10. Dante
Dante
I pull the SUV into the circular drive and cut the engine. Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches taut between us, and I can feel the tension radiating from her.
I hate that I have to do this to her.
"Come inside," I say. "We'll talk there."
She follows me through the front door, down the hall, and into my study.
I pour myself two fingers of scotch, then pause. "Want one?"
She shakes her head.
I take a long swallow, feeling the burn slide down my throat, and turn to face her.
She's standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped in front of her, eyes down, shoulders slightly hunched. Defensive posture. She's bracing for impact.
Christ, I hate that.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing to the leather couch.
She perches on the edge like she might need to bolt any second.
I set my glass down and lean against the desk, arms crossed. No point dancing around it.
"I spoke with the Pakhan this morning," I begin. “Your father expects you home. Soon."
Her face goes pale. "No. Please—"
"I'm not sending you back." My voice cuts through her panic. "Not to your father. Not to anyone who failed to protect you. But opposing Volkov’s wishes could bring trouble to my organization. He’s within his rights to demand your return. I don’t have a leg to stand on—as things are currently.”
She blinks. “As things are currently?"
I nod and continue. “There's a way to keep you safe. Permanently. But it requires your cooperation."
Her eyes search mine, wary but desperate. "What way?"
I take a breath.
“Marry me."
The words land between us like a grenade.
She stares at me. Doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just...stares.
I push off the desk and step closer, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. Non-threatening.
"Listen to me," I say. "In both our organizations—mine and the Bratva—there's an unspoken rule. Wives belong to their husbands. That’s sacred. If you're my wife, no one can take you, make demands of you, or force you to go anywhere you don't want to go."
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
"Volkov can't challenge it," I continue. "Not if we're legally married. He'll have to respect the boundary. And your father..." My jaw tightens. "Your father will never touch you again."
She's still staring at me like I've grown a second head.
I choose my words carefully. “You need protection, and I can provide it. It solves both our problems."
I don’t say that the thought of her leaving makes me want to burn the world down. That when I held her, I felt something I've never felt before.
I don’t tell her she’s mine and I don't know how to let her go.
Not yet.
Her throat works as she swallows. Her hands twist in her lap.
"Say something," I prompt.
Then she whispers, “Yes.”
The word hits me like a punch to the sternum.
“Yes?” I repeat, my voice rough and a little raspy.
She nods. "Yes. I'll marry you."
It happens too fast. The answer comes too easily.
And that's when it hits me—the breakfast problem all over again.
Is this want? Or is this a woman who's been trained her entire life to say yes to whatever is required of her?
I step closer, close enough that I have to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes.
"Polina. Look at me."
She does. Her wide eyes lock onto mine, and I see hope there. Hope and gratitude.
But do I see choice? Of course not. Yet another thing affecting her life that she has no say over.
"We'll do this right," I tell her quietly. "On paper, you'll be my wife. Protected. Untouchable. But everything else? That's up to you."
Her lips tremble.
I release her chin and step back, raking a hand through my hair.
This should be simple. She said yes. Problem solved. Luca’s already arranging the paperwork. We’ll be legally bound by the end of the day.
But it's not simple.
I pour another scotch and down it in one swallow, then turn back to her.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say, my voice steadier now. "We're getting married today. That part isn't negotiable."
She nods, still watching me with those enormous eyes.
"But," I continue, "you're going to have time. Space. Whatever you need. I won't fuck you. Won’t touch you. Won't push you. Won't expect anything from you except that you stay under my roof where I can protect you."
Her brow furrows. "You won't...?"
"Not until you're ready—if you’re ever ready. Not until you tell me—clearly, without any doubt—that it's what you want."
She blinks rapidly, and I realize with a jolt that she's fighting back tears.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and brush her soft cheek with my thumb.
She stares at me for a long moment, and finally, she nods.
"Okay."
"Okay," I echo.
It's settled, then.
She'll marry me. She'll be safe. War will be avoided.
And I'll spend every day trying not to think about how badly I want her to choose me—not because she has to, but because, like me, she can't imagine being with anyone else.