Chapter Two
Alexei’s POV
I had seen war countless times before—it was, more or less, one of the common denominators in my world.
I had seen war at a distance as a child at an age when my mates were playing with wooden soldiers.
My father and uncles had shown us glimpses of it before we could even decide if we were ready to see.
I had seen war up close many times before my cousin became the Pakhan of the Bratva.
But seeing Mila’s dress smeared with blood did something to my pulse that years of warfare never had.
The copper tang of blood was a scent I’d known since I was a boy.
It wouldn’t be wrong to call it the perfume of the Lobanov legacy and the inevitable backdrop to every deal, dinner, and milestone.
I’d seen it in different shades and for different reasons.
But never had it elicited such anger in me.
The ballroom was a tomb of shattered crystal and groaning survivors.
My men were already on the move, efficient shadows in the haze of gunpowder smoke, checking pulses and delivering mercy where needed.
But my eyes were anchored on her. She was huddled against a marble pillar, her hands trembling so violently that the fabric of her dress seemed to hum.
Her eyes, which were brown and warm just a moment ago, were wide and swimming with a terror that made my stomach churn with a cold, predatory heat.
The attack had been too clean. Too focused. It wasn’t the spray-and-pray of a desperate street gang. It was a surgical strike.
“Alexei.”
I didn’t turn. I knew it was Dimitri. My right hand man moved through the wreckage toward me, his boots flattening the remains of a five-tier cake.
“The perimeter is secure,” Dimitri said, his voice low and grave. “We found a calling card. On the north exit floor. They didn’t want to leave any doubts.”
I finally looked at him. In his hand, he held a piece of charred wood, but it was what was burned into it that mattered. An inverted serpent. The signature of Enzo Moretti’s crew.
“The Italians. I knew it,” I hissed. We’d had a tentative truce with the Moretti family. Breaking it at a Lobanov engagement party was a total act of war. “Why? Why today?”
Dimitri’s expression was grim. “That’s the thing, Boss. They weren’t aiming for the head of the table. They weren’t looking for you, or your cousins, or even Anya.”
“Clearly,” I remarked.
“Our CCTV shows the shooters had one primary focus.”
He pointed a gloved finger toward Mila, now being tended to by a frantic Anya.
“They were after the girl,” Dimitri said. “They were after Mila Petrov.”
**********
The air in my private office was thick with the scent of scotch and leather.
Dimitri stood by the window, his arms crossed.
We had spent the last two hours in a frantic, bloody deep dive.
Two Moretti soldiers had been captured alive.
They hadn’t stayed alive for long, but they had stayed alive long enough to talk.
“It’s her father,” Dimitri said, tossing a manila folder onto my desk. “Lev Petrov.”
I opened the folder. The face that stared back at me was lean, haunted, and lethal.
I recognized the name, of course. In the underworld, Lev Petrov was a ghost story.
Although he had worked with the Lobanovs for a while, he was now known to be a rogue sniper who worked for everyone and belonged to no one.
“He disappeared years ago,” I said.
“That’s what he wanted people to think,” Dimitri countered. “Silvio, the man Lev executed about a decade ago, was an instrumental soldier to Enzo Moretti. After spending millions of dollars to find Lev, then hearing he died, he decided to wait for his chance to retaliate."
I looked at the photo of Lev, then at the grainy surveillance still of Mila from earlier today. The resemblance was there, in the jawline, the stubborn set of the mouth.
“He couldn’t find the father,” I mused, the realization settling in my gut like lead. “So he waited for the daughter to resurface.”
“She was more or less a ghost, too,” Dimitri added.
“Living and schooling in the suburbs, almost off the grid. The anonymity that was often required for her former job as a forensic accountant was perfect for her. But when she switched careers and started showing up with Anya… when she stepped into the Lobanov circle… the Moretti scouts spotted her. To them, she’s not an innocent girl. She’s the debt Petrov never paid.”
I stood up, walking to the other window.
Mila was somewhere in this house. She was safe for the moment, but the Morettis wouldn’t stop.
