Chapter 3
Nadia
Pure white rose petals crushed beneath my stilettos, oozing sticky juice like my dignity being ground into the floor.
I stared at my reflection. This goddamn ivory haute couture wedding gown weighed like a beautiful coffin. The corset strangled me breathless, and those hundreds of hand-sewn pearls at the neckline looked like noose knots on a gallows.
The woman in the mirror was stunning. And terrifyingly unfamiliar.
This was the expensive offering the Cross family had spent two months force-feeding and packaging like a prize goose.
"Miss Nadia, it's time." The "bridesmaid" at the door urged quietly, her tone equal parts obsequious and tense.
Fuck the bridesmaid. She was just a high-end jailer they'd hired, her only job to watch me like a hawk and make sure their "collateral" didn't hike up her skirt and jump out a window at the last second.
I didn't spare her a glance, forcing down the waves of nausea cramping my stomach. Drew a breath. Then stepped out of the dressing room in my diamond-studded heels.
The Gothic cathedral's vaulted ceiling felt suffocating. Stained glass carved sunlight into razor-sharp fragments that stabbed coldly at the crimson carpet. Over two hundred of Chicago's "elite" sat in the pews wearing nauseating smiles of fake civility.
But I spotted the shadows lurking in corners instantly. Those men with their champagne flutes—every one of them had predatory eyes and telltale bulges under their suit jackets. Hawk-like gazes sealing every exit.
My nails dug into the bouquet stem. Green sap stained my lace gloves.
Roman Sokolov. The tyrant who'd bought me for three million dollars. The devil who made Chicago's underworld tremble.
Two whole months, and he hadn't shown his face once.
No photo, no call, not even a goddamn message.
That absurd wedding itinerary had just one line in cold black type.
Groom: Roman Sokolov. He pulled my strings from on high, too arrogant to even inspect the "merchandise" he'd paid top dollar for before the wedding.
I stood before those heavy oak double doors, heart hammering against my ribs until they ached, cold sweat sliding down my spine.
With a grinding mechanical groan, the massive doors swung open.
The organ's oppressive thunder crashed through my eardrums like a death toll. I clenched my jaw. Straightened my spine.
The organ's grand chords had barely begun; I hadn't even glimpsed the tall figure standing with his back to me at the end of that endless aisle—
An earsplitting explosion tore through the sacred music. The enormous medieval stained glass window overhead detonated, raining vicious glass shards down on the crowd.
"AHHH—!"
Socialites in the front rows shrieked. Guests who'd been sipping champagne seconds ago now scrambled like headless chickens. The men in black reacted instantly—guns drawn from waistbands, returning fire at the wave of armed killers pouring through the doors.
"Fuck!" I cursed, ripping off that crystal tiara.
Let me die alongside these Russian mobsters I'd never met? Dream on.
I bent down, grabbed fistfuls of that priceless ivory satin, and tore the damn thing in half with a savage rip, exposing my thighs. Kicked off those ankle-bleeding red-bottomed heels. Barefoot, while everyone was distracted by the firefight, I bolted toward the side corridor I'd already scouted.
Bullets flew behind me, shattering wooden pews and stone columns. The air filled with gunpowder and blood.
I sprinted down the dim, narrow hallway, just rounded a sharp corner—
Someone grabbed me from behind.
"Get off!" I snarled, trying to shake off this idiot.
But he was faster. An arm like steel banded around my waist, yanking me against him.
"Running away?"
A voice like dark velvet. Low. Steady. Smooth.
My lungs emptied. Blood froze, then boiled.
I jerked my head up.
A perfectly tailored three-piece black suit. Higher—neatly trimmed beard, sharp jawline, and those eyes. Storm-dark brown. Predatory.
The old metal ring on his left pinky pressed against my waist.
A shudder ripped down my spine. My legs went weak, thigh muscles clenching involuntarily with absurd muscle memory.
Him!
The man from the elevator two years ago!
Automatic rifle fire chewed into the corridor wall, spraying debris and snapping me back to reality.
No time to wonder why he was here. In this mob shootout, he was probably just another unlucky guest caught in the crossfire.
