Chapter 26
LILA
The world whirls faster than I can process.
Why am I so dizzy?
My head's full of static—cotton, concrete, maybe clouds. Thoughts slide around, never sticking. It’s like attempting to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in fog.
Chemical.
Wait. What chemical?
Then it hits—the restaurant. Ivan killing that man. The casual snap of his neck. Me running. Hands grabbing me from behind. That smell. That chemical smell.
And now I'm here.
Wherever here is.
I force my eyes to focus on my surroundings, trying to make sense of this.
Concrete walls. But not bare concrete—someone's tried to make this look nice. Opulent rugs on the floor. A seating area that belongs in a furniture catalog. Silk curtains that don't cover any windows, because there are none.
A thick candle burns steadily on a side table, casting flickering shadows across the room. There is no other light. No electricity.
I’m underground. I have to be. The air feels wrong. Recycled. No natural light anywhere.
What the hell?
I try to sit up, but my body won't cooperate. Everything moves more slowly than it should.
That's when I notice what I'm wearing.
Red lace. Barely-there red lace. The lingerie is more marketing than clothing, covering nothing.
My face burns. Who put this on me?
I climb to my feet. The room tilts. I grab the edge of the bed—a bed I don't remember getting into—and wait for my equilibrium to steady.
My clothes. Where the hell are they? The dress. The diamonds. The heels.
I search the room for anything to cover the humiliation. Blanket. Robe. A damn curtain.
But there’s nothing.
Then my eyes snag on a man.
He’s sitting in a chair like he's been waiting. Red suit. Slicked back blond hair that catches the artificial light. A tumbler of clear liquid in his hand.
"Sleeping Beauty rises." His voice is smooth. Accented. Amused. Like this is entertaining.
I try to cover myself, crossing my arms over my chest. It doesn't help. There's too much skin and not enough fabric.
"Where—"
"Somewhere your Ivan can't reach." He takes a sip from his glass and savors it. "Not yet, anyway."
My throat goes dry. "You're Dmitri."
"Guilty." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "And you're Lila. The girl who started a war."
"Ivan will kill you for this."
"He'll try." Another sip. "For now, at least. But you see, the beauty of our world—the world you inserted yourself into without understanding the rules—is that we deal in trade. Supply and demand. Basic economics."
I don't understand. My brain is still foggy. Still processing.
He continues like I'm not standing here almost entirely naked and terrified. "Ivan Petrov has something we all want. Something valuable. A huge leverage over the rest of us. He just doesn't realize it yet."
"What are you talking about?"
"Availability." He sets down the glass and stands. "The Petrovs—the strongest Bratva family in Chicago. High line of some of the best. Legacy stretching back generations. And Ivan is the last unmarried Pakhan of his generation. Do you understand what that means?"
I shake my head. I don't understand anything right now.
"It means every family wants him allied through marriage. Every family has daughters waiting. Nieces. Sisters. Women who've been groomed their entire lives for this opportunity." He walks closer. "And he's refused them all. For you."
"So?"
"So you're the problem that needs solving." He circles me now. Predator around prey. "The Volkovs might not have the glory of the Petrovs. Might not have the legacy. But we've always been the ones solving problems. Making things... work."
My heart hammers. "You're wrong. I'm not a problem."
"No." He stops in front of me, getting too close. "You're a profitable problem."
He reaches out and touches my hair. His fingers catch a strand.
I flinch away. "Don't fucking touch me."
"Relax, printsessa." That cold smile appears again. "I don't fuck merchandise. Bad for business. Ruins the value."
The word hits me like a punch. "Merchandise?"
"Moscow pays well for girls like you," he drawls.
"American. Pretty. That soft, wide-eyed, sweet ignorance—they love that.
The kind of girl who's only ever known malls and milkshakes.
" His mouth curves. "Even better when she's famous.
The girl Ivan Petrov burned his empire for?
" He laughs. "You'll make someone incredibly rich. "
No. This isn't happening.
"Ivan will—"
"Ivan will do what's sensible. Eventually.
" He moves to pour himself another drink.
"He'll throw his tantrums. Break things.
Kill a few of my men. Heat of the moment reactions.
But once you're gone—shipped away to Moscow—you'll slip from his mind.
Slowly at first. Then completely. He'll remember his duties and marry a suitable bride.
