06
I’d planned to wear it for Halloween this year, but instead, I decide to wear it to lunch today with the Costas.
Other than a bare strip of my shoulders, I’m completely covered.The dress has thin straps and a straight neckline that shows zero cleavage.I’ve paired it withblack tights, black satin Versace pumps and a pair of fitted black lace gloves that come up over my elbows.
I look like a witch. In the peak of summer.
I’m even going to opt for black lipstick, but Mama practically slaps it out of my hands and passes me a nude-pink shade instead.
She scrunches her face distastefully, moving her hand in a circle as she gestures to my dress. “What are you trying to accomplish with this?”
Glancing at my reflection, I paint on the lipstick and smack my lips. “I’m trying to scare off a hellhound.”
“Well.” Mama regards me faintly. “It is so ugly that your stupid plan might actually work.”
I try not to laugh as I apply an extra layer of mascara to my lashes.
Ana pokes her head into my room after Mama leaves, and a concerned look takes over her face. Her legs go on for miles in her short dress, the material a summery shade of buttermilk. It sits off her shoulders and makes her boobs look amazing.
I flash her a smile. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” She walks over, braiding my hair from the back as her green eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You don’t actually look that bad, you know.”
That’s . . . not what I’m going for. I need her to say I look so bad that any self-respecting man would immediately rescind his decision to marry me.
I frown. “What are you talking about? I look horrible.”
Ana shrugs, hands still working behind me. “Well, yeah. But also kinda hot. In a chic, goth,I’m crazy enough to wear lace gloves and black tights in ninety-degree weatherkind of way.”
I make a face. “What does that even mean?”
She sighs, finally tying up the braid at the end. “Freya, this isn’t any different from what you always wear.”
My brows knit together. “Yes, it is. It’sugly.”
She lifts a brow as if to sayexactly, and my mouth drops. “You little—”
I lunge for her, and she laughs as she runs out of my room, only narrowly escaping me. Our fights are mostly trivial now, but when we fought as kids we almost always ended up with bruises. I always won, though. I’m pretty sure I broke her arm once.
“Girls!” Papa yells. “Downstairs. Now.”
With one last look at my reflection, I bunch up the layers of lace in my hands and somehow make my way downstairs. Papa’s arm is in a sling and still healing, but he insisted on coming for the lunch today.
I descend the staircase one step at a time, and Mama shakes her head as she watches. Papa looks confused at my appearance, but he brushes it off. Ironically, when he looks at Ana on the stairs behind me, a deep frown appears on his face. “What are you wearing?”
“What amIwearing?” Incredulity paints her features. She throws an arm my way. “Have you seen Freya?”
Papa waves a dismissive hand. “She is covered. It’s good.”
Of course he’d think nothing of my dress. He didn’t care that it was ugly, just that it covered more than Ana’s did. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Men. Always so territorial.
“Papa,” Ana murmurs. “It’s the middle of summer. I’ll boil to death if I dress like her.”
“She’s right, Yuri,” Mama fills in as her disapproving gaze settles on me. “Your daughter is crazy.”
Papa huffs, lifting an exasperated hand. “I’ve had it with all you women. Let’s go.”
We file into two cars, Mama and Papa with two men, and Ana and I with Sergei and Dimitri.
“How are you feeling today,devochka?” Sergei asks me as he opens my door.
“Okay,” I reply tartly as I get into the car. He reaches out to help me with my dress, but I gather the tulle up by myself, stuffing it into the car and shutting the door.
I know Sergei probably meant it when he said he tried — that he has even less power than my father when it comes to the Costas, but I’m still annoyed with him for not picking me up from the rink yesterday and forcing me to get in a car with the devil instead.
Ana presses herself against the opposite door so that she doesn’t drown in all my tulle. “How are you not getting all itchy?”
Chuckling softly, I pull down a few layers to find her cheeks flushed. She cringes. “I feel like I’m going to break out in hives from just sitting next to you.”
I grin. Nowthat’sthe kind of reaction I was looking for.
We drive for a while, Ana humming along to a Harry Styles song on the radio. The venue is Costa territory, an Italian bistro in the heart of Brooklyn. When we finally arrive, I have to gather up the heaps of lace around me before I can get out the car.