To them, blood was the only currency that mattered.
If they got their hands on her, they wouldn’t just kill her.
They would make her suffer for every year her father had stayed hidden.
“They think she’s a pawn,” I whispered to the glass.
“She is a pawn, boss,” Dimitri said bluntly. “And right now, she’s a liability. The Morettis have declared war on our soil to get to her. The Pakhan, in fact the whole Bratva, might want her handed over to maintain the peace. She’s not one of ours. She’s just… Anya’s friend.”
A sharp, jagged spike of fury flared in my chest at his words.
She’s not one of ours.
The logic was sound. But then I remembered the way she had looked at me through the smoke. Not with the calculated fear of a mobster’s wife, but with the pure, shattering vulnerability of someone who had no idea why the world was suddenly screaming.
“She isn’t a liability,” I said, my voice dropping to a lower tone. “She’s an opportunity.”
I left the office and walked toward the living quarters. The house was unnervingly quiet. The frantic energy of the evening had settled into a heavy, suffocating silence.
I found her in the small sitting room off the main hall.
Anya was gone—to fetch something, maybe—leaving Mila alone.
She was wrapped in a heavy wool blanket that looked far too large for her slight frame.
She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at a spot on the rug.
She looked small. Fragile. Like a bird that had flown into a window and was waiting for the world to stop spinning.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her. I should have felt pity. I should have felt the cold, detached calculation of a leader. But as I watched the way her breath hitched, the way she tried to make herself invisible against the upholstery, I felt a different kind of darkness rise up in me.
It wasn’t just the need to protect. It was a brutal, primal sense of possession. The thought of the Morettis marring her skin and extinguishing her soft light made me want to burn something.
Roman, my cousin, appeared in the hallway behind me. He glanced into the room, then at me. He saw the look on my face—the one I couldn’t quite mask.
“The Italians won’t stop, Alexei,” Roman whispered. “If she stays here as a guest, they’ll keep hitting us. The only way to shield her is to make her part of the family. Truly part of it.”
“Not to hand her over?” I inquired, my relief mingling with surprise.
“Lev was no longer our responsibility—hasn’t been for several years. But Mila is no stranger. Isn’t she Anya’s friend?”
I sighed.
“We could arrange a marriage for her. One of the lieutenants? Someone loyal who can keep her in a safe house,” Roman suggested.
The idea of Mila belonging to one of my men, of someone else touching her, protecting her, seeing her wake up in the morning, sent a bolt of pure, unadulterated rage through me.
“No,” I said, the word final. “I’ll do it.”
Roman blinked, his eyes widening. “You? Alexei, she might be your sister’s friend, but from what I’ve gathered, you don’t know her at all. ”
I didn’t look at him. My eyes were still on Mila. “But she was attacked right in this building. On my property. And we both know that being strangers to each other has nothing to do with this kind of marriage. She’s mine to protect. Therefore, she’s mine.”
“She’s terrified of you,” Roman noted dryly.
“She’ll learn,” I said.
His lips curving into a small smirk, Roman disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
I took a breath, straightened my suit jacket, and stepped into the room.
The floorboard creaked, and Mila flinched as if I’d fired a shot. She looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Then she stood, wrapping the blanket more firmly around her body. I stood still as she approached me.
“Alexei,” she whispered, her voice thin. “What actually happened? What was the attack about?”
“Mila.” I sighed before gesturing towards the chair she’d stood from. She turned her neck towards the chair and faced me again. Then she went to the chair and sat.
I walked toward her, my movements slow and deliberate, the way one approaches a wounded animal. I sat in the armchair opposite her. “How are you feeling?”
She gave a hollow, hysterical little laugh. “I… I think I’m in shock. Anya said I’m safe, but… those men… they weren’t looking for Anya, were they?”
She’s even smarter than I guessed.
And stubborn.
“No,” I said. I saw no point in lying. In my world, lies were for the weak. “They are of the Italians. And they were looking for you.”
