Chapter 4 #2
Plaster dust clings beneath one thumbnail and cleaning solvent coats my fingers as I lift the coffee, but I taste only bitterness.
The mansion contains reinforced glass, guarded gates, and enough stone to survive an assault, yet the quiet gathers most heavily around Misha’s photograph.
Wealth can make grief private, comfortable, and beautifully housed; it cannot make the dead return.
After each failure, I added another guard or rule.
My uncle has more silver than black in his hair, but grief has kept his face severe since my brother Misha died—the nephew Ivan loved.
Whatever hardened between us afterward, he helped me turn grief into protocols, schedules, and rules that promised no preventable weakness would cost us another life.
Ivan touches the top dossier. “Any of these women would give you an alliance. Instead, you intend to marry a dancer who appeared during an assassination.”
“She also stopped it.”
“Saving you may have been her assignment.”
His suspicion mirrors mine, which irritates me, though Katie’s selection was random. Her unusual awareness and the speed with which she earned access are facts, but so are the men who entered her home to put hands around her throat.
Keeping her close protects her as I learn which set of facts matters.
“What did George confirm?” I ask Boris.
Boris opens a small notebook containing statements from the people present.
George checked Katie’s identification himself, while Cherry brought her directly from their apartment after the café closed.
Every available dancer entered the draw as staff watched Katie take the clear gem without assistance, yet nobody remembers seeing her inside Velvet Fortune before the night of the club attack.
The information comes from people who stood in the room rather than an investigator polishing an answer to please me.
Initial questioning of the two apartment attackers who survived has produced only one-use numbers, the copied maintenance key, and Katie’s floor plan; neither man can identify whoever hired them.
Ivan closes the dossier. “A criminal bride would arrive with a family obligated to answer for her.”
“I won’t put another family’s representative inside my home,” I say.
“At least a criminal bride’s father would be answerable to us,” Ivan replies.
“I understand Katie wants two million dollars and the freedom to leave me.”
Boris turns a page without looking up, while Ivan doesn’t smile.
Once the contract is signed, I authorize a secure phone for Katie.
Without capturing any conversation, the system will log numbers contacted, while Boris flags unexpected visitors or any number tied to Saranov.
Surveillance stops outside every residence; interior cameras, microphones, and live monitoring of her calls remain forbidden.
“Does she know?” Boris asks.
“Not until we know whether the attackers attempt contact.”
Boris closes the notebook more carefully than necessary.
I authorize the contact logging anyway because Katie has been inside my life for less than two days, and two attacks have formed around her. If she’s innocent, temporary contact logging may keep her alive. If she isn’t, the record may keep my people alive.
Before Ivan can reopen the dossiers, my phone rings with Nadia calling to read the changes without a greeting.
Exit protection now lasts twelve months, with documented threats extending the coverage.
The two million will be transferred upon marriage without any right of reclamation, while Cherry receives housing in her own name.
If the marriage ends, Katie chooses a deeded residence from three secure options.
The final clauses bar me from compelling cohabitation after the first year or restricting Katie’s employment, travel, communication, medical care, and independent counsel.
“Accepted,” I say. “Send the contract.”
Silence lasts one beat. “You haven’t seen the language, and Katie may still refuse after she reads it.”
“The result tells me what matters. I won’t force her signature.” At the possibility, the muscles between my shoulders tighten.
By early afternoon, Nadia has revised every clause twice.
Boris drives me back to the secure office, with Ivan following for the security briefing I ordered after the police leak.
Senior captains gather in the outer room as Katie reads the final version with Cherry beside her, while I read my copy across the table.
The no-sex provision occupies four lines, where Katie catches my attention lingering.
“Concerned?” she asks.
“I admire thorough work,” I say. “The clause prevents me from requiring sex, but persuasive nudity is legal.”
“You aren’t allowed to renegotiate naked or persuasive.”
Cherry coughs into her fist; Nadia keeps reading as if contracts often require this level of restraint.
Katie signs Katie Alba at the bottom of the final page. I sign beside her, and Nadia notarizes both signatures.
The captain waiting in the outer office enters without knocking. His gaze passes over Katie in my jacket before he addresses me. “The others are ready. I can have someone take your entertainment upstairs.”
Katie goes still, and I rise to cross the room as the captain’s face loses color.
Katie’s eyes meet mine, and I place one hand against her cheek and wait for her to turn away.
She lifts her chin instead, so I kiss her in front of the captain.
Her mouth is soft and warm, opening on a sharp breath when my tongue touches hers.
Coffee and a faint trace of mint give way to her deeper warmth, and the courthouse corridor, the watching captain, and every armed man dissolve behind the quiet sound she makes against my mouth.
Her fingers close around my shirt and pull me nearer.
The gesture ruins whatever restraint remained; blood moves hot through my skin, and for several dangerous seconds the only authority I want is the one her body has already granted me.
Then Katie shoves me back, breathing faster while mine proves less steady than I’d prefer.
“Public ambushes weren’t in the agreement,” she says.
“You responded before objecting,” I say.
“My judgment was delayed by poor conditions and an audience,” Katie replies dryly. “Don’t mistake the delay for permission to repeat it.”
The captain looks at the floor.
I keep my attention on him. “Katie is my intended wife. You will address her accordingly.”
He straightens. “Understood.”
Ivan steps into the doorway behind him. “A public ceremony requires restricted access. I will oversee courthouse security and the route.”
My uncle has managed Dymov security since before I inherited the organization, so entrusting the wedding to him requires no discussion.
“Do it, Ivan,” I say.
Nadia checks her phone. “The magistrate can perform the civil ceremony at nine tomorrow morning.”
Katie looks down at her signature, pressing one thumb over the final a in Alba.
“What happens now?” she asks.
I remember her inside my jacket, surrounded by broken furniture with another man’s blood on her shirt. Tomorrow my name will turn touching her into an act of war.
“You spend one last night as Katie Alba.”