We’re right in front of a small fortune telling shop, and there’s a poster on the glass that readscomplimentary tarot readings. Ana eyes it longingly.
Ahead of us, Sergei and Dimitri have already entered the restaurant, thinking we’re right behind them. Glancing at Ana, I know she won’t go in no matter how much she wants to, so I pull her towards the shop. She fights me on it, of course. “Freya, they’ll be waiting for us, we can’t just—”
“Shh,” I cut her off, “We won’t be long.”
I’m not in a rush to see the devil’s face, anyway.
The door chimes as soon as we enter. Inside, incense sticks burn, smoke creating slow, dreamlike swirls in the air. The place is filled to the brim with posters, trinkets and crystals, lit up with warm, effulgent energy.
There’s a lady at the front, and when she looks up to face me, I catch a glimpse of her face. With olive skin, high cheekbones, and big, curly, silver hair, she’s eerily beautiful.
Her gaze flickers between Ana and I, and a slow smile spreads on her face as she takes in our contrasting outfits.
“Hi,” I say, as we walk up to her table, “We’re here for the tarot reading?”
“Sure,” she says, her voice lilted and calming. She gestures to two empty seats in front of her. “Take a seat.”
Ana sits gingerly, and after some struggle with my dress, I do too. The fortune teller shuffles a set of a cards, and her eyes settle on me. “I’m only going to be working with Major Arcana. Reading for long term occurrences or big, overarching ones. Is that okay?”
Since I have no clue what that means, I turn to Ana, who nods quickly. “Yes, that’s okay.”
The lady nods, her gaze landing on me. “Your birthday?”
“Oh.” I point to Ana. “Just for her.”
The fortune teller waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll deal for the both of you.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I don’t really believe in—”
But Ana promptly shoves me in my gut, and I spew out a clipped, “December twenty first.”
The fortune teller shuffles her deck of cards, then holds it out to me. “Will you cut the deck for me?”
I pull out a haphazard chunk of the cards and hand them to her, watching as she counts twenty-one cards into the pack, and picks out a card, flipping it on the table.
Intrigued, I nod. I guess the reading checks out so far. She reshuffles the deck and flips the second. The card shows some sort of horned creature, sitting on a throne.
“The Devil,” she says, “For attachment, addiction, restriction and sexuality. You should be cautious about temptation.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks. I didn’t know tarot cards got this raunchy. Next to me, Ana grins, and I suddenly wonder if it was wise to drag her in here.
“And your last . . .” She flips it, and a naked man and woman appear on the card. “The Lovers.” The fortune teller smiles. “For love, of course, but also harmony, relationships, values and choices. I’d go into more detail, but I get the feeling you’re in a rush to be somewhere, no?”
Lovers?I hold back a scoff, instead muttering a small, “Yes, actually. We’re a bit late for… a meeting.”
The fortune teller just smiles politely before flicking her gaze to Ana. “Now, for you.”
She repeats the same process, shuffling the cards before asking Ana to cut the deck, which she does, neatly and carefully. And then she asks for her birthday to which Ana replies, “August third.”
The fortune teller counts three cards down and flips the first card. On the card, there’s a baby riding a white horse under a sun, with sunflowers in the background.
Ana’s lips tip upward. Then the fortune teller flips the second card — a solid tower being struck by lightning, and Ana’s smile falters slightly.
“The Tower. It symbolizes sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation and . . . awakening. You may begin to see things differently, and this might change your outlook on life.”
And when the fortune teller flips the last card, Ana’s face completely crumbles. It’s a skeleton or reaper or something holding a sickle.
“Death,” the fortune teller says, “A very profound card. It symbolizes endings, change, transformation or transition.”
From the supposed symbolism of the card, I’m pretty sure Ana’s not about to die any time soon, but the way the color drains from her face, it seems like she’s taking this way too seriously.
“Ana,” I say, breaking her out of her stupor. She blinks as I reach for her hand. “Let’s go.”
We stand, and I push my disillusioned sister toward the door. Before leaving, I pull out a fifty dollar note from my bra, droppingit into the little tip jar on the fortune teller’s table. There’s amusement in her grey eyes when I mutter a quick, “Thank you!”
