Chapter 6
Roman & Nadia
Roman
Ice clinked against crystal.
Cold blue light from the monitors carved up this fortified west wing study like an interrogation room.
I leaned back in the leather chair, bourbon in hand, eyes locked on the center screen among twelve displays.
Mrs. Sokolova's east wing master bedroom.
On screen, Nadia had finally collapsed into the king-size bed. She curled on her side, half her face buried in the pillow, chest rising and falling in shallow sleep. But even now, one hand stayed jammed under the pillow, her forearm rigid with tension.
I knew exactly what she had hidden down there.
That pathetic little knife she thought was so clever. And on the other side, that toy taser.
Add the brass-locked door and that chair she'd wedged under the handle. This was my new bride's "fortress" inside the manor.
Every light blazed—ceiling fixtures, sconces, lamps—flooding the room with harsh white glare. She was still terrified of the dark, but now she used it like self-torture to keep the darkness at bay. All to guard against one person.
Me. Her husband.
The sick irony twisted through my chest like a rusty blade.
I threw back my head and drained the bourbon. It burned down my throat but couldn't touch the violence screaming in my blood.
Two years ago, in that goddamn elevator, how had she been with me?
Memory hit like wildfire. Back then, she'd been a dying animal clawing at my lapels in the darkness, standing on tiptoe to kiss me, wrapping those long legs around my waist, opening herself completely.
Back then, I was her only salvation.
I closed my eyes. Could still feel how she'd clenched around me, trembled for me, sobbed "don't stop" in my ear, nails raking my back like she wanted to carve me into her skin.
And now?
Now she treated me like a rabid beast. Would rather clutch that piece of scrap metal to stab through my throat than look at me.
"Fuck."
I squeezed. The crystal cracked in my palm with a sharp snap. The old ring on my left hand bit into my skin, jolting me back to clarity.
I stared at her stubborn, curled form on screen as heat surged through my veins.
Did she really think that knife could stop me?
If I wanted to take her, I'd kick that door off its hinges in three seconds flat. Toss that chair across the room. A hundred ways I could disarm her before she drew the blade, pin her wrists above her head, nail her to that bed and fuck her until she cried and begged like she had two years ago.
But I hadn't done that.
Not because I'd suddenly grown a conscience.
Because I wanted her willing submission.
I wanted her to initiate. Wanted to see her grab me like before, need me, beg me with tears in her eyes. Not barricade me out with lights and knives.
"Knock, knock."
The dull rap shattered my spiraling thoughts.
"Come in." I dropped the cracked glass.
Danny entered.
He'd ditched his jacket somewhere, sleeves rolled past his elbows, forearms spattered with dark red. The acrid smell of rust and the damp rot of the interrogation room followed him in.
"Looks like I'm interrupting your late-night home theater." Danny strode in, eyes sweeping the monitors before landing on the east wing bedroom feed. He whistled. "Girl's building a bunker in that bed. Cute."
I shot him a cold look. "If you crawled up here in the middle of the night just to critique my wife's security measures, I'll toss you in the basement with the rest of the trash."
Danny raised his hands in surrender, smirking. "Easy, Roman. I just climbed out of a room full of shredded meat to report."
He helped himself to the bourbon, poured a glass, and knocked it back.
"Did those Irish idiots talk?" I settled back in the chair, mind clearing.
"Talked. Only had to yank a few fingernails before they were singing.
Boring, really." Danny wiped his mouth, expression darkening.
"The check was signed by O'Shea, the Irish second-in-command from the South Side.
But here's the thing—O'Shea got pulled from the Chicago River last Friday. Bloated like risen dough. Which means—"
"Someone borrowed the Irish, then cut the trail." I narrowed my eyes, fingers tracing the ring's edge.
"Bingo." Danny snapped his fingers. "Someone wanted you embarrassed at your wedding. Or worse—wanted the Feds to bust you for 'failing to maintain order.' Miller probably already knows something. That's why he sent that sick card, fishing for your reaction."
