Hers to Command (Mafia Queens #3)

Chapter One

Anya

T he pencil skirt I donned this morning moves around my legs like it’s trying to trip me up. It’s not a typical wardrobe problem I face, just another mind fuck in a day full of them.

Women are commodities. That much I’ve known for my entire life. It might be distasteful, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Nor does it make it feel any better now that I’m the one being sold off like a fucking racehorse.

Father has always been dead set on getting me married off so I can play housewife to some asshole instead of letting me take over the damn business the way I’ve planned.

My brother Mikhail was supposed to act as the official head while I run things.

A perfect plan gone to shit.

Fucked over by every single man I’ve ever trusted.

My heels don’t make a sound as I move over the plush carpeted floor of the private lounge of our biggest club, Downsview Park. Women are already dancing on each of the three stages that take up the large main floor even though it’s barely afternoon. The club is in the same building as my father’s office and Bratva headquarters, which are upstairs, a show of trust to the psychopath he’s invited here to fuck up all of my plans.

Well, fuck them up even more than Mikhail already managed.

“Father.” My greeting is gentler than he deserves, but it’s difficult to see him as the man he is when I look into the face of the man who doted on me as a child. The man who is now a bare shadow of himself thanks to Cystic fibrosis.

“Sit, Anya.”

He points at the couch next to his armchair and I follow his direction. Aligning my heels, I let my knees fall sideways in the demure way Ms. Bennett had taught us to sit in etiquette school.

Unclench hands. Breath evenly. That technique I taught myself. It’s a common-sense response to spending your life among predators who feed on weakness.

“When will they be here?” It’s impossible not to make the question sound like an accusation. I’ve had exactly one hour to come to terms with the bombshell my father dropped on me on the phone. No chance to ask questions. No option to argue my case. Only the click of the connection ending after my father delivered his message.

Today I will meet the man I’m supposed to marry.

I’ve known for a while. It’s never been a surprise, but it was different before. A looming thing in the future. Something I had time to deal with, especially while my father still harbored hope that Mikhail would come to his senses. Then my brother decided to get hitched to a fucking Italian and my father pulled the trigger.

Not literally, unfortunately. Instead, I’m the one getting fucked over, while my father pretends Mikhail is dead.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes. We will greet them together as is appropriate.”

The way my father says it through clenched teeth is all the confirmation that he hates this as much as I do. Gone are the days when he could make others wait for him and enter the room when they were already seated to assert his dominance. Not when the air tank he needs to drag around with him ruins that effect so completely.

The silence stretches, interrupted only by the ragged breathing that necessitates, in my father’s eyes, this move. It’s not like either of us wants to discuss what is happening in a church across the city right this very minute. Then, a knock sounds at the door and Vlad opens it with his usual sour expression. “Mr. Solntsev is here.”

My stomach wants to revolt, but that’s hardly an option, so I swallow the bitter bile. My father doesn’t rise from his seat, receiving a frown from Dmitri Solntsev, who walks into the room with an entourage of two burly guys.

So much for trust. Not that anyone would have expected anything different from a human trafficker.

“Welcome to Toronto,” my father greets them, and Solntsev takes in the air tank and my father’s appearance, his frown changing to an expression of pity that has got to piss my father off, though impressively he manages not to let it show.

Goes to show just how screwed I really am.

Damn Mikhail for abandoning me. I’ve never been a girl that wants a guy to rescue her, but I know better than most that women are the first to get screwed over. Always. I should have acted sooner. I had intended to. Instead, I didn’t.

What is it about girls wanting to please their fathers so damn much?

“Thank you, Adrik,” Solntsev says, pulling me back into the shit-show of the present.

As I study him, Solntsev’s eyes travel to me, and I work hard not to shudder. His tiny pig eyes are lit with the creepy greed I often see in the men visiting our clubs, where women dance and fuck men for money. Showing any reaction will count against me, for sure, but when his tongue darts out like he’s a creepy reptile, I can’t help flinching back.

It might have just been a tiny movement, but the expression of triumph on Solntsev’s face tells me he noticed. Grinding my teeth, I suppress the urge to get up and walk out of here.

I’m well educated. I know my legal rights, and I damn well know this shouldn’t happen to me. I also know that it happens to women every day and that the police do shit to stop it. What can they truly do when half the officials are being paid off, and the bureaucracy has them towing a line that is under-funded and over regulated?

“Please have a seat.” My father gestures for Solntsev to sit. “I wanted to give you a chance to meet my beautiful Anya before we talk business.”

Beautiful. His primary selling point, because the rest would make me seem less attractive. My Master’s degree in business, the fact that I can shoot a .45 caliber handgun with sub-MOA precision at 25 yards, and that I’ve secretly run the entire operation out of our Flemingdon Park club for years. Though, of course, he doesn’t know about that last part.

Solntsev is staring at me again. “She’s aware of the arrangement?”

Father nods. “Anya knows.”