We run out of the shop, the bottom of my dress trailing the pavement behind me. By the time we enter the restaurant, we’re flustered and out of breath.
The heavy weight of around a dozen pairs of eyes land on us from the table in the center of the space. Heavier than the others, I feel the scorched heat of his gaze.
Torren’s eyes narrow, trailing from my heaving chest, lingering on the silver heart locket around my neck before coasting down my body all the way down to myVersacepumps. What a waste — such a pretty face on such a hideous person.
The place is swarming with Italians, all engaged in conversation.
A few children run around, brushing my ankles.
I doubt my futurefiancéwould try one of his stunts in a restaurant this busy, with children running around, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
Ana loops me through the tables until we reach our own.
Papa clears his throat at our arrival. “Please excuse my girls. Ana, Freya, sit.”
There’s a seat directly opposite Torren and one a few seats away from him next to Papa. I let Ana take the one next to Papa.
Torren’s cousin Luca sits to his right, his uncle Vito to his left, and then his Papa, Salvatore. As expected, they didn’t wait for us to arrive before ordering food, and I’m pretty sure Torren and his Papa have already started eating.
Luca glances between Ana and I, then grins before leaning into Torren’s ear to whisper something. The devil’s reaction is a straight face.
The waiter eventually arrives at our table, glancing between Ana and me. “Are you ready to order?”
The waiter offers me a warm smile when I peer up at him curiously. With curly brown hair, tan skin and brown eyes, he looks young enough to be a college freshman.Dansits on the metal badge attached to his shirt.
I glance up at him, returning his smile. A controversial move, apparently, since opposite me, Torren clears his throat. Dan catches the devil’s deathly glare, averting his gaze from me.
Rolling my eyes, I skim the menu briefly, but after a single glance, I know what I want.
“I’ll have the shrimp salad,” Ana says from behind her menu.
“And to drink?” Dan asks.
My sister lowers her menu primly. “Just a glass of water, please. Still.”
It’s an easy order, and from my brief waitressing experience, I know that he shouldn’t need to note it down, but he does anyway. Dan turns to face me, but doesn’t look me in the eye anymore.
“I’ll have a burger and a chocolate milkshake.” I place my elbows on the table and rest my face on my lace-covered hands, looking up at the young waiter as I say in my sweetest voice, “Thank you, Danny.”
Torren’s eyes blaze. Dan swallows before picking up the menus in the table, almost running to get away from the table.
A few minutes later, our food arrives with a different waiter. Danny’s nowhere to be found. I sigh, removing my lace gloves then pick up my giant burger, not bothering to reach for a fork and knife. Who the hell even eats a burger with a fork and knife anyway?
Mama shoots me a glare.
Ana picks at the shrimp on her plate. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea pulling her into that fortune teller’s shop. The tarot reading wasn’t even accurate.Lovers. Like I’d ever fall in love. Men are . . . disappointing at best.
A seat away from me, Mama makes a fuss with Papa, who ordered soup so he could eat with one arm. He grumbles. “I’m not disabled, Greta.”
Still, she takes his spoon and blows on his soup before feeding him. Papa rolls his eyes like the whole thing annoys him, but I don’t miss the adoration hidden in his gaze.
They had an arranged marriage, and despite everything, the violence of our world, the tests to their relationship, they love each other. Against all odds. Ana and I meet eyes over the table, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. Great. Now we’re both miserable.
I’m still finishing my burger though.
It’s hard to ignore the burn of his gaze against my skin. When I finally drag my eyes to Torren, he’s twirling his pasta and looking at me like I’m a piece of gum at the bottom of his shoe. I look away.
“The engagementwill happen in two days,” Torren announces suddenly.
My gut twists as everyone turns silent. But the devil is nonchalant as he returns to his pasta. He forks it onto his tongue, barely opening his mouth. Meanwhile, my jaw hurts from how wide I had to stretch it around my burger.
Papa simmers in his seat. “I thought we agreed we’d wait until next week at the very least.”
Salvatore pins Papa with a hateful glare. “You might have appreciated how fast your food was prepared for you. This is why I come here. I do not like waiting. And I think you have made us wait long enough, Morozov.”
