9. Via
VIA
My shoulder muscles ache as I twist my arms behind my back, my fingers clawing blindly for the tiny metal tab of the zipper. It’s stuck at the swell of my lower back, refusing to budge past the tight curve of my hips.
"Come on, you stupid piece of metal," I mutter, my breath hitching as I suck in my stomach.
The mirror in the dressing room is too big, too bright, and currently showing me a version of myself I don’t entirely recognize.
The dress is silk, so thin and slick, it feels like a heavy layer of body paint.
It hugs every single curve, dip, and swell of my skin suffocatingly.
The neckline plunges nearly to my navel, held together by a network of thin black cords, while the back is completely nonexistent down to the low, dangerous curve of my spine.
It’s elegant. It’s exactly the kind of dress a man buys when he wants everyone to know he’s the only one allowed to take it off.
I pull harder at the zipper. The fabric is so tight I can barely chest-breathe. My fingers slip off the metal, and I let out a sharp, frustrated groan, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the vanity mirror.
My body is sore. Every muscle in my thighs and lower abdomen carries a dull, throbbing reminder of what happened on that desk last night.
Just thinking about his body, the heavy, relentless drive of his hips, and the way my own voice sounded makes a sudden, hot wave of shame rush straight to my face.
I signed the paper. I’m his wife. I’m officially a Kovalevskii.
The door behind me swings open, the heavy draft of the hallway instantly chilling my bare back.
In the reflection, Ilya stands in the doorway.
He’s fully dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, a dark grey silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat.
There’s no trace of the blood or the exhaustion from the shootout.
His jaw is freshly shaved, and his dark hair is combed back, though a few stray strands already defy the styling cream.
He stops, his eyes locking onto my reflection. His gaze slowly travels down the exposed skin of my back, lingering on the place where the zipper is gaping open to reveal the lace of my black thong.
I don't turn around. I keep my back to him, my hands still clutched at my waist to keep the silk from sliding down my hips. "If you’re here to tell me we’re late, you can save your breath. Your stylists evidently designed this dress for a skeleton, not a human woman who actually needs to breathe."
He closes the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. His boots make no sound on the heavy rug, but I can feel the heat of his presence pressing against my back.
He stops inches behind me. In the mirror, the contrast between us is jarring. He is a wall of dark, tailored structure and I am a thin, exposed strip of silk and bare skin.
He reaches out, his large, callused hands coming to rest on my bare hips. His fingers are warm, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight up my spine. "You’re shaking, little bird." His deep, gravelly voice vibrates against the back of my neck.
I grit my teeth, forcing my shoulders to drop. "It’s cold in here. And your hands feel like ice."
He doesn't reply. Instead, his right hand slides slowly up the side of my waist, his rough thumb grazing the sensitive skin over my ribs.
He traces the curve of my waist until his fingers reach the stuck zipper.
His knuckles brush against my bare spine, the physical contact making my breath hitch in a sharp, quiet gasp.
My reflection betrays me. My chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid movements, my nipples hardening into tight peaks against the thin silk of the bodice.
He notices. A dark, satisfied shadow passes over his features in the glass. He leans down, his mouth hovering just over the sensitive curve of my shoulder, his warm breath fanning across my skin.
"I told you last night," he murmurs, his fingers slowly working the metal tab of the zipper. "Your body doesn't know how to lie to me, Via. You can tell me you hate me all you want, but you’re practically dripping for me right now."
I twist my head, trying to look at him over my shoulder, my eyes burning with a mixture of anger and a sudden, thick heat in my lower belly. "You’re delusional. It’s a physical reaction to a claustrophobic dress. Now zip it up or let me change."
"You're not changing."
His hand slides down, his palm flat against my lower abdomen, pulling me back until my bottom is pressed firmly against his groin. I can feel the thick, rigid length of his erection through his trousers, heavy and demanding against my skin.
