Marriage of Obligation to a Mafia Billionaire

1. Not A Meet Cute

Not A Meet Cute

Ican see it now.

My name will be on everyone's lips. And it's because I'm the girl whose death led to a Netflix documentary.

Karyna Francisco: The Girl Who Kept Hoping Her Stepfather Wasn't Evil. And Paid the Price for Her Stupidity with Her Life.

…

Okay, I know I probably could've worded that better.

Or maybe not.

I've never been gifted with words. My earliest memories of Mom were of her shouting 'shut up', and when she and my stepfather married, Joel also started shouting something similar.

Instead of simply asking me to shut up, he was more…descriptive. He yelled at me to 'shut the fuck up'.

But anyway.

Netflix probably wouldn't give me the time of the day with a title that boring (and just plain uninspired, if we're being honest).

But I honestly don't have time to think of something else because—

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open just as I round the corner, and the first person to step out is Konrad.

Nooooooooooooo!

The people my stepfather has sold me to as payment for his gambling debts are back, and I barely have time to retreat before they see me.

I duck into the side hallway that branches off the corner, and I press myself against the wall so hard I can feel the raised pattern of the wallpaper through my shirt.

I don't dare breathe. The carpet is thick under my sneakers, so thick it swallows every sound, but that doesn't stop me from panicking that it didn't swallow mine.

“Watch the elevators," Konrad orders from somewhere past the corner. "And the fire exits."

Like always.

Konrad, the man Joel sold me to, is so paranoid that he never walks into a building without covering every way out of it. I've been stuck in this hotel long enough to know his routine by heart, so I also know what comes next.

Footsteps. His, heavy and impatient, going right past the mouth of my little side hallway without slowing down.

Toward my room.

Nobody's standing guard outside my door, and I know exactly why. They think I'm too meek to run. Too dumb to even try.

And honestly?

Until today, they would've been right.

I was hoping to leave the hotel before they got back, but that's now out of the question, so…

Think, Kar!

Ten months ago, Joel lost his job and started gambling online.

Five months ago, my mother died in a stabbing "accident".

Four months ago, my stepfather said we were losing the house.

Three months ago, he said we should move back to his home country Moskra and start fresh. In hindsight, I realize now that those words were too good to be true, but since I did preface all of this with the admission that I'm not the brightest bulb in the block…

That's how I ended up here: trapped in a foreign country without a single cent to my name, engaged against my will, and about to be taken away by a fiancé who makes Charles Manson look reasonable…if I don't think of something soon.

So please, brain!

The second Konrad's footsteps fade, I peel myself off the wall and go the opposite way, deeper into the side hallway.

I have my hand over my mouth to keep myself from crying out as I try the doors of every hotel room I pass while I walk down the hallway like a headless chicken.

Please work for me like you've never worked before!

But they’re all locked.

Please, please.

But it’s no use. Every knob I try turning might as well be made of stone, unyielding and unmoving between my fingers. It’s only a matter of time before they find me, and then…

And then…

No, no, no!

Don’t give up just yet!

Come on, brain, think!

I was five years old when I watched my first action movie.

It was the first of Tom Cruise's Mission Impossible movies, and since then, action flicks became my greatest source of comfort.

They were my secret pain reliever when I was emotionally bruised.

My go-to for every curve ball life throws my way (which honestly happens so, so often, that if I were the superstitious type, I'd have long believed I was cursed).

Watching the underdog win and beat up the bad guys made me feel like I always have reason to hope, but…

Tom Cruise would've had a gadget for this. A keycard that opens every door in the building, or a rope, or at least a pair of knees that don't shake.

What do I have?

A hand over my mouth and a hallway full of doors that won't open.

In Liam Neeson's first Taken movie, he rescues his daughter against all odds, and they live happily ever after (until Part 2, but that's for another story).

I want so badly to believe that can happen to me, too…

but how can I hope for rescue when the only father figure in my life is the exact reason I need rescuing?

Somewhere behind me, a door bangs open.

My room.

And then Konrad's voice again, except it doesn't sound impatient anymore. It sounds like something is about to get broken.

No, oh no, no.

Footsteps, and not just his this time. They're coming back up the hallway, fast, and I'm running out of doors.

I grab the next handle. Locked. I don't even wait to rattle it twice before I'm lunging for the one after, but the voices are so close now, so, so close, and I can't—

The door behind me opens.

A hand closes around my arm and yanks me backward, and I stumble straight into something hard and warm just as the door swings shut in front of me.

It doesn't slam. It doesn't even click.

It just closes, so silently it's like it never opened in the first place.

A heartbeat later, footsteps pound past the other side of it.

I stop breathing.

The room is dim, lit only by a lamp somewhere behind me, and the hard, warm thing I crashed into is a chest. A man's chest. His hand is still wrapped around my arm, and when I finally dare to look up—

Oh…wow.

He's so tall I have to tip my head all the way back just to see his face, and that face…

Dark hair.

Dark eyes.

A mouth that looks like it's never smiled at anyone in its life, and the kind of beautiful that makes my brain forget, for one completely inappropriate moment, that I'm about to die.

He lifts a finger to his lips.

Quiet.

I nod.

And nod.

And keep on nodding, because apparently my head has forgotten how to stop, until his hand moves from my arm to my shoulder and presses down once.

Right. Okay. Nodding over.

Out in the hallway, Konrad snaps at someone. I can't make out the words through the door, but I don't need to. That tone says everything.

The footsteps slow right outside our door.

Every muscle in my body locks up, but the stranger doesn't move at all. He doesn't glance at the door, either. His eyes stay on me the whole time, calm, dark, completely unbothered, and for some reason I can't explain, that's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Then the footsteps move on.

They fade down the hallway, farther and farther, until the only sound left is my own heart, beating so loudly I'm scared Konrad can hear it all the way from the elevators.

The stranger lets go of my shoulder.

"Speak."

It's just one word, and it's not even loud, but it hits me harder than any of Joel's yelling ever did.

Because nobody has ever told me to do that before.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I try again. Still nothing. I want to. I really, really do, but because my whole life, I've been taught to shut up and I don't know how to do anything else…

He waits.

No sighing. No eye-rolling. No telling me to spit it out already. He simply stands there like he has all the time in the world, like he'd wait all night if that's what it took…

And then everything comes out in a rush.

My stepfather losing his job. His gambling problems, which I later found out were behind my mother’s death. His debtors had killed her as a warning, and he'd been so terrified he'd be next that he flew us to Moskra, where he has every right to choose my husband…and get paid for it, too.

I think I say a lot more after that, but it’s hard to remember my own words. Having to recount my past has me crying and shaking and hyperventilating and—

"It's okay," he says quietly.

R-Really?

"I understand now."

H-He does?

I have no idea what he says he understands, but the calmness of his voice makes me feel a lot better, and already I can feel my heartbeat slowing down as I watch him take his phone out. His gaze meets mine as he brings the phone to his ear—

"Konrad Oslov."

My eyes go wide, and my heart freezes up in shock.

No no no no no no.

How does he know Konrad’s last name? Was he simply having fun with me? Did I sign my own death warrant, asking for help from the friend of my enemy—

"He's in this building,” the stranger murmurs. “Find a way to distract him until I'm able to leave. Get rid of all security footage." A pause. "Thanks."

When he looks at me again, I’m stunned and confused, and just a little bit scared. Can I really consider myself safe with this man?

“W-Who are you?”

Or did I just jump out of the frying pan and into the fire because the next thing he says—

"Your future husband."

—can’t possibly be true.