13. Luna
Luna
“So, let me get this straight,” Raven says, leaning back in her chair with a look that belongs on someone watching a live soap opera. “The king of the Russian mob wants to marry you? You?”
I glare and toss a blueberry to Nova, my service dog, who catches it mid-air and happily crunches before curling back up at my feet. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter. “And for the record, it’s not a proposal. It’s a... business arrangement.”
Amani snorts from where she’s lying on the floor, flipping through a magazine. “Business arrangement, my ass. He wants you in a wedding dress. Probably white, lacy, and sluttier than appropriate—because let’s be real, that screams 'Vlad aesthetic.'”
I grab a pillow and hurl it at her head. Nova gives me the most disappointed mom stare before sighing and going back to sleep.
“You’re not helping!”
Raven smirks. “I mean, he is hot. You could do worse. Billionaire. Bad boy. Definitely owns a yacht or six. And those cheekbones? Come on. Greek god with a mafia twist.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands. Nova nudges my leg gently, always my anchor.
“You guys are missing the point. This isn’t about cheekbones or yacht counts.
It’s about control. He thinks he can just strut in with his tailored suits and that ridiculous accent and claim me like I’m a piece of property.
I’m not some pawn in his Bratva power play. ”
Raven shrugs. “Arranged marriages aren’t that rare when money and power are involved. My parents had one.”
I blink. “The same parents where your mom once told us she wished she poisoned your dad’s coffee?”
She waves a hand. “That was one time. And they made it work. It’s not always about love. Sometimes it’s about strategy. Positioning. Survival.”
Amani sighs dreamily. “Still... It’s kind of sweet. He has a nickname for you already! Even if it means 'little fox' and sounds vaguely threatening.”
I stare at her.
She shrugs. “What? A man moving heaven and earth because he wants you? That’s romantic.”
Of course, she thinks that.
Then Amani pauses, looking up. “Okay but... what happens if you say no?”
I exhale. “He has leverage. My little off-book moment five months ago? Yeah, he knows. And he’s blackmailing Isabella. The Order. Us.”
Raven straightens, the amusement vanishing. “Blackmail?”
“He has dirt. Enough to cause serious problems. And if I say no, he’ll turn the full weight of the Bratva on Isabella. On the EAO.”
Amani winces. “Okay. Yeah. Not romantic anymore. That’s just full-blown hostage vibes.”
“Exactly.” I lean back, rubbing my temples. “He’s got all the pieces. He’s just waiting to use them.”
Raven folds her arms. “And let me guess—he thinks he’s doing you a favor?”
I laugh bitterly. “Of course. According to him, this is a win-win. We get protection, he gets more power, and I get the honor of being Mrs. Petrov.” I roll my eyes. “Because nothing screams girlhood dreams like marrying a mobster who blackmails you into it.”
Amani makes a face. “Yeah, okay. I’m walking back to my earlier romance take. This is giving Stockholm Syndrome realness.”
“Shit,” Raven mutters.
Shit is right.
I drop my head back against the couch and sigh like a woman contemplating faking her death.
Marriage. Again. Just the word makes my skin crawl.
I would rather drag my bare vagina across Arizona asphalt in July than let another man think he owns me.
Amani raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’re trying to astral project out of this room.”
“I am.”
She groans. “I don’t get it. He’s tall, rich, and gorgeous—why the hell does he have to blackmail you into marrying him?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, “because he’s got a fragile ego and a disappointing dick and doesn’t know how consent works.”
Raven studies me for a long second. The teasing fades. “Do you trust Isabella?”
I hesitate. Then nod.
“Then maybe it’s worth hearing him out. Just to know what we’re dealing with.”
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m not saying yes.” I sit up. Nova lifts her head, tail thumping once like she’s proud of me. “But I’ll talk to him. See what he really wants. And if he thinks I’m some pawn in his mafia fantasy, he’s going to wish he never found me.”
Amani grins. “There she is.”
Raven raises her water bottle. “To Luna—future Mrs. Russian Mob.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
But the smirk tugging at my lips betrays me.
After the girls have gone to bed, I grab my jacket and keys, my mind made up.
The drive to his house is faster than I’d like to admit.
His estate is exactly what I’d expect—obnoxiously grand.
A sprawling mansion with a gated driveway, high walls, and enough security cameras to qualify as a minor government outpost. The whole place screams I’m richer than you, and I want you to lose sleep over it.
I park at the edge of the property and move on foot.
The front entrance? Too obvious.
Instead, I scale the side of the house like I’ve done this a hundred times. My boots grip the stone exterior, and I’m on the second floor within seconds. The balcony doors are cracked open like an invitation.
I slip through without a sound.
And there he is.
Vladimir.
He’s leaning against a massive desk like a Bond villain, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey with one hand and resting the other on the armrest like a king-holding court. Konstantin and Dimitri stand nearby, mid-conversation—until they see me.
Everything stills.
I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back.
I’m not here to play by his rules.
I’m here to rewrite them.
And maybe stab him.
Again.
I’m definitely going to stab him again.
Seriously, do I have a knife kink?
Or is it a blood kink at this point?