A smile spreads across Solntsev’s face. “The first shipment of girls will arrive in one week. A dowry, as discussed. After that, we will begin the actual business.”

My skin is crawling by the time Solntsev finally turns to my father. “She can go now. I want to discuss the Italians.”

“Yes, of course. Anya, you can go.”

Dismissed. Because business isn’t for women. As if this isn’t relevant to me. My heels dig into the carpet, taking away the sound that would give away my fury.

The lights are dim around the club, only the stages illuminated more brightly, giving the visitors a chance to stare at the bodies on display while the lowered lights over the booths give the illusion of anonymity.

I ignore the urge to scream and head straight for the door. My convertible is waiting out front in my reserved spot, and I slide in. I’ve got to get away from here to think. It hasn’t even been ninety minutes since I received my father’s call, telling me that Dmitri fucking Solntsev is in town and that I’m supposed to marry the guy. Under different circumstances, I may have been excused for needing a minute to process this shit, but here I am, almost out of time.

I need to get my shit together and figure out what I’ll do next. Because one thing is for certain, my long-term planning strategy started smoking when Mikhail up and left to stick his dick in his Italian princess, but now it’s caught fire and I’m still tied to the damn witch pole.

Fortunately, my apartment isn’t too far away. A mere ten-minute drive, despite the Toronto traffic in the late evening. Father wanted me to live at home, not approving of having me rent my own place, but Mikhail helped me convince him that I’d be better off close to campus while I did my degrees. Not that my father cared about my education, beyond their value in giving me a more polished look. I wasn’t one of the whores he kept in his stable. Nope, I was a valuable racehorse to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Someone who could be trotted out during business meetings for small talk, just as long as I didn’t get any ideas in my head about having an actual career.

Not like Gianna Bruno, Mikhail’s wife.

I slam my apartment door behind me, hating the envy I experience every time I think of the head of the Bruno syndicate. Which is why I put her out of my mind and head straight for my bar. What I need is a drink. Hard liquor. Unfortunately, all I have is wine.

I uncork a bottle and pour the red goodness into an oversized wine glass. It fits almost half the bottle. Not bad.

Before I can sit down, my cell rings and, with a look at my phone, my mood sours even further. Mikhail.

“Brother dearest, what can I do for you?” The sarcasm drips heavily from my words, and I refuse to acknowledge that today is his wedding day. That slight is about the only reason why I even picked up the phone.

“I want to know what’s going on with you. Riccardo Angelo told Gianna that Solntsev was at father’s club.” Mikhail sounds pissed, which is about the only good thing about this conversation. I’m not sure what he’s pissed about—that I’m not gushing about his pretty bride, or that I’ve ignored most of his recent calls.

“And you care why?”

“Because you’re my sister.”

He says it like that truly means something to him. Our entire adult lives, I’ve done everything I could to make his life easier while carving out a space for myself. I’d run the club father entrusted him with, despite the disgust I had to swallow at being the one to keep a stable of drugged-up trafficked women. Yeah, a good person I am not, but I fucking did what I could to at least set myself up to not be dragged down with the rest of them.

And what did Mikhail do? Instead of paying attention and doing the bare minimum, he ran off to stalk no other than Gianna goddamned Bruno. Imagine my surprise when she not only put up with him, but as far as I know, actually went through with it and walked down a goddamned aisle for him today.

Then again, is it really such a surprise? At least she turned the tables on the men in her life. When her father died, she killed her uncle to take control of the syndicate and now she walks around with the son of a rival mafia family following her around like a trained puppy dog. It’s hard to hate the bitch when I’m so fucking impressed.

“How is your wife ?” I ask, venom in the words that remind him of the priorities he’s set. Gianna over me. He didn’t even invite me to the wedding. Instead, Mikhail had asked if I wanted to get together with them for dinner to celebrate privately, as if that sounded any better than slitting my own throat with his favorite knife.

Mikhail huff. “Gianna is good. Busy at the reception.”

Yeah, of course, she is busy. She’s got a company and a syndicate to run. People to impress.

“Great. Good chat.” I’m about to hang up when Mikhail speaks again.

“I know you’re pissed. I get it, but I want to see you.” The pained sound of his voice soothes some of my anger. My brother is a psychopath, sure, but he used to have a soft spot for me. That losing me hurts him at least tells me I’m not the only one suffering from his decisions.

I take a long sip of my wine, swallowing audibly, and allowing that bit of satisfaction to linger. “Well, you’ll have to get in line. Looks like Dmitri Solntsev has first dibs on me these days.” Then I hit the red button.

Let him swallow that one. After all, had he not jumped ship, father wouldn’t be looking to consolidate his business with outsiders. Because god fucking forbid, he might consider letting his daughter take over for him, now that his son has shown him the middle finger and went literally into bed with the enemy.

My forehead slams onto the kitchen counter while my hand still grasps the wine glass. Tears that I didn’t allow to come until now press against my eyelids and, finally, I scream.