Chapter 2
MIKHAIL
The drive to the chapel takes twenty minutes, but it feels like seconds.
My hands grip the steering wheel of the SUV with enough force to make my knuckles white.
Behind me, in the back seat, Sophia sits silent between two of my men.
I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. Not yet.
If I look at her now, I might see Nicole’s face instead.
The chapel sits on the outskirts of the city, a small stone building that’s seen better days.
Perfect for what I have planned.
No witnesses. No interruptions.
Just a terrified priest who owes me more favors than he can count and a woman who’s about to pay for her father’s sins.
I pull the SUV to a stop in front of the weathered wooden doors.
The headlights illuminate the crumbling facade, casting long shadows across the overgrown cemetery beside it.
How fitting.
A place of death masquerading as a place of god.
“Let’s go,” I order, my voice cold and flat.
I step out into the cool night air and adjust my suit jacket. The charcoal fabric is perfectly tailored, expensive—a reminder that I’ve built an empire from nothing. An empire her father tried to destroy.
My men drag Sophia from the vehicle.
She stumbles, her legs unsteady after being chained in the warehouse.
I watch as she catches herself, refusing to fall. Even now, even terrified, she won’t show weakness.
Stubborn. Just like Nicole was.
The thought sends a fresh wave of rage through my chest, hot and acidic.
I force it down, channeling it into the cold calculation I’ve perfected over twenty years in this business.
“Where are you taking me?” Sophia’s voice cuts through the darkness. It trembles slightly, but there’s steel underneath. “What is this place?”
I pause.
The moonlight catches in her long black hair, making it shine like silk.
Her blue eyes are wide with fear, but they meet mine without flinching.
She’s beautiful in a way that makes my jaw clench—delicate features, full lips, a body that curves in all the right places despite her slender frame.
She’s twenty-two, and Nicole will never get the chance of being twenty-two.
“This,” I say, gesturing to the chapel, “is where you become my wife.”
The color drains from her face. “What? No. You can’t—”
“I can do whatever I want, Miss Moretti.” I step closer, invading her space. She smells like dirt, fear, and something floral. Her shampoo, probably. Something innocent and sweet that doesn’t belong in my world. “Your father made sure of that when he destroyed everything I loved.”
“I don’t understand.” Her voice cracks. “You said he owed you money. This is about money, right? I can…I can get a loan, or—”
“This isn’t about money.” The words come out as a growl. I grab her arm, my fingers wrapping around her slender wrist. Her pulse hammers against my palm, rapid and frantic like a trapped bird. “This is about justice. This is about making sure your father’s legacy dies with you.”
I drag her toward the chapel doors. She tries to pull away, but I’m too strong. My men follow behind us, their footsteps echoing on the stone path.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, just tell me what he did. Tell me why—”
I shove open the chapel doors with my free hand. They swing inward with a groan of old hinges, revealing the dim interior. Candles flicker on the altar, casting dancing shadows across the worn pews. Standing before the altar in his black robes is Father Bogdan.
He looks like he’s aged ten years since I called him three hours ago.
His hands shake as he clutches his bible, and sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool temperature.
“Mr. Artyomov,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please, I beg you to reconsider—”
“Did I ask for your opinion, Father?” I pull Sophia down the aisle, my grip on her wrist never loosening.
Father Bogdan’s face crumples. He knows he has no choice. I made sure of that years ago when I cleared his debts with the Morello family. Now it’s time to collect.
I position Sophia in front of the altar and finally release her wrist.
She immediately tries to run, but my men block the aisle behind us.
She spins back to face me, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.
“You can’t force me to marry you,” she says, but her voice wavers. “That’s not legal. It’s not—”
“Legal?” I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. “You think I care about legal?
I reach into my jacket and pull out my Glock. The weight is familiar, comforting.
Sophia’s eyes go wide as I point the barrel at her chest. “No. No, please—”
“Father Bogdan,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “Begin the ceremony.”
The priest’s hands shake so badly he nearly drops his bible. “I-I can’t. This is a house of god. I can’t—”
I shift my aim to him. “Would you like to meet your god tonight, Father? Because I’m happy to arrange that meeting.”
“Mikhail, please.” Sophia’s voice breaks on my name. Hearing it from her lips does something strange to my chest, something I don’t want to examine. “Don’t do this. Whatever my father did, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But this won’t fix it. This won’t—”
I turn off the safety.
“Dearly beloved,” Father Bogdan begins, his voice cracking. He’s not even looking at his bible anymore. The words come from memory, rushed and desperate. “We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony—”
“I don’t consent,” Sophia says firmly. She lifts her chin. Despite the tears streaming down her face, there’s defiance in her eyes. “I don’t consent to this marriage. It’s not valid if I don’t consent.”
I lower the gun from the priest and turn it back to her. I step closer, so close I can see the flecks of darker blue in her irises, can count each individual eyelash.
She’s even more beautiful up close, and I hate myself for noticing.
“You’ll consent,” I say softly, “or I’ll put a bullet in Father Bogdan’s head.
Then I’ll find your friend Melinda, the blonde one you study with at the library.
I’ll make you watch while I put a bullet in her head, too.
Then I’ll find every single person you’ve ever cared about, and I’ll make them pay for your father’s sins. Do you understand me?”
Her face goes white. For a moment, I think she might faint. But then she nods, just once, and I see something break behind her eyes.
