Leon
Florrie sits in the passenger seat of my SUV, her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window at the city sliding past. She hasn't spoken since we left the club twenty minutes ago. Hasn't asked where we're going. Hasn't tried to argue or negotiate or change my mind.
She's in shock. I recognize it. The stillness, the glassy quality to her eyes. Her body is here, but her mind is still processing everything that happened in that warehouse.
I should probably say something. Reassure her.
Explain what happens next. Instead, I focus on driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.
The city gives way to suburbs, then to the winding roads that lead out to the Dubovich estate.
Forty acres of carefully manicured property behind high walls and security gates.
The family compound where five generations have built an empire.
The gates open as we approach, the security system recognizing my car.
I pull through and follow the main drive past the main house.
A sprawling old-world construction of stone and glass where Vitali lives with Charlotte and Yury with Sophia.
Past the old barn the Avros has been working on for over a year, and the smaller house that Zakhar has asked our uncle for.
My house sits at the far edge of the property.
Smaller than Zakhar’s, more private. Two stories of dark stone and wide windows, surrounded by old-growth trees that keep it hidden from the main compound.
I had it built three years ago when living in the main house with my uncle and cousins became insufferable.
I needed space. Distance. A place that was mine.
Only now I'm bringing someone into it.
I park in the circular drive and cut the engine. The silence that follows is heavy.
Florrie finally turns to look at me, and her eyes are clearer now. Less shocked, more wary.
"Where are we?" she asks.
"Home." I open my door and step out before she can respond. By the time I round the car, she's already climbing out on her own, those ridiculous heels clicking against the stone paving.
She looks around, taking in the house, the grounds, the sheer isolation of it all.
"You live here," she says. Not a question.
"We live here now," I correct.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue.
I lead her up the steps and unlock the front door. The house is dark, quiet. I flip on lights as we move through the entryway into the main living space. Open floor plan, high ceilings, minimalist furniture in blacks and grays. Everything clean, ordered, functional.
Florrie stops in the middle of the room; arms wrapped around herself again. That damn jacket is still on, and I can see her shivering slightly.
"Are you cold?" I ask.
She shakes her head. But it's a lie. I can see it in the way she's holding herself.
I move to the fireplace and flip the switch. Flames spring to life, casting warm light across the space.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing to the couch.
She doesn't move.
"Florrie."
"I don't know what I'm doing here," she says quietly. Her eyes finally meet mine, and there's something raw in them. "I don't know what happens now. I don't know what you want from me."
What do I want from her?
The question is more complicated than she knows.
I cross the space between us carefully. She doesn't retreat, but her body tenses as I approach.
"I want you to sit down," I say. "I want you to stop looking like you're about to bolt for the door. And I want you to understand that when I say you're safe here, I mean it."
"Safe." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You kidnapped me."
"I saved you," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I study her for a long moment. The defiance in her eyes despite the fear. The way she's still standing her ground even though every instinct she has must be screaming at her to run.
She's brave. Stubborn. Completely out of her depth and refusing to admit it.
"Sit down, Florrie," I say again, gentler this time. "My brother will be here soon, and it will go better for both of us if you're not falling apart when they arrive."
That gets her attention. "Brother?"
"Yes. Vitali and possibly my Uncle Yury." I move past her to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "They need to meet you. Officially."
"Why?"
"Because this isn’t exactly the way these things are usually done." I pour two fingers into each glass and carry them back. "And it’s important that they get on board, fast."
She takes the glass I offer but doesn't drink. Just stares down at it like it might bite her.
I take a sip of mine, enjoying the way the liquid slides over my tongue, before I continue.
"My uncle is the Pakhan. The head of the family. What he says is law." I watch her carefully, gauging her reaction. "Two months ago, he issued a mandate. All the men in the family, my brothers, my cousins, we have one year to marry and produce an heir. No exceptions."
Her eyes widen. "That's—"
"Archaic? Controlling? Yes." I take another sip. "But it's also how dynasties survive. How power stays in the family. My uncle is old school. He believes in legacy, in blood, in continuing what our grandfather’s grandfather built."
"And you just... go along with it?"
"I don't have a choice." I set my glass down on the coffee table. "None of us do. Refuse, and we're out of the family. Out of the business. Cut off completely."
She's quiet for a moment, processing.
"So that's why you claimed me," she says slowly. "Because you need a wife anyway."
"Partly." I don't lie to her. There's no point. "It solved two problems at once. You needed protection. I needed to fulfill a mandate. It was... efficient."
"Efficient," she repeats, her voice flat. She finally drinks, draining half the glass in one go. When she lowers it, her cheeks are flushed. "Jesus Christ."
I almost smile.
Florrie tenses when there’s a short, sharp knock at the door. "They're here."
"Yes." I stand, buttoning my suit jacket out of habit. "Let me do the talking. Just... follow my lead."
"Like I did in the warehouse?"
"Exactly like that."
The front door opens. This is family property. Privacy is a suggestion, not a rule.
Vitali enters first. My older brother looks exactly like what he is; the heir, the strategist, the one who was groomed from birth to take over when Yury steps down. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that miss nothing. He's in a suit despite the late hour, because Vitali is always in a suit.