Restore balance as his father intended."
"You don't know him."
"I know everything about him. That's my job." He drinks. "I knew his father. Viktor Petrov was a man of tradition. Honor. Duty. He built an empire on those principles. His son spits on all of it for American pussy."
The crude words make me flinch.
"And I know—" He's looking at me now. "—that once his little captive distraction is gone, he'll have one thing left worth caring about. Legacy. The empire. Everything his father died for."
"We're in love, asshole."
He laughs. A real laugh. Ugly in how genuine it is.
"Love? You think men like us love?" He tilts his head, amused. "No, sweetheart. We claim. We control. We devour. Love is what we call it to make it sound poetic." He smirks. "You're a toy he won't share. That's all. An addiction. And when you're gone? He'll find a new fix."
But I remember Ivan's eyes—raw, desperate, breaking when he looked at me. The way my name fell from his lips like a prayer. That's love.
Isn't it?
"Besides—" Dmitri's voice pulls me back. "—don't act all innocent. You were leaving him anyway."
The words stop my breathing.
"My man saw you run. He saw you abandon Ivan the second you witnessed what he is. The violence." He tilts his head. "You two don't work together, printsessa. It's time to sit well with that reality."
He's right.
I was running. I did leave. The moment I saw that body drop, saw the casual way Ivan ended a life, I ran.
What does that say about me? About us?
Fuck.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My legs won't support me anymore. The red lace rides up, and I don't even care now. Modesty feels pointless when you're about to be sold to Moscow perverts.
Dmitri seems satisfied with my silence. "I've given you the best room with the best treatment because you're premium merchandise.
If you behave, I might consider more respectable clients.
I know a few. Oligarchs who want American wives but can't get visas.
They pay top dollar and might even let you keep your name. "
Property. That's what I am now. The reality stings worse than any slap.
"I'm meeting with Ivan today." He checks his watch. "We're going to settle this once and for all. He'll come to his senses, I hope."
"If Ivan sees you, he'll put a bullet through your head."
"I doubt it. Because Ivan knows what I want him to know.
" His smile is cruel now. "That his little toy dumped him in the middle of the night after seeing what he really is.
That she ran from him. From everything. What happened to her afterward?
" He shrugs. "Who knows? Maybe she went home.
Maybe she got a cab. Maybe she didn't. He'll never know. "
My stomach twists.
"Where's my purse?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Your purse?"
“Give it to me.”
“Why?”
"I want it." I sound pathetic. Desperate. I don't care. If he’s meeting with Ivan, then I’ll only have one chance to send a signal. To let him know what’s really going on.
Dmitri studies me and shrugs, a mixture of amusement and disinterest glazing his eyes. He signals to someone I can't see. A guard appears and hands him my purse. A lifetime ago.
"Here, printsessa." He tosses it to me. "Consider it a final courtesy. First lesson in your new life, though—you won't need purses where you're going."
I catch it and dig through it. Wallet. Lipstick. And then—
The perfume.
Jasmine and amber.
I hold the bottle, the glass cool against my palm.
Dmitri's phone rings. He answers, speaking in Russian. I catch Ivan's name in the exchange before he hangs up.
"Shit. It's time." He straightens his suit. "My meeting with your boyfriend should be interesting."
He heads for the door.
I stand and follow him. My feet move before my brain catches up.
He's almost through the door when I spray the perfume directly in his face.
"FUCK!" He stumbles back, hands flying to his eyes. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The guard reaches for me, but Dmitri waves him off, still blinking and rubbing at his eyes.
I meet his gaze and hold the bottle up. "You need to smell good for the meeting, asshole."
For a second, I think he's going to hit me. His hand twitches, his fingers slowly curling into a fist.
Then he laughs. Not amused—interested.
"Well, look at that. A spark under all that sugar." His tone softens, and somehow that's worse. "Didn't think you had it in you."
He steps closer, voice dropping low enough to scrape. "My clients. They'll eat you alive."
A beat passes.
"With me, though…" His eyes go cold. "Watch where you step, little girl."
He walks out. The door slams, and the click of locks follows.
I'm alone again.
What the hell did I do?
I sink to the floor, back against the bed. The perfume bottle remains clutched in my hand.
Ivan said Dmitri was a roach. What do roaches fear?
Being found.