A quiet whimpering sound escapes my throat before I can stop it.
He pulls the zipper. Slowly. The metal teeth click together, one by one, the sound incredibly loud in the quiet room.
He moves with agonizing slowness, his fingers tracing the rising seam, his palm smoothing the silk over my back as he goes.
With every inch the zipper rises, the fabric pulls tighter, squeezing my breasts together, shaping my waist until I’m forced to arch my back, my chest pressing forward against the glass of the vanity.
"You look beautiful," he whispers, his teeth grazing the soft skin where my neck meets my shoulder. "But you’re going to behave tonight, Via."
I try to pull forward, away from his mouth, but his hand on my hip tightens, holding me firmly in place. "And if I don't? Are you going to shoot me too? Or just lock me back in the closet?"
He pulls the zipper the final inch, the slide clicking shut at the nape of my neck. His hands move to the front of my waist, his fingers tangling in the black cords holding the plunging neckline together. He tugs them slightly, just enough to make the silk cut into the undersides of my breasts.
"If you embarrass me tonight, your father pays the price.
" His voice loses every drop of warmth, turning into the cold, flat register of the Pakhan.
"He’s currently sitting in his estate, nursing his wounds and trying to figure out how to rebuild his security detail.
All it takes is one phone call from me, Via.
One order to my men at the border, and Petr Denisov becomes a headline. "
The heat in my belly instantly evaporates, replaced by a cold, heavy lump of dread. I stare at him in the mirror, my lips parting. "You promised. You said if I signed the contract, he’d be safe."
"He is safe." He lets go of the cords, his hands smoothing down the front of my dress, his touch almost mocking.
"As long as you play your part. Tonight, you are the adoring wife.
You smile when I tell you to smile. You sit when I tell you to sit.
And you do not speak unless I allow it. Do we understand each other? "
I swallow the lump in my throat, my chin lifting as I stare at his reflection. "I understand that you’re a coward who needs to threaten an old man to keep his wife from running away."
He lets out a low, dry chuckle, his hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I’m a man who protects his assets, little bird. Now let’s go. Our guests are waiting."
He releases my face and turns, heading toward the door. I take a slow, deep breath, smoothing down the front of the black silk. Play the part. Keep Papa alive. That’s all that matters.
The car ride is silent, the armored SUV moving smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of the city.
Ilya sits next to me, his face half-hidden in the shadows of the tinted windows, his phone buzzing occasionally with security updates.
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the neon signs of the downtown district blur into streaks of colored light.
When the car finally stops, it’s not in front of a grand hotel or a flashy mansion. It’s in an alleyway behind a massive, windowless brick building with a single, unmarked metal door.
Dmitri opens my door, offering his hand. The rain is light, a cold mist that instantly clings to my bare shoulders as I step out onto the asphalt.
"Keep your head up, Via," Ilya murmurs, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back, his fingers warm against the bare skin.
He guides me through the metal door, and the sound of the city is instantly replaced by the heavy, thumping bass of house music.
The club is massive, split into three tiers of concrete balconies wrapping around a central dance floor.
The light is dim, a smoky haze of red and purple neon that makes everyone look like a shadow.
But this isn't a normal club. There are no teenagers or college students here.
The private booths are filled with older men in expensive suits surrounded by silent, heavily armed guards with earpieces.
It’s a snake pit. And I’ve just walked in wearing a target on my back.
I can feel the eyes on me the second we step onto the main balcony. The whispers start, a low, buzzing hum that’s instantly swallowed by the bass. The Denisov girl. The stolen bride. The Pakhan’s new toy.
I keep my shoulders back, my stride steady despite the height of my heels. I don't look at the guards. I don't look at the guns. I focus on the VIP lounge at the far end of the second tier, where a massive horseshoe-shaped leather couch is surrounded by a dozen men.
"Ah, the Ghost arrives," a voice calls out over the music.