She paled, her hands tightening on the blanket. “Why? I don’t… I don’t know any Italians. I’ve never done anything to anyone.”
“It isn’t about what you did, Mila. It’s about who you are.”
I watched her process that. I saw the confusion, the dawning horror. I decided to give it to her all at once. The truth was a blade; it was better to strike fast.
“Your father, Lev Petrov, didn’t just disappear.
He was a sniper. Worked with us for a while.
One of the best. Years ago, he killed a man named Silvio Ancelloti.
The man who ordered the hit today is Silvio’s boss, Enzo.
He has spent ten years looking for a way to hurt your father. He couldn’t find Lev, so he found you.”
Mila shook her head, the blanket sliding off one shoulder. “No… I mean…he’s dead now. Why am I being dragged into all this?”
“Yes, but we’re talking about things that happened before he died. I have the files, Mila. I have the confession of the man who tried to put a bullet in your head today. Your father left you behind to save himself and eventually died, but he forgot that blood leaves a trail.”
She looked like she was going to be sick. “So, what happens now? Are you going to give me to them? Is that why I’m here?”
I felt a surge of that dark, possessive heat again. I stood up and crossed the small gap between us, kneeling in front of her. I reached out, my large hand covering her trembling ones. Her skin was ice-cold.
“No,” I said, my voice dropping to a low growl. “I don’t give away what belongs to me.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me. She saw the predator. She saw the man who often ordered death before breakfast. “What belongs to… what are you talking about?”
“The Morettis will not stop. They will hunt you to the ends of the earth. The association wants to shield you from harm…”
“You mean the Bratva?” she cut in.
I nodded.
“Then let me go,” she pleaded. “I’ll run. I’ll change my name.”
“They found you once. They will find you again. And next time, I won’t be there to pull you out of the line of fire.
” I squeezed her hands, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her feel the reality of my strength.
“There is only one way to keep you alive. One way to make you untouchable. You need a name that carries more weight than Petrov. You need a name that the Italians fear, at least more than they hate your father.”
Mila stared at me, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. “What exactly are you saying?”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t hesitate. I had made my choice the moment I saw her bloodied dress. I just didn’t know it.
“Marry me,” I said.
The silence that followed was absolute. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded like a hammer against an anvil.
Mila pulled her hands away, shrinking back into the sofa. She looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted horns. “You… you’ve lost your mind. I don’t even know you. Tonight was the second time we met, or even spoke to each other.”
“Yes, but we already kissed,” I said, not failing to notice how her face filled with color and her eyes looked to the side. It made me warm inside, and I wondered if she would let me kiss her again. But there was more serious matter to address than my aggravating hunger for her lips.
Standing up to my full height and looming over her, I told her, “If you are my wife, an attack on you is an act of war against the entire Lobanov Bratva. The Morettis are bold, but they are not suicidal. As a Lobanov, you will have a small army at your back. As Mila Petrov, you are a dead woman walking.”
“I won’t do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You’re just… you’re using this to trap me. Why do you even care?”
I took a step closer, invading her personal space until she had to tilt her head back to see me. I could smell the faint scent of her floral perfume beneath the acrid smell of smoke. It was intoxicating.
“I care because I decided to,” I said. It was the only truth I could give her—the raw, ugly reality of my own sudden obsession. “In my world, Mila, there is no room for negotiation. You can walk out those doors and be dead or worse by midnight. Or you can stay here, put on a ring, and live.”
I reached out, my thumb brushing her jawline. She shivered, but she didn’t pull away this time. She was trapped, and she knew it.
“I’m not asking for your love,” I uttered. At that moment, I didn’t know what I wanted from her, only that I wanted her. “I’m offering you a life. But make no mistake—if you say yes, you are mine. Completely. Irrevocably.”
She stared at me, her eyes searching mine for some hint of mercy, some sign that this was a joke. She found none. Then she looked at the door and back at me. I saw the moment she broke. I saw the moment the reality of her situation crushed the last of her resistance.
I turned and walked out of the room without looking back.
I had a war to plan and a bride to own.