"Stop gawking!" I grabbed his wrist, dragging him forward. "Unless you want your brains splattered on the walls. Move!"
I pulled him ahead, but he was massive. Heavy as a mountain.
"Come on!" I snapped, glancing back.
His dark eyes dropped to where I clutched his hand. He laughed softly.
"As you wish."
Tactical boots thundered around the corner, accompanied by guttural Russian curses. They were coming!
My heart jumped into my throat. Ahead was a dead end with no cover. Panicked, I scanned desperately and locked onto an unmarked narrow wooden door.
"Here!" I bit down hard, using every ounce of strength to yank him toward it. He didn't resist, following my pull through the doorway.
I dragged him into darkness and slammed the door. Locked it.
Gunfire and Russian curses became muffled background noise.
In the cramped space, no light at all.
Tight. Dark. Trapped. Claustrophobia surged instantly. But worse than the darkness was this man pressed against me.
The space was too small to even turn around. No gap between us.
My chest rubbed against his hard muscles with every breath. His long legs forced mine apart, nearly wedged between my thighs.
My torn dress barely covered my ass now. Between us, just thin dress pants. His body heat burned through the fabric.
"Who are you?" I forced my voice steady, muscles tensed, elbow jammed against his chest, trying to create even an inch of distance. "Why were you in that private corridor? Are you following me?"
In this hellhole full of mobsters and killers, I wasn't naive enough to think anyone was innocent.
But out of basic humanity, even knowing that, I couldn't leave him in the crossfire.
Now, calmed down, I realized I might've trapped myself with someone extremely dangerous.
"Following you?" His hot breath swept my neck in the darkness. "If you remember correctly, sweetheart, you grabbed my hand first. Dragged me in here. I just went along."
I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the battle sounds outside.
"You could've shaken me off! Don't tell me those muscles are fake, that you couldn't overpower an ordinary woman."
"Don't be nervous, darling." He didn't answer my accusation. Instead pulled my waist tighter. "They can't get in."
"Who says I'm nervous?" I argued through clenched teeth, though my fingers dug into his lapels.
To distract myself from losing it in this goddamn closet, I hissed quietly, "I'm not scared of the firefight.
This is the best wedding gift I've ever gotten!
If not for this chaos, I'd already be at the altar being sold to that perverted old man Roman Sokolov! "
In the darkness, I felt his chest rumble. Was he... laughing?
"Is that so?" His velvet voice carried amusement.
"Of course!" I panted, trying to calm my hammering heart. "I heard he rarely shows his real face, never has women around! I bet Sokolov's some sixty-year-old impotent pervert with yellow teeth and corpse stink! Probably spends his days skinning people alive for fun!"
His rough palm slid up my spine over the thin satin, barely grazing my vertebrae.
"Sixty-year-old impotent pervert?" He echoed, sounding almost entertained. "Sounds like a terrible marriage indeed."
"Absolute hell." I bit out. "If I get out alive today, I'm definitely teaching him a lesson!"
He paused. Then chuckled.
His laugh infuriated me. Was he mocking me?
I frowned, lifting my head to demand an answer when his hand on my back suddenly tightened. He moved without warning. I crashed into him, unprepared.
Worse—through my torn dress and his expensive suit, I felt his cock pressing against my stomach.
This goddamn pervert!
I gasped, about to curse him out when his other hand caught my chin.
That cold metal ring pressed precisely against my pounding carotid. The icy metal and his burning palm created such intense contrast I shivered.
"I remember you weren't this chatty last time, darling." He lowered his head in the darkness, scorching lips barely grazing my mouth. "Back then, you were wrapped around my waist, crying for me to 'do something.'"
Blood drained from my brain instantly, then flooded my core. Darkness amplified every sensation—his calloused fingertips, his intense scent of cigars and testosterone, resurrecting every moment of that elevator encounter two years ago.
"You..." I swallowed hard, legs so weak I had to grip his broad shoulders just to stand. "You bastard..."
"Bastard?" He laughed low, his thigh forcing between mine, grinding upward. "Then why are you shaking so hard? Because you're scared of those bullets outside, or because... your body already recognizes me, hmm?"
