15. Luna
Luna
“Sooooooo,” Amani says, leaning forward like she’s about to crack the code to some ancient mystery. “You kissed him? You kissed one of the most brutal, bloodthirsty, psychopathic men in America, who, by the way, is blackmailing us, and then just walked out like nothing happened?”
Well, we did more than that, but that’s beside the point.
Her tone is half shock, half amusement, and it’s the fifth time she’s asked the same damn question since we sat down for breakfast.
“Yes, Amani,” I say, shoving a forkful of buttery scrambled eggs into my mouth. “For the millionth time, yes. Now please, shut the hell up about it before I lose what’s left of my sanity.”
Amani grins like the cat that got the cream, her dark eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to wrap my head around this. You—who keeps men at arm’s length like it’s your full-time job—kissed him. Him. The man who could give nightmares to Satan himself.”
I roll my eyes and reach for my green tea. “It wasn’t some grand romantic gesture. It just... happened.”
“It just happened?” she echoes, incredulous. “That’s your defense? Luna, things like that don’t just happen with men like Vladimir. They’re calculated. Everything he does is calculated.”
I take a sip of tea, letting the earthy flavor calm my nerves, though it does little to quell the storm brewing inside me. “Look, I don’t need a psychoanalysis of the situation, okay? It’s being handled. End of story.”
Amani scoffs. “Something tells me he doesn’t see it that way.”
Before I can respond, Isabella glances up from her phone, her silver hair catching the morning light. “I hate to agree with Amani,” she says in her cool, measured tone, “but she’s right. Men like Vladimir don’t just let things ‘end.’ You’ve probably just opened a door you can’t close.”
“Great, thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of bacon with my fork.
Across the table, Raven shrugs, her braids swaying as she leans back. “I saw this coming a mile away.”
I blink at her. “What?”
She shrugs again. “The way he looks at you. Like you’re his and the rest of us are just irrelevant background noise. Honestly, I’m more surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Amani lets out a dramatic gasp. “See? Even Raven agrees! The tension was so thick, it was practically suffocating. Admit it, Luna—you like himmmmm.”
“Will you stop?” I snap, feeling my face heat. “He’s literally blackmailing me into marrying him. I do not like him.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Amani mutters under her breath.
I shake my head, focusing on my plate. The breakfast spread is impressive—eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns—but it’s not satisfying. I miss real comfort food.
Not that I have much use for comfort these days.
Damn. That reminds me—I need to call my family. My sister is going to love this.
As I chew, my thoughts drift back to the club and when I showed up at his house.
I’d acted on instinct, caught up in the heat of the moment, but the aftermath has been...
unsettling. Not because I regret it—I don’t.
But because it’s stirred something inside me, I thought I buried it a long time ago.
Marriage.
Just hearing the word makes my skin crawl. I'm not against marriage or love—far from it. I adore the concept of love. However, this is real life, and women like me don’t end up with the white knight.
Instead, we get the brooding King of Darkness, who kidnaps you and locks you away in his tower.
I barely survived my first marriage. I know what it feels like to have a man control me, to have my choices stripped away, my autonomy turned into someone else’s plaything.
Vladimir isn’t just making a request. This isn’t some offer I can politely decline and go about my life. No, he’s backing me into a corner, leveraging his power and position, and the one thing he knows I won’t risk is my people.
If I say no, I put my team in danger. I put my family in danger.
If I refuse, he will make life difficult for the EAO. He will tighten his grip, cut off resources, sabotage operations, and eventually escalate the situation.
Amani scowls, snapping me back to the conversation. “We’re assassins, for fuck’s sake. We could take out his entire organization and be done with this.”
Isabella exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“It doesn’t work like that. Vladimir isn’t just another target.
He’s tied to other mafia families, and his father sits on the Russian council for other Bratva organizations.
If we move against him, we don’t just kill a man—we start a war.
And I promise you, we will not win that one. ”
The room falls silent.
Raven is the first to break it. “So, what you’re saying is... she doesn’t actually have a choice.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. “No. I don’t.”
Amani shakes her head. “That’s fucking bullshit.”
Isabella’s gaze meets mine. “It is. But it’s the reality. And I trust you to make the right decision.”
I sit there, weighing my options.
I hate this. I hate being backed into a corner and forced to play someone else’s game. But at the end of the day, I know my answer.
I’m not just doing this for myself.
I’m doing it to protect my team.
I’m doing it to keep my family safe.
I tap my fingers against the table. “Fine.”
Isabella’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s the slightest flicker of relief in her eyes. “I’ll set up the next steps.”
Amani, never one to miss an opportunity, speaks up suddenly. “So, since Luna is getting married, does that mean I can date that Konstantin guy?”
Silence.
Raven and I stare at her.
Isabella lets out a long-suffering sigh. “One Bratva member is one too many, Amani. Don’t push your luck.”
“Well,” I say, standing and stretching, “now that we’ve got that sorted, what’s next?”
“Wedding planning,” Isabella announces, already heading for the door.
I freeze. “Wait, you’re coming?”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourselves.”
I groan. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
Amani grins, looping her arm through mine. “Admit it, Luna. You’re secretly excited.”
“Not even a little,” I lie.
One week.