A older man with slicked-back white hair and a deep scar running from his ear to his jawline stands up from the couch. He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a massive gold ring on his pinky finger.
Viktor Russo. The head of the rival family. The man who wants Ilya’s head on a spike.
Ilya doesn't smile. He just guides me to the empty seat in the center of the horseshoe, his hand staying firmly on my lower back. "Russo. I see you brought your captains. I didn't realize a quarterly business summit required so much security."
"We live in dangerous times, Ilya," Russo says, his eyes sliding down my body with a slow, slimy curiosity. "Especially when Pakhans start blowing up churches and taking things that don't belong to them."
"Everything in this city belongs to me if I have the strength to take it," Ilya says, his voice flat as he sits down, pulling me down next to him.
The space is cramped, his thigh pressing against mine, his arm draping over the back of the leather couch behind my shoulders. It looks like a protective gesture, but I can feel the warning in the weight of his arm.
A younger man sitting across from us lets out a loud, wet chuckle. He’s got greasy, dark hair, a crooked nose, and a gold chain hanging over his unbuttoned collar. He’s holding a glass of amber liquid, his eyes fixed entirely on my chest.
"So this is the Bratva princess," the younger man says, his voice carrying over the thrum of the bass. "I have to admit, Petr kept her hidden well. But she looks a little... used, doesn't she? I wonder if Mikhail got to taste the goods before he took a bullet."
The table goes silent.
Dmitri, standing behind our couch, shifts his weight, his hand moving slowly toward his jacket. The guards on the Russo side go rigid, their eyes darting to Ilya.
Ilya’s face is a perfect mask of cold stone. He doesn't move. He doesn't reach for his gun. But I can feel the sudden, terrifying vibration of his muscles tensing against my side.
If Ilya shoots him, the war starts right here. Papa dies tomorrow.
The younger man smiles, leaning forward, emboldened by the silence. "Come on, Ilya. Share the wealth. We all know she’s just a stolen toy. Once you’re done playing with her, I’m sure some of my boys would love to see if she’s as tight as she looks."
Before the words can even finish leaving his mouth, I reach out, grab the tall glass of sparkling champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and hurl the entire contents directly into the younger man’s face.
The liquid hits him with a wet slap dripping down his nose, his gold chain, and soaking the entire front of his white silk shirt. The bubbles fizz against his collar as he gasps, his eyes wide with a shock so absolute, he looks like he’s just been struck by lightning.
The entire VIP section goes dead silent. The music from the main floor seems to fade into a distant, hollow thud.
"If you want to talk about used goods," I say, my voice steady, sharp, and cutting through the quiet like a razor blade, "we can discuss your mother. I’ve heard she’s very popular at the docks."
The younger man’s face turns a dark, dangerous shade of purple. He stands up so fast his chair screeches against the concrete floor, his hand flying to the holster under his arm. "You little bitch—"
In a flash of movement, Ilya is on his feet.
He reaches across the low glass table, grabs the younger man by his gold chain, and slams his head directly into the marble tabletop.
The sound echoes in the room.
The Russo guards draw their weapons in a split second, but Dmitri and four of our men are already there, their rifles raised and aimed directly at Viktor Russo’s head.
"Sit down, Vladimir," Viktor Russo says, his voice a low, dangerous whisper as he looks at his bleeding captain on the table. "And keep your hands where I can see them."
Ilya slowly releases the gold chain, letting Vladimir’s head flop back onto the leather seat, a dark streak of blood already smearing the table. He wipes his hand on a linen napkin, his eyes fixed entirely on Viktor Russo.
"Excuse us," Ilya says, his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence.
He grabs me by the arm, his fingers digging into my skin so hard, it feels like the bone might crack. He looks extremely angry as he drags me out of the VIP lounge, his stride so long and fast I practically have to run to keep from tripping over my heels.
The whispers are gone. The crowd parts for us like the Red Sea, the guards watching us in silent, terrified awe.