My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest. Two days. He’ll put a ring on my finger in two days. And it’ll be real this time.
My vision of my half-eaten burger blurs. But I’m sitting in clear vision of Torren, and I can’t —won’t—let myself cry in front of him.
“Excuse me,” I mutter as I stand abruptly, picking up my lace gloves.
The bathroom leads out to a neat garden with beautiful flowers. The sight should fill me with some sort of joy, but it just makes me feel… sad. Empty.
Walking inside the bathroom, I wash my hands then re-wear my gloves.
I’m so hot and feverish in this dress. I just want to rip it off. Ana was right — it’s punishing me way more than it is anyone else.
I stare at myself in the mirror, where my troubled expression stares back at me. I don’t know how long I can go on with this. Burying my face in my hands, I take quick breaths, stifling the tears. They come out still, and I dab the corners of my eyes so that my mascara doesn’t smudge.
I’ll have to wear waterproof makeup from now on. The devil’s entrance in my life has coaxed more tears from me in days than I’d usually get in years. I take a deep breath in and out. In and out. And then I walk out the bathroom.
Only to be pinned by a dark gaze that sends my heart racing. Instinctually, I take a step back.
Torren is standing right outside, leaning against the garden wall, and watching me with a bored expression. I avert my gaze, the breeze drying the moisture on my lashes.
He looks at me like it’s a task. “Took a break to cry in the bathroom?”
I glare up at him, grinding down on my lower jaw.
Anger courses through my veins. Now he has the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
I want to claw out his eyes. And I know I should probably think twice before speaking, but he’s the one who followed me here only to insult me.
“I seem to have an allergic reaction to intolerable assholes.”
Torren inhales sharply, taking a sudden step closer, hands still buried in his pockets, and air rushes through my lungs. The warning slips from my lips. “My Papa—”
“Won’t be able to protect you all the time,” he surmises, tilting his head. “Especially with his arm in a sling.”
I grit my teeth. “Youdid that to him.”
Faint amusement lights up his dark eyes. “I’m aware.”
Over his shoulder, there’s a camera flash. There’s a man with a camera popping up over the pristine bushes in the garden. Torren tears away to catch my line of gaze, irritation marring his features. “Fuckin’ reporters.”
Mama was right when she said that the Costas rely heavily on media presence, because Torren doesn’t even try to get rid of the onlooker. Instead, he turns back to me, eyes narrowing in distaste as he stares down my front. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Of course. My outfit is bad for his cookie-cut image.
Compared to his well-pressed dress shirt, my ensemble is…
distasteful. Unsavory. Not exactly reminiscent of the picture-perfect couple he wants to appear in the papers.
Too bad. If that was what he wanted, he should’ve just gone with Ana. I supress a smile. “It’s couture.”
He passes me a foul look. “Do you usually dress like a fashion reject?”
The insult doesn’t land. In fact, it’s exactly what I want. “If I say yes, will you call off the engagement?”
His eyes narrow. “As long as you aren’t walking around naked,” he says, “I don’t give a fuck.”
“And if I am?” I say, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “Walking around naked?”
I’m not totally opposed to the idea. If it means losing a shred of dignity to save myself a lifetime’s worth, it’s not a bad deal.
If Torren wasn’t annoyed before, he’s annoyed now. The displeasure practically radiates from him, rolling off his body in waves.
His voice comes out as a growl. “Don’t fucking test me.”
The warning is music to my ears, because it means I’m getting to him. That detached coldness is just a fa?ade for someone who gets triggered far too easily. I shrug, and his eyes graze my bare shoulders, narrowing on the silver heart locket around my neck.
“Your sister’s a virgin,” he says, “Are you?”
For a moment, I’m jarred by the question, wondering if I heard right. I’m a straightforward person but — howdarehe? He must be insane to think I’d actually answer such a stupid, invasive question. Breathing in, I steady my voice. “If I say no, will you call off the engagement?”
His tongue prods the inside of his cheek, dark eyes flaring. “No.”
I see what we’re doing. We’re discussing the terms of the contract. In a twisted, abrasive, contrived kind of way. I take my time dragging my eyes down his figure.