That’s all I had
One week to pull off a wedding I don’t want.
To a man, I don’t trust.
Yet, here I am, standing in a damn bridal boutique with Isabella and my mom at my side, picking through dresses like I’m some blushing bride who actually wants this.
The clock is ticking.
Vladimir wasted no time after Isabella informed him of my decision. The ink on the contract had barely dried before he demanded a fast wedding.
Something about not trusting me enough not to run away.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Now, we’re down to the final forty-eight hours.
I wanted something small, a private affair that would barely make a ripple. But Vladimir? No. That man insists it has to be grand—extravagant, significant—because of the names involved. The Bratva, other mafia families, and even politicians are expected to attend.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a fucking power move. A reminder to everyone in their world that Vladimir Petrov now has control over me.
I hate it.
I was two seconds away from backing out when Isabella casually dropped another bomb.
A honeymoon.
The monster actually wants a honeymoon.
And it’s two weeks!
Two weeks of uninterrupted vacation, just the two of us—Vladimir and me. No Order. No Bratva. Just him. Us.
I hate that a small, stupid part of me finds that… tempting.
I don’t want a romantic getaway with him, but two weeks alone means two weeks without having to keep up the performance.
Two weeks where I could, hypothetically, plot how to hide his body if he pisses me off enough.
I pull my focus back to the boutique, running my fingers over the rows of dresses, each one more frilly and excessive than the last. Isabella is already eyeing some monstrous ballgown while my mom, Elizabeth, is observing me, her familiar soft blue-green eyes filled with knowing.
“Don’t stress, Luna.” Her voice is gentle, always the picture of Southern warmth and reassurance. “You look beautiful in everything you’ve tried on.”
I force a smile. "I’m not stressing. I’m just thinking about everything. You know how it is.”
Standing at just over five feet, my mom is built like every formidable Southern woman before her—thick, curvy, and capable of making a grown man crumble with just one look. She doesn’t get violent often like me and Angel, but when she does, even I can’t help but be terrified.
And right now, I can feel her listening to me, reading between the lines.
My older sister Angel stands next to me, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. We share the same natural golden tan complexion, the same brown eyes, and similar distrust of the world.
Angel used to be part of the Order, but I doubt she’ll ever return after what happened with her husband.
He’s been gone a year now, but she still carries that grief like an old battle scar. I don’t blame her for staying out of all of this.
But she’s here today. For me.
“Mom’s right,” Angel finally says, setting down her magazine. “But I gotta admit, I can’t remember the last time you were this… calm about something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m calm, alright. This is just my natural state of being—super chill.”
Angel snorts, but before she can retort, my niece, Aria, twirls into view, the little seven-year-old radiating pure joy in her floral dress.
She’s tall for her age, already mistaken for a nine-year-old, but she still has that childlike wonder, a rare, innocent thing in our family.
She stops twirling just long enough to beam at me. “Aunt Luna, will you be the prettiest princess at the wedding?”
The way she says it—so hopeful, so confident that this is something magical—makes my throat tighten.
I crouch down, brushing a loose curl from her forehead. “I’ll try to be, sweetie. But you’re going to look just as pretty, okay?”
She beams, nodding enthusiastically.
I wish I could be as carefree as her.
But I know better.
I know what this is.
My stomach knots as I glance over at Isabella, who’s now holding up a silk dress, nodding approvingly at the mirror. Her sharp gaze meets mine.
“Hurry up, Luna. You’re the one who waited to pick a dress until the last minute, so pick something. We don’t have time to dilly-dally.”
I straighten, pushing the thought aside as I move through the rows of dresses. The fabrics blur together: too much lace, too much beading, too much of everything that isn’t me.
And then—I see it.
Simple. Bold. A creamy satin gown with a sweetheart neckline, classic yet understated. The real statement lies in the back—a daring cutout, revealing just enough to make it striking without losing its elegance. The lace sleeves extend down to my wrists, delicate yet grounding.
I run my fingers over the fabric, and for the first time today, I feel… something.
I hold it up, turning toward Isabella and my mom. “What do you think?”
Isabella narrows her eyes slightly, assessing. But for once, she doesn’t criticize. “It’ll do.”
My mom’s smile is warm, but there’s something behind it—guilt.
I know what she’s thinking.
She’s remembering my first marriage, the things she didn’t see, the things she didn’t stop.
She still blames herself.
She smooths her hands over her skirt, watching me with quiet resolve. “You’ll look beautiful, Luna.”
I nod, swallowing down the weight pressing into my chest. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot.”
She leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You’re my daughter. I’ll always be here, no matter what.”
Angel steps forward, her voice lower, meant just for me. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You always have a choice.”
I hold her gaze, my grip tightening on the dress’s fabric. "I know.”
But choice doesn’t always mean freedom.
Sometimes, it’s just another set of chains disguised as an open door.
Angel studies me, searching my face, but she doesn’t push. She already knows my answer.
I straighten, nodding at Isabella. “Let’s get this over with.”
As I enter the dressing room, I see my reflection in the mirror.
A bride.
A future Bratva Queen.
A woman with no way out.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, the weight of it finally sinks in.
Because the truth is, this isn’t just some marriage of convenience.
It’s a prison.
And Vladimir Petrov just became my warden.