His fingers slid dangerously up my bare inner thigh, disappearing under the torn dress, pressing precisely through thin lace against my clit.
"Ah..." I bit my lip hard but couldn't swallow the sweet whimper.
"You're wet for me." He pinned me to the wall, ragged breath against my collarbone, teeth punishing my vulnerable neck.
"Didn't you just say you wanted to escape this wedding?
How about I fuck you right here, fuck you until you can't even crawl out this door, so that 'yellow-toothed old pervert' can't even touch your shadow. How's that?"
"Psycho... there's a firefight outside!" I panted, reason teetering on the edge, but my nails already dug honestly into his suit, hips pressing down involuntarily against his hand, craving more.
He drew a sharp breath, voice hoarse. I felt that impressive size waking rapidly, grinding harder against me through the fabric. "Let them kill each other. Just beg me once like you did two years ago, and I'll fuck you right—"
Deliberate knocking cut through without warning.
"Pakhan." A man's low, rough voice came through the thin door, carrying lingering bloodstench. "The hall's been cleared. Are you injured?"
Pakhan?
My boiling desire iced over instantly.
That word hit like a hammer.
In this godforsaken place, only one man got called "Pakhan."
I lifted my head slowly, stiffly, meeting those dark brown eyes. He drew a deep breath, clearly annoyed at the interruption. But he didn't release me. Instead pulled me tighter, that impressive size still pressed dangerously against me.
The scattered clues assembled—how he'd caught me at the corner, those elaborate tattoos, that casual aura of lethal authority...
His silhouette merged with the man who'd stood at the altar.
"Roman Sokolov." I ground out his name.
He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Mrs. Sokolova?"
That goddamn "Mrs. Sokolova" slapped me across the face. Two minutes ago I'd been babbling in his arms like a lunatic. Trembling. Panting. Nearly letting him seduce me into fucking him in this closet.
And him? He'd just stood there, letting me rant about what an impotent old pervert he was! He'd enjoyed my panic, savored my ignorance, turned my desperation and struggle into obscene entertainment. I'd never escaped his palm—I'd just thrown myself into an even tighter trap!
Rage—furious humiliation—erupted like a volcano, incinerating all reason. Fear? Fuck fear!
"Son of a bitch!"
I drove my knee hard toward his most vulnerable spot!
"Ugh—!"
He grunted painfully, caught off guard, tall frame going rigid, the arm imprisoning my waist loosening reflexively.
"Go to hell, pervert!" I shoved him away, twisted the doorknob, and burst out of the closet.
Blinding light flooded in.
The corridor was packed with armed guards radiating menace. Seeing me charge out like a madwoman, a dozen assault rifles clicked safeties simultaneously, black muzzles trained on me.
"You bitch!" Danny saw Roman emerge after me, slightly hunched, and lost it. He roared, yanking a combat knife from his belt, lunging like an enraged pit bull—clearly ready to slit my throat immediately.
"Stop!"
Roman's hoarse voice carried absolute authority that brooked no argument.
The corridor air dropped to freezing. Everyone held their breath.
I spun around, chest heaving. Roman straightened slowly, adjusting his rumpled suit, then looked at me.
He wasn't angry. Instead examined me with a strange expression.
"Seems my bride was badly frightened by the attack. Very 'uncomfortable.'" He curved his lips slightly, dark eyes gleaming with something indecipherable. "Danny, assign two men to personally 'attend' the future Mrs. Sokolova. Take her to change into the backup wedding dress."
He stepped forward half a pace, voice pitched low but perfectly audible to everyone.
"From now on, if she leaves your sight for even one second, you can all start shopping for coffins."
"Yes, Pakhan!" The guards thundered in unison.
My hands and feet went ice cold. Every escape route sealed. He'd crushed my last shred of hope effortlessly beneath his heel.
I glared at that devastatingly handsome face, nails nearly drawing blood from my palms.
"We'll see about this, Sokolov." I forced the words through gritted teeth.
He shrugged dismissively.
I shook off the two guards trying to restrain me, dragging that shredded dress, and under escort of a dozen gun barrels, strode toward the end of the corridor, seething with humiliation and rage.
My escape had failed completely. But I swore I'd collect on this debt—with interest.