My uncle follows him in. Yury Dubovich is forty-five years old and still moves like a man who could put you in the ground without breaking a sweat.
He's slightly shorter than Vitali, stockier, with white flecks at his temples and eyes like winter steel.
He wears his authority the way other men wear cologne, constantly, and impossible to ignore.
Both of them stop when they see Florrie.
She's standing now, the vodka glass clutched in both hands, trying very hard not to look as terrified as I know she is.
"Leon." Vitali's voice is carefully neutral. "Who is this?"
I move to Florrie's side, my hand finding the small of her back. She startles slightly but doesn't pull away.
"This is Florrie Cassel," I say. "My wife."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Vitali's eyebrows rise incrementally. Yury just stares at me, his expression unreadable.
Then my uncle laughs.
It's a rough, rusty sound, like he doesn't do it often. Which he doesn't.
"Your wife," he repeats, his accent thicker than mine. "When did this happen?"
"Tonight."
"Tonight." Vitali is the one who speaks now, his tone sharp. "You got married tonight. Without telling anyone. Without—"
"I told you I had news about the mandate," I interrupt. "This is it."
Yury moves closer, his eyes fixed on Florrie. She shrinks back slightly, and my hand presses more firmly against her spine. Keeping her steady. Keeping her close.
"She is very young," Yury observes.
"Twenty-two," Florrie says suddenly. Her voice is quiet but clear. "I'm twenty-two."
All eyes turn to her.
She lifts her chin, meeting my uncle's gaze with more courage than most men show. "And I can speak for myself."
A smile tugs at the corner of Yury's mouth. "I see that." He glances at me. "Where did you find her?"
"The club," I say. Which is technically true.
"And she agreed to marry you just like that?" Vitali's skepticism is obvious. "Within hours of meeting you?"
"The circumstances were... unusual," I say carefully. “But then yours with Charlotte weren’t entirely usual…”
"Leon." Yury's voice cuts through the tension. He settles into one of my armchairs like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. "Please explain."
So I do.
I tell them about the arms deal with Valentin. About the door opening. About Florrie stumbling into the middle of it all. About the guns pointed at her and the split-second decision I made.
I don't tell them about the way my chest tightened when I saw her. About the strange certainty that settled over me when I called her my wife. About how she fits against my side like she was always meant to be there.
Some things they don't need to know.
When I finish, Vitali is pacing. Yury is still seated, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"So, you claimed her to save her life," Vitali summarizes. "And now you're actually going to marry her."
"Yes," I say. "But I need your help with the paperwork, I need to backdate it a month or so."
"You need me to backdate your wedding certificate," Vitali mutters, narrowing his eyes.
"Don’t act like you can’t do it," I counter. "I needed a wife. She needed protection. It works."
"Do you even know what you’re getting into?" Vitali demands at Florrie who replies with a gurgle of laughter. Vitali turns back to me. "Does she understand what it means to be a Dubovich wife? The scrutiny, the danger, the expectations?"
"She will learn."
"Leon—"
"Enough." Yury's voice isn't loud, but it stops Vitali mid-sentence. My uncle's eyes fix on me, weighing, measuring. "You are certain about this?"
"Yes," I say.
"She could have been planted," Vitali argues. "She could be working for someone—"
Florrie snorts and downs the rest of her drink.
"She's not," I say flatly. "I've already had Slav run a preliminary check.
Florrie Cassel, twenty-two, works as a paralegal at Morrison her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. "You okay?"
She nods. Barely.
“It’s late,” I say. “Let me show you where you can sleep.”
We walk in silence, her following me up the stairs and onto the large square landing where I point to each room and tell her what they are.
Finally, I head into the master bedroom.
The space is clean and tidy, a large bed dominates one wall, a picture window on the other.
I pull the curtains closed against the darkness of the early morning hour as she inches her way into the room.
"I can sleep on the couch," I offer.
She blinks. "What?"
"The couch. Downstairs. I'll sleep there tonight."
"This is your house. Your bedroom."
"And you've had a traumatic night." I lean against the doorframe, keeping my distance. "I'm not going to make it worse by forcing proximity you're not ready for."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head.
"You said..." She swallows. "Earlier, you said you wanted me pregnant. That this was real."
"It is real."
"Then why—"
"Because you're not ready." I push off the doorframe. "When I take you to bed, Florrie, it won't be because you're too scared or shocked to say no. It will be because you want me there."
Her breath catches.
I move past her to the closet, pulling out a T-shirt and sweatpants. "These will be too big, but they're clean. Bathroom is through there." I point to the en-suite. "Take your time. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
I'm halfway to the door when her voice stops me.
"Leon?"
I turn back.
She's clutching the clothes I gave her, her expression uncertain. "Thank you. For... for everything. For not..." She trails off.
"For not what?"
"For not being like Brad."
I don't know who Brad is. But judging by the look on her face when she says the name, I don't need to.
"Get some sleep, Florrie," I say quietly. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."
I close the door behind me and head downstairs.
Tomorrow, she meets the family.
Tomorrow, this becomes real in a way that can't be undone.
Tomorrow, I start the process of making Florrie Cassel into Florrie Dubovicha.
I drain the glass and try not to think about the woman sleeping in my bed upstairs. Or how right it felt to put her there.