He only has a white dress shirt on — and I realize that it’s the only thing I’ve ever seen him wear. The sleeves are rolled up halfway, revealing thick, tanned forearms. Black ink bleeds across his left knuckles. He’s still taller than me in my platform heels. It’s annoying as hell.
Since he asked me such an invasive question, I make the executive decision to pose my own. I ask the question like it’s a knife to his chest.
“Am I expected to have sex with you?”
Torren’s eyes flash, like he wasn’t expecting me to be so direct.
His dark gaze coasts down my front, less distant this time.
It’s like he’s peeling off the black lace, layer by layer.
My cheeks flush, pulse racing under my skin from the blatant inspection.
His jaw tightens and something unrecognisable flares in his eyes before it turns acerbic — like what he finds under the layers only disgusts him. “No.”
I’m not expecting that as an answer. Bolder now, I ask, “Will you get it from someone else, then?”
It’s another lethal question, and I’m pushing the knife further in.
He’s deathly quiet.
Impatient, I speak again. “If you get to see other people, then so do I.”
And that’s the final twist of the knife. The one that sets off an unfortunate chain of events.
I cross my arms to emphasise my point, and my dress strap falls. Torren’s eyes track the movement, and he steps in front of me, blocking me with his broad back just before a camera flashes in the distance.
Cursing under his breath, he grips my wrist, his callused touch a red hot brand on my skin as he pulls me into a darker corner, where we’re sheltered from the invasive gaze of the paparazzo.
I wrench out of his touch, but he places his palms flat on either side of me, caging me in. I suck in a breath, my skin alight. Up close, his dark hair falls over his forehead as he looks down at me through thick lashes, his dark eyes are full of hate. “What’s mine is mine.”
I’m not flattered by the statement. To him, I’m just a toy he won’t share.
But I’m not a toy. I’ll never be anything other than a player in the game.
And right now, I’m playing against all odds and the most lethal opponent—the devil himself.
When I speak, my voice comes out breathier than intended.
“Guess threesomes are out of the question, then.”
Something feral ticks in his jaw, raw anger flashing in his eyes. “Your fuckingmouth—”
His gaze immediately rushes to my mouth when he says it, and it stays there for a moment too long before he scowls, bringing it back up to meet my eyes.
I swallow, trying to hide my reaction to his close proximity.
We’re so close that we’re breathing the same air, so close that the scent of his cologne — fresh soap, white musk, and flashes of citrus — infuses all my senses.
“Aren’t you scared?” I say, breathlessly. “That I’ll steal all your money and run away?”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “Use my card all you want. You won’t be given access to corporation funds.”
I clamp down on my jaw, refusing to back away. “I could stay married with you for a few days then file for divorce.”
A slow grin touches his lips. “I’m starting to think you didn’t read that contract, little Morozov. You will stay married to me indefinitely. Until either of us dies.”
I clamp down on my jaw. He’s right. I didn’t bother to read the contract. I lift my eyes to meet his. “I could kill myself.”
There’s a flash of implacable emotion in his features. “You could.”
I swallow. “I could kill you.”
His lips lift at one edge. “You could try.”
Frustration claws up my throat. “I’m not stupid. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to use me to get to my father.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Keen observation. That’sexactlywhat I’m going to do, and it’s going to work. You’ll be my wife and it will tear your father to pieces. You want to take your life?” He pulls a hand down to bring up his gun, holding it to me. “Be my guest.”
All I want is for this garish nightmare to be over.
My gaze lands on the gun. I can’t say the idea doesn’t entice me.
My entire life, I’ve been given as loose a rein as possible.
More freedom than a mafia daughter deserves.
It will be a slow death—the death of my soul.
It will kill me to be held captive by this monster, to stay at his side and obey his orders.
And it will kill my father to watch me do it.
My hand lifts, as if possessed, and for a split second, it’s like the gun is calling my name. Like death by my own hands would be far sweeter than by anyone else’s. Torren’s eyes blaze as he realizes I’d rather kill myself than marry him.
He pulls the gun an inch away from my hold before he mutters, “I’d still have your sister, in that case. She’s not daddy’s favorite, but she’ll still do.”
And just like that, I pull my hand back to my side.
Rather the death of my soul than the death of Ana’s.
