Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I RINA
The wheels hit the tarmac of Teterboro with a jarring thud that travels straight up my spine. Cancun was a fever dream, a humid blur of coconut oil and anonymity. This—the gray, smog-choked horizon of New York and the biting October wind whistling against the fuselage—is reality.
And reality currently has a name: Mikhail Morozov.
He doesn't look at me as the jet taxis toward a private hangar. He’s up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with a precision that makes my stomach do a slow, nauseating flip. He looks refreshed. I look like a woman who’s been dragged through hell and back, mostly because I have.
The door of the jet opens, and the cold air hits me hard. I shiver, my thin tunic providing zero protection against the Northeast chill. Before I can even take a step, a heavy, wool coat is draped over my shoulders. It smells of him—expensive whiskey and cologne.
"Move, Irina," he rumbles, his hand settling on the small of my back.
His touch is a searing brand through the fabric. My skin tingles, that same traitorous heat from the spa bubbling up despite the frost in the air. I want to shrug him off, to tell him I’d rather freeze to death than wear anything he’s touched, but my teeth are already chattering.
"So polite," I mutter, my voice raspy. "I’m surprised you didn't just throw me down the stairs."
"Don't give me ideas," he says, his grip tightening just enough to be a warning.
We descend the stairs. I expect a fleet of SUVs, a dozen men with submachine guns, and the usual circus that follows a Morozov. Instead, there is a single, black Range Rover idling on the tarmac. No driver. No guards. Just the car and the silence of the private airfield.
Huh, weird.
Mikhail walks me to the passenger side, opens the door, and waits until I’m inside before walking around to the driver’s seat. He doesn't wait for a subordinate to handle the luggage or check the perimeter. He just climbs in, shifts the car into gear, and pulls away.
He really doesn't trust anyone with his 'property,' does he? Or maybe he just wants me all to himself so he can enjoy the way I’m breaking.
"No driver, Mikhail?" I ask, leaning my head back against the leather. I try to sound bored, but my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. "Did the Morozovs go broke while I was away, or are you just that paranoid?"
He keeps his eyes on the road, his large hands steady on the steering wheel. The veins on the backs of his hands are prominent, tracing a path of raw power down to his knuckles.
I can still feel those fingers in my hair, pulling my head back. My scalp still stings. My skin still burns.
"I don't need a driver to take my wife home," he says, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "And I don't need bodyguards to protect me from a girl who thinks she can run in sneakers."
"I did run, didn't I? For six months."
"You wandered," he corrects, glancing at me. The dark blue of his eyes is like the ocean before a storm—deep, cold, and ready to swallow everything in its path. "I let you wander."
"You let me?" I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Your pride is even more delusional than I thought. You didn't let me do anything. I outsmarted you. I outsmarted my father. I was free."
"You were a target," he says, his voice dropping an octave.
He reaches over, his hand closing over my thigh.
He doesn't squeeze, but the weight of it is enough to make my breath hitch.
I can feel the heat of his palm, a slow, thrumming vibration that makes my traitorous body ache.
"You were a Petrov princess in a town full of people who would have sold your head back to Boris for a discount.
You weren't free, Irina. You were lucky. And your luck just ran out."
I stare at his hand on my leg. I should move it. I should slap him. I should bite him. Instead, I stay frozen, mesmerized by the sheer possessiveness of the gesture.
"Is this the part where I’m supposed to be grateful?" I whisper.
"This is the part where you stay silent," he says, removing his hand only to pull the car into the long, winding driveway of the Morozov estate.
Fucking psycho.
The house looms out of the mist like a gothic nightmare. Stone, ivy, and the weight of a hundred years of blood. My heart sinks. This is a fortress. And the guards at the gate don't look at me with sympathy. They look at me like I’m a package that finally arrived.
Mikhail parks the car and rounds the side, opening my door. He doesn't wait for me to get out; he reaches in and hauls me to my feet, his hand locking around my upper arm.
"Let go, Mikhail, I can freaking walk."
"You’ve done enough walking, dorogaya. " he growls.
He leads me through the massive oak doors. The foyer is vast and the atmosphere is anything but welcoming. It’s ugly. It’s heavy with the kind of tension that precedes a shootout.
They’re all there. Waiting.
Fuck my life.
Vladimir Morozov sits in a high-backed leather chair, looking like a king presiding over a court of ghosts. He’s older, his face a map of ruthless decisions, and he watches us with a cold indifference that makes me feel like an invoice being settled.
Artyom stands by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s the Ice King, colder and more measured than his brother. He looks at me and I see the calculation in his eyes. He looks at me like a problem that’s finally been solved.
And then there’s my father.
Boris Petrov is standing near the window, his back to the room. When he turns, the fury in his eyes is so potent I actually take a step back, bumping into Mikhail’s chest. Mikhail doesn't budge. He just wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him. It’s a claim. A statement.
"So," Vladimir says, his voice a dry rasp. "The runaway returns."
"She didn't return," Mikhail corrects, his voice booming in the quiet room. "I brought her back."
"You look like hell, Irina," Artyom says, his voice devoid of warmth. "I hope the vacation was worth the scandal you caused. Our father has had to spend the last half-year cleaning up your mess."
I hate him. I hate the way he looks at me, like I’m a bug under a microscope. He chose a nurse. He chose love. And now he expects me to be the sacrificial lamb for the 'family structure.'
"It was lovely, Artyom," I snap, my sass returning the moment I see their smug faces. "The weather was perfect, the drinks were strong, and best of all, there wasn't a Morozov in sight. You should try it sometime."
Artyom’s jaw tightens, but it’s my father who speaks next.
"I want to speak with my daughter," Boris says, his eyes fixed on me. "Alone. Now."
Mikhail hesitates. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body reacts to the command. For a second, I think he might say no. I almost want him to say no. The thought of being alone with my father is a cold weight in my chest.
But this is the Bratva. This is the old world. A father has rights.
"Ten minutes," Mikhail says, his voice like gravel. He looks down at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth for a second too long. "Upstairs. My room."
He lets go of me, and the sudden loss of his heat makes the room feel ten degrees colder. I feel exposed, a rabbit in a room full of wolves.
"Come," Boris says, turning and walking toward the stairs.
I follow him, my heart hammering against my ribs. We walk up the grand staircase in silence. The Morozov estate is full of shadows, portraits of dead men watching us with judgmental eyes. We reach the second floor and enter a large, mahogany-paneled room. Mikhail’s room.
It’s masculine, austere, and smells like him. I stand by the window, looking out at the gray New York sky, trying to find a shred of the "Elena" I left in Mexico.
The door thuds shut. The click of the lock is a gunshot in the quiet room.
I turn around. My father is standing there, the mask of the professional Pakhan gone, replaced by the raw, vicious fury of a man who has been disobeyed.
"You bitch!”