Yellow Card Bride

Chapter 1

Peighton

“No. No, Harrison—stop.”

I catch his wrist just as his hand tries sliding farther up my thigh. My pulse leaps, half panic, half... embarrassment. “I’m not ready for that.”

He freezes like I’ve spoken a foreign language.

“Not ready?” he repeats, incredulous.

The lights are low. The movie he picked is basically soft-core. The vibe is unmistakable. My cheeks burn because suddenly it’s very obvious he invited me here for one reason, and it wasn’t the store-bought pasta we just ate.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m saving myself. For my husband.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Wait... you’re serious?”

“Yep.”

“Like no sex, or no anything?”

I force a polite smile. “We can kiss.”

He stares at me, confused, so I add gently, “On the lips.”

“Oh.” His mouth twists. “Right. Until marriage.”

“Exactly.” I lighten my tone. “Do you want to get married someday?”

Harrison shrugs. “Sure. When I’m thirty.”

A small, hopeful swell forms in my chest. “The best things are worth waiting for, right?”

He nods, but his expression says the opposite.

“Waiting years for,” he mutters, then shakes his head entirely, like he’s clearing a bad thought.

“Peighton... come on. This is our third date. We get along great, but people don’t marry without having sex first. You can’t know if you’re compatible.”

His bluntness stings, I’m trying not to wince.

“I understand your point,” I say quietly, “but I believe when I meet the man I’m meant to marry, everything will fall into place. The love. The connection. The intimacy. It’ll just... work.”

“Good gawd, Peighton. This isn’t the 1800s. And aren’t you, like, twenty-five?”

I look down at my hands to conceal my growing insecurity. His tone is so careless and dismissive. It hurts more than it should.

“I’m twenty,” I correct softly. “And lots of people are virgins in their twenties. Is that a problem for you — me saving myself for marriage?”

He hesitates.

And that’s the answer.

“No, it’s... fine,” he lies.

The sour look in his eyes says everything he won’t say aloud.

It isn’t about rules or religion or trying to be pure enough for a ring.

I just want the kind of life that feels safe.

A partner who comes home to me, who laughs with me over dumb things, who actually wants to build something together instead of drifting until boredom hits.

I want a husband who chooses me every day, not just when it’s easy.

Kids someday, not as accessories, but real little people with scraped knees, loud opinions, and bedtime stories.

A family that feels warm and solid. I was raised in the mafia, and maybe that’s why I dream of that sense of security in an otherwise dangerous world.

And at this moment, I’ve been in this situation before. A dozen times. Hope of true love rising, then dropping through the floor.

I reach for my coat. “Thanks for dinner.”

Relief floods his face so fast it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

Coward.

My future husband won’t be like this. He’ll be strong where I’m soft, certain where I’m hopeful. He’ll want me, want all of me, even the part I’m disappointed no one values.

Though tonight... I’d settle for a man who doesn’t look at me like I’m a relic of outdated customs.

Thirty minutes later, I push through the heavy doors of Stockton Manor, my father’s estate tucked on a hillside and surrounded by palm trees. His fortress and workplace. Marble floors. Cold chandeliers. Bodyguards stationed like shadows carved into the walls.

“Miss Picciano,” Jarvis says, falling into stride beside me.

“Not now,” I whine. “Another bad date.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset, but your father needs to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

Odd. Dad is usually too busy for me. I tip my head back and stare at the vaulted ceiling, willing strength into my spine before turning around.

Another guard appears in a clean black suit, bald, stacked. Not one of ours. His stare moves over me in a single practiced pass, no heat, no interest, just calculation. A man deciding the simplest way to deal with a problem.

A ripple of unease crawls under my skin.

Jarvis gestures toward the foyer. “He’s waiting.”

Dad lounges near the fire, pipe smoke curling around his silver-streaked hair like a ghost. Deep lines bracket his mouth, carved from decades of giving orders no one dared question.

He looks irritated, muttering at whatever’s on his tablet.

But the moment he sees me, he stands, too quickly to be casual.

“Ah, lil one. How are you?”

“I think Harrison’s probably moved on to someone else by now,” I say, trying to laugh but failing. “It was a disaster. Again.”

Dad lifts a hand to silence me.

Weird.

He never dismisses my dating rants; he enjoys them, especially when I stand by convictions. It makes him proud.

He gives a quick nod to Jarvis and the stranger, and both men retreat. The stranger looks over his shoulder once more before disappearing down the hall.

Dad hands me a desk calendar. Today’s square is circled in blood-red ink.

Inside the circle: YELLOW CARD — SOKOLOV brATVA

I’m unsure why, but a chill runs down my spine.

“What is this?” I whisper.

Dad’s voice is gravelly. “The day from hell.”

My heart patters unevenly just from the worry in his eyes.

He begins pacing, hands behind his back. “Only a handful of families worldwide receive a Yellow Card. Its value is five lives. A chance to elevate a new boss’ standing through alliances or blood. It’s a test. A way to unify criminal empires by choosing either marriage... or elimination.”

“Marriage?” I echo faintly. “Or elimination?”

“If the heir misuses it, their family suffers. If they choose well, they rise. This year, two prominent heirs were made bosses and given a card. One cartel in Venezuela, and a Russian bratva.”

He exhales like he’s swallowing poison.

“And the Russian,” he says, “has claimed you first.”

I blink. “Claimed me?”

“As his bride.”

My vision tunnels for a second.

“A Russian gangster wants to marry me?” The sentence feels absurd leaving my mouth.

“Not wants,” Dad says grimly. “He didn’t ask. He demanded.”

My skin prickles cold, and my heart protests, the adrenaline causing my hands to shake.

“What’s his name?”

“Gustav Sokolov.”

A faint memory stirs. Whispers from Dad’s office. Men lowering their voices when his name surfaced. Never anything clear. Just tension. Fear.

“That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. He’s called the mad bratva butcher. His dad passed, and now he reigns. Every boss is on edge. No one knows what this lunatic intends to do with his card.” Dad’s jaw ticks. “But the first name he chose was yours.”

The room sways.

Me.

A virgin who can’t make it past a third date.

Promised to a man known for madness, violence, and cold calculation.

I grip the calendar harder, as if the paper might anchor me.

“Dad,” I whisper, “why me?”

His answer is a quiet knife.

“Because he wants what every man in our world wants, lil one.”

He looks at me sadly, almost apologetically.

“The daughter of a powerful mafia family as his wife, and possibly… something untouched.”