I went quiet. Too clean for street thugs. Someone in Chicago's underworld was reshuffling the deck in the shadows, trying to climb over Sokolov corpses.
"Whoever it is made a mistake." I stood, shadow falling across the monitors, covering Nadia's curled form.
"Dig up O'Shea's body. Chop off his right hand.
Pack it in ice and send it to O'Connor's dinner table.
Tell him if he can't control his dogs, the Bratva will clean up the South Side ourselves. "
"Got it." Danny grinned like a hound scenting blood.
He turned to leave but paused at the door.
He glanced back at the blazing bedroom on screen, tone shifting.
"Roman, I know you've got... a thing for this woman.
But Miller's watching the manor like a hawk.
Tomorrow night at the mayor's charity gala—you sure you want to bring her?
If she makes you look bad in front of all those people, acts like a hostage ready to call 911, Miller will swarm like flies on shit. "
I didn't turn around.
My gaze pierced through the cold blue screen to Nadia's face buried in the pillow. Her fingers clutching that knife were bone-white, defiant even in sleep.
"She won't."
I lifted the cracked crystal glass, drained the last drops of bourbon.
"I'll make her the most 'perfect,' most 'devoted' Mrs. Sokolova in all of Chicago."
Nadia
Next morning.
Despite leaving every light blazing last night, the cold kept jolting me awake. I only fell into exhausted sleep at dawn.
When I dragged myself down the marble staircase to the first-floor dining room, head throbbing from sleep deprivation, I froze.
Sunlight streamed through the massive east wing windows onto the long mahogany table.
Roman Sokolov sat at the head. He wore a tailored black shirt today, no tie, collar open, sleeves casually rolled to reveal intricate tattoos on his forearms. He was methodically cutting into a rare steak, a steaming cup of black coffee beside him.
Even sitting still, his predator's presence filled the entire space.
I sucked in a breath, forcing down the nausea twisting my stomach, clutching the oversized gray cardigan tighter. Like a soldier approaching the negotiation table, I marched into the dining room.
I didn't go near him. Instead, I pulled out the chair at the far opposite end of the long table and sat heavily.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sokolova." He didn't look up. Silverware scraped porcelain, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous room with unnerving calm.
"Don't call me that." I cut him off coldly, taking a sharp breath that stung my lungs. My head was clear—I'd spent all night thinking this through. I needed to make things clear. I looked at him steadily. "Listen. Since we both know this marriage is a total sham, let's set some ground rules."
He finally stopped cutting. Those dark brown eyes lifted slowly, locking onto me across the table with predatory intensity.
"I'm all ears." He leaned back, hands folded across his stomach, like watching an amusing fool.
"First—I don't care what smuggling or killing you do out there, but inside this manor, we stay out of each other's way.
" I met his gaze, words rushing out before I lost my nerve.
"This place is big enough. You stay in west wing, I stay in east wing.
We coexist. Best if we never cross paths in this house.
Except when we have to put on a show for outsiders, leave me alone and stay the hell away from my space. "
The air went cemetery-silent. The armed guards in the corners held their breath, like they expected their Pakhan to blow my head off.
Roman stared at me for a solid five seconds.
Then he slowly picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, and smiled with chilling mockery.
"Your space?" He sounded like he'd heard the funniest joke ever, voice low and dangerous. "Nadia, do you misunderstand what 'collateral' means?"
He stood, long legs carrying him toward me with unhurried precision.
"In this manor," he stopped beside me, towering frame blocking the sunlight completely. He leaned down, hands gripping my chair's armrests, caging me in his shadow. "Every door, every inch of floor, every drop of water, even the air you're breathing right now—it all bears the Sokolov name."
Too close. That mix of Cuban cigars and raw male pheromones crashed over me.
"You think you're negotiating boundaries with me?
" His gaze traced my face with crushing pressure, voice soft as poisoned fog.
"I can walk into your 'east wing' whenever I want.
I can kick down that door you barricaded with that sad little chair last night.
