't do her own makeup.
I look like someone who belongs in his world.
Someone elegant. Sophisticated. Rich.
Am I ready for this life?
The question sits heavily.
He won't take no for an answer, right? He's a killer. The Pakhan.
Wait. Killer.
The word is different now.
I've never seen him kill someone. Not really. Boris got beaten up, but I wasn't there for the killing part. The men at the diner had guns, but I didn't see bodies drop. He talks about death like other people talk about the weather, but I've never witnessed him causing it.