She has far more of it to lose, anyway. I’ll do anything to protect her, now that I’m given the chance, and he knows it.
There’s a disturbed look to his eyes, but it vanishes in an instant.
He tucks the gun away a little too quickly, scowling down at me.
“You’ll be expected to move into Costa territory after the engagement. More specifically, you’ll move in with me. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
It’s like the air is sucked out of my lungs. I have tomove inwith him? In two days? Into his house where he can keep track of my every move?
“No.” I breathe, my eyes widening. “No.”
He pushes off the wall, creating distance between us as he leans on the wall opposite me, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Not up for negotiation, little Morozov. You’ll be free to visit your parents whenever you want. Accompanied by a guard.”
Now that there’s some space between us, I can finally breathe. But every breath I take makes my chest crack. This is too soon. Too real.
Torren knits his brows. “You were allowed to go out without guards often?”
“Yes.” I grit my teeth. Papa never forced security on me. I had complete freedom in college. “No one knew who I really was.”
“Now everyone will.”
Great. So not only do I have to live with an insufferable asshole, I also have to lose my rights to privacy. I grit my teeth as I look up at him. “So I’m just a prisoner?”
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he says, “You’ll be given everything you want. You just have to ask.”
Glancing up at him, I bite down. “I know what I want.”
Torren’s eyes burn at the edges, like the cherry of a cigarette, but he still takes the bait. “What?”
It’s dangerous, dangerous thing to say, and I’m playing with fire, but I flash him a sardonic smile and say it anyway. “I want you dead.”
It’s true. I mean each word. Everything would be monumentally easier if he just didn’t exist. But as soon as the words fall from my lips, I know I screwed up. Big time. Turning on my heels, I use the few seconds of time I have to walk away unscathed.
Quicker than I anticipate, Torren lunges for me.He presses me to the wall, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. His rough fingers circle around my throat,and he applies pressure — hard, but not hard enough to crush my windpipe.
“Do you know,” he growls, voice deep and rough, losing its calm front, “what I do to the men who disrespect me?”
There’s barely any air between us. Barely any space. I can’t breathe again, and it has little to do with the fact that his fingers are around my throat. An alight energy thrums between us.
I hold his lethal gaze, reaching up with both my hands as I dig my nails into his hand to get him off. It doesn’t work. I’m still not afraid of him. If anything, my hate only intensifies, boiling under the surface of my skin.
The corded muscles in his neck are strained as he stares down at me, and his pupils are so dilated that his eyes are almost entirely black. His features twist with hatred. “I rip their fucking tongues out.”
I glance up at him, slightly alarmed, blinking, but not about to back down. When he looks down at me, it’s like something clicks into place. His body slackens, and his pupils contract a little.
I swallow as he slowly loosens his grip on my throat. We’re both breathing heavy. There’s slight alarm in his eyes as he blinks, like he didn’t expect me to get such a big rise off of him.
Torren Costa, always so calm and composed. I wonder what people would say if they saw him like this, so savage and undone. His true colors. I wonder how much it will take for him to ruin me.
Or maybe I’ll ruin him first.
Half-moon crescents from my nails are engraved in the skin of his hand, dots of blood rising up to fill the divots. Maybe it makes me a sadist, but a feral delight erupts inside me at the fact that I could inflict pain on him, even if it is small and inconsequential.
And because I was never one to keep my mouth shut, I mutter, “Good thing I’m not a man.”
“Not a man,” he grinds out, still in my earshot. “But barely a lady.”
What?I lunge for him, two seconds away from rippinghistongue out when he whips around, catching my arm with so fast I almost scream. He tugs me closer to him abruptly, and my lip curls with rage.
“You want some advice, little Morozov?” Torren rasps in my ear. I try to pull my hand out of his hold, but his grasp is steel like. “Live the life your father planned out for you.”
He presses his fingers into my wrist, searing hot through the black lace of my glove. “Let your sister take your place.” He tugs at the glove, peeling it off my arm completely, leaving my left hand bare and exposed. “Run.”
I grit my teeth as he scrunches my glove, pocketing it in one fluid movement. Then, wordlessly, he turns and walks away.
I walk out, and ten minutes later, I sign the contract.
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author?s note: one of my favorite chapters so far!
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