If I wanted, I could confiscate those toys under your pillow and pin you to that bed, fuck you until you can't even beg anymore. What exactly are you bargaining with?"
My breath stopped. Lungs emptied of oxygen. Being seen through completely, toyed with like a lab rat—the helplessness made me furious and bone-deep terrified.
I bit my lip hard, trying to hide the trembling I couldn't control, eyes stinging with humiliation.
Watching me fall apart, something strange flickered in Roman's eyes.
He couldn't help it—a low, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest. The sound vibrated through him, actually dispersing some of that suffocating violence.
"Relax, sweetheart." He straightened, darkness fading into calculated amusement. "I never force women. In fact, your proposal is interesting. We can make a deal."
I eyed him warily. "What deal?"
"Tomorrow night, the mayor's hosting a charity gala downtown.
Every political heavyweight and federal agent in Chicago will be there.
" He looked down at me. "I need you to wear the dress I've chosen, take my arm, and in front of every camera and cop, play the devoted wife who's hopelessly in love with me.
I want you looking at me like I'm your whole world. I want you acting like I'm your god."
I couldn't believe my ears.
"Are you insane?" I refused immediately, voice rising with anger. "Pretend to love you? Save it, Roman. The thought alone makes me sick."
"If you refuse, I'll send Danny to visit your parents." His voice went ice-cold, hitting my weak spot precisely. "And remind that waste-of-space brother of yours—three million in gambling debt accrues interest daily."
"No! You bastard!" I shot up, shaking with rage. If he did that, Richard would run, dump everything on Nana. No. Can't happen.
"I'm just a businessman who expects returns." Roman looked at me coldly, then dangled his deadliest bait. "One year."
I froze. "What?"
"This 'loving marriage' lasts exactly one year.
365 days." He held up one finger, voice laced with irresistible temptation.
"Play your part perfectly, and inside these walls, I'll honor your east wing boundaries.
I won't touch you. After one year, your brother's debt is erased, your family walks free, and I'll give you generous alimony and a new identity.
You can take the money, leave Chicago, never see my face again. "
God, such a tempting offer.
I held my breath, mind racing.
One year. 365 days of acting, in exchange for total freedom and my family's lives. I knew he could crush us all with a snap of his fingers, lock me in this gilded cage forever like a plaything. He didn't need to offer me anything. So he was serious.
This was a deal with the devil.
I stared into those dark brown eyes, searching for any trace of lies. But he just stood there coldly, an immovable glacier, waiting for my surrender.
After ten long seconds.
"Fine." I ground the word through clenched teeth. "Deal. One year."
"Deal." He smiled dangerously, leaning close to my ear again, hot breath grazing my neck, triggering a shiver.
"But remember this, Nadia. Once the show starts, there are no retakes. Tomorrow night, if you show even a crack in front of those cops..." His husky voice dripped with chilling cruelty. "I promise you'll lose far more than your east wing safe zone."
He straightened, didn't spare me another glance, and strode out.
That crushing presence finally lifted from the air. My legs gave out—I collapsed into the chair.
My chest heaved violently. Cold sweat had soaked through my cardigan.
365 days. One year.
I stared at my trembling hands, repeating the number like a mantra. I won, didn't I?
I just had to treat this like a high-paying, dangerous temp job. Play it right, survive the year, then freedom.
But... damn it, why was my heart pounding so hard?
I lifted my hand, fingertips shaking as they touched the spot on my neck where his breath had grazed. The skin burned like fire. The moment he'd leaned close, my traitorous body had betrayed reason, instinctively trembling, even secretly craving more of his touch.
The beast who'd torn me apart in darkness two years ago and this suited mob tyrant before me now—they tangled violently in my mind.
"Don't be stupid, Nadia." I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to kill every dangerous, absurd flutter. "You're just collateral to him. Not even human—just a trophy wife decoration."
I took a deep breath, stood up, fled the dining room, hurrying back to my east wing.
I needed a cold shower. Needed to calm down and prep myself mentally for tomorrow night's goddamn "performance."