Good. Let her break. Let her feel what I felt.
“Continue,” I tell the priest.
The ceremony is a mockery of everything sacred. Father Bogdan rushes through the words, stumbling over phrases he’s probably said a thousand times.
Sophia stands rigid beside me, tears flowing silently down her cheeks.
When it’s time for the vows, I have to prompt her three times before she whispers, “I do.”
My own vows come easily. “I do.” Two words that seal her fate.
“The rings?” Father Bogdan asks weakly.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box. Inside is a platinum band set with diamonds—expensive, beautiful, and bought specifically for this moment.
I’ve been planning this for weeks, ever since I confirmed her father’s location and executed him for his sins.
I take Sophia’s left hand.
It’s small and delicate in mine, the skin soft.
She tries to pull away, but I hold firm, sliding the ring onto her finger.
It fits perfectly.
I made sure of that.
“You may kiss the bride,” Father Bogdan whispers, and I can hear the prayer in his voice. Please don’t make me watch this.
I cup Sophia’s face in my hands.
Her skin is wet with tears, and she flinches at my touch.
But she doesn’t pull away. She’s learning already.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to see it coming.
Her eyes squeeze shut, fresh tears leaking from the corners.
When my lips touch hers, she’s stiff and unresponsive.
The kiss is brief, cold, nothing like a wedding kiss should be.
But as I pull back, I catch the scent of her again—that floral sweetness mixed with fearand something tightens in my chest. Something I don’t want to feel.
She’s the enemy. She’s his daughter. She deserves this.
“Congratulations,” Father Bogdan says miserably. “You’re now husband and wife.”
I release Sophia and step back. She sways on her feet.
For a second, I think she might collapse.
But she steadies herself, wrapping her arms around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“Thank you, Father,” I say, holstering my gun. “Sign the paperwork, then you’re dismissed.”
He scribbles his name on the wedding forms and practically runs from the chapel, his robes flapping behind him.
The door slams shut, leaving us alone with my men.
“Now,” I say, turning back to Sophia. “It’s time for your wedding gift.”
I pull out my phone and open the photo gallery.
My thumb hovers over the first image for just a moment.
Part of me—a small, weak part—doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to see the light die completely in her eyes.
But I think of Nicole.
I think of finding her body in that bathtub, the water red with her blood.
I think of the note she left, the shame and horror in every word. I think of the autopsy report that confirmed she was pregnant.
Sixteen years old and pregnant with her rapist’s child.
My thumb taps the screen.
“This,” I say, holding the phone out to Sophia, “is your father.”
She looks at the screen, and I watch her face carefully. First confusion, then recognition, then horror as she understands what she’s seeing.
The photo shows a man tied to a chair in a concrete room. His face is swollen and bloody, barely recognizable. But his scorpion tattoo is unmistakable.
“No,” Sophia whispers. “No, that’s not—”
I swipe to the next photo.
This one shows the same man, but the damage is worse.
One eye is swollen completely shut.
Blood covers his shirt.
“Keep looking,” I say coldly.
She shakes her head, but I grab her chin and force her to look at the screen as I swipe through the images.
Each one shows progressive damage.
Each one shows her father suffering.
The final photo shows him slumped in the chair, clearly dead. A single bullet hole in his forehead.
Sophia makes a sound like a wounded animal.
She tears away from me and vomits in the corner of the chapel, her whole body shaking.
I watch her without emotion. Or at least, I try to. But something about the way her shoulders shake, the way she gasps for air between heaves, reminds me of Nicole. Reminds me of finding my sister broken and destroyed.
No. She’s not Nicole. She’s his daughter. She deserves this.
When Sophia finally straightens, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes are different.
The fear is still there, but now it’s mixed with something else.
Hatred. Pure, burning hatred.
“You killed him,” she says, her voice hoarse. “You murdered my father.”
“I executed him,” I correct. “For his crimes against my family.”
“What crimes?” She’s shouting now, her voice echoing off the chapel walls. “What did he do that was so terrible you had to torture him? That you had to force me to marry you?”
I step closer to her, and this time she doesn’t back away. She stands her ground, glaring up at me with those blue eyes blazing.
“Your father and three of his men broke into my home six months ago,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “They were looking for money I supposedly owed them. They didn’t find any money. But they found my sister.”
Sophia’s expression flickers. “Your sister?”
“Nicole. She was sixteen years old.” The words taste like poison. “They raped her. All four of them. They left her pregnant and broken. And three months later, she killed herself in the bathtub because she couldn’t live with what they’d done to her.”
The color drains from Sophia’s face again. “No. My father wouldn’t—he couldn’t—”
“He did.” I pull out my phone again and show her a different photo. This one is of Nicole, smiling at the camera. She’s wearing her school uniform, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She looks so young. So innocent.
“She was going to be a doctor.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “She was smart, kind, everything good in this world. And your father destroyed her.”
Sophia stares at the photo, and I see something shift in her expression. Not quite belief, but the beginning of understanding.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry for what happened to your sister. But I didn’t do that. I didn’t even know—”
“You’re his legacy,” I interrupt. “His blood. His responsibility. And now you’re going to pay for what he did. Every. Single. Day.”
I grab her arm again and pull her toward the chapel doors. My men fall into step behind us.
“Where are we going?” she asks, but the fight has gone out of her voice.
“Home,” I say. “To our home. Where you’ll learn what it means to be Mrs. Artyomov.”