Chapter 2
Peighton
My suitcase sits open on my bed like a gaping mouth waiting to be fed. But I don’t move.
I can’t.
I just stand in the doorway staring at it, as if the longer I avoid putting anything inside, the more I can pretend none of this is happening. My fingers clutch the edge of the bedpost so hard my knuckles ache.
I’m not going to Russia.
I’m not marrying a stranger.
Least of all, a rumored madman.
The floor creaks behind me.
I whirl around and gasp.
A man fills my bedroom doorway. His black suit stretches over his shoulders like the seams are begging for mercy. His jaw is squared and shaved, eyes dark and unreadable. Forty-something, and handsome in that action-star sort of way.
The bald man that shadowed me earlier.
He doesn’t introduce himself. He doesn’t move. He just watches me, hands clasped in front of him. Tattoos cover the front of his hands. Must be a bratva coat of arms. Family is big in our world.
“Wh-what are you doing in here?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, trying again. “Who are you?”
His answer is calm. Flat, and frankly, terrifying.
“I belong to you.”
My lungs stop working.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“A gift from your future husband.”
A beat.
“My name is Micha.”
My stomach drops like a stone. None of this feels real. I know I grew up differently than most girls my age, but still, an arranged marriage was never something I worried about. It’s uncommon, especially among American mafia families.
“Well, you can un-gift yourself,” I snap, trying to muster bravery. “Because I’m not going to Russia. I’m not marrying anyone. So whatever message Gustav sent you with, you can return to sender.”
Micha doesn’t blink.
“That is not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because he claimed you, and if I return empty-handed, my death will follow.”
I grimace despite already knowing defying a mob boss is always death, even in my family. My dad runs the Blood Masons with equal ruthlessness.
Holding myself, I back away until the bed hits the backs of my knees.
“No. I can’t... he doesn’t even know me. He can’t just—”
A different voice cuts through my panic.
“Peighton.”
Dad steps into the room, his expression lined with exhaustion. His suit jacket hangs open, as though he’s been pacing the whole house trying to figure out how to tell me the one thing he fears.
“We don’t have a choice,” he says sternly.
I shake my head. “No, Dad, please. I’m your daughter. I’m not property. This isn’t—”
“It’s the Yellow Card,” he interjects, voice taut. “A radical but important law every empire obeys. If we defy it, the Council will come for us.”
There it is again. That promise.
Death.
I blink back tears. “The Council? As in... that board of assholes?”
He smirks. “You mean, the collective of elected mafia leaders. They enforce unity between criminal families. Breaking the Yellow Card terms means a death sentence.” His throat bobs as he swallows.
“Not for just us. For all top Blood Masons. Me, the Underboss, Consigliere, Capos… you. The Council will send top hitmen and hunt our family.”
A sob bursts from my chest.
Dad reaches for me, then stops, like touching me might weaken him.
“My hands are tied, lil one.”
“I don’t want anyone to die,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to go with him.”
He closes his eyes, as if the truth is too painful to look at. “I know.”
The room is silent except for the shaky breaths leaving my body.
Finally, I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand and stare at Micha.
“If I have to do this, I want one of our guards with me. Someone I trust.”
Something flickers across Micha’s face. Annoyance, then fear. He pulls out a phone, but hesitates before dialing, thumb hovering, jaw tight.
That hesitation confuses me.
He’s scared of the man I’m supposed to marry, just because I want to bring a trusted confidant. It does not seem like an unreasonable request.
He makes the call anyway.
A voice must answer because Micha straightens instantly, spine rigid.
He speaks in Russian. Short sentences, clipped and careful.
When he hangs up, he looks between me and my father.
“No,” he says.
I blink. “No? What do you mean no?”
“You cannot bring another guard.”
“Why?”
“Because you must marry him first before any requests are considered.”
Dad and I stare at him.
“Marry... first?” Dad echoes slowly.
“Before he will grant any favors,” Micha confirms.
The words sink into me like ice. Gustav must be kind of controlling. I expect some alpha behavior. It is common among men in this business. However, he better think of me as an equal, not a possession. I’m a bride-to-be who requires some degree of courting.
My throat burns as bile creeps up.
Oh God. Please let this man be decent in person.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching my phone like it’s the last piece of my life left.
That night, after Dad leaves and Micha stations himself in the hall like a stone gargoyle, I crawl beneath my blankets and text the only person who will understand, Tyra.
She gets my strange life because she lives one, too. Another mafia princess.
We’re an unlikely pair. She’s Black and Brooklyn-born; I’m American-Italian and pure West Coast. But when she moved to Los Angeles to live with her uncle, something clicked between us. We became best friends before either of us understood how rare that kind of loyalty is in our world.
Me
I’m being shipped off to be married. I’m NOT joking.
Three dots appear immediately.
Tyra
What the hell u mean shipped? Like some dude picked u out like a mail-order bride?
Me
YESSSSSS. A Russian heir claimed me. Dad says we can’t refuse. Yellow card rules.
Another pause. Then:
Tyra
Oh my god. Girl. Girl. GIRL.
Are u safe? Im not liking this at all.
Me
I don’t know. Dad is scared. Jarvis is scared. Micha my new russian bodyguard is... strange.
Tyra
I swear if they send my bestie to some dateless wonder across an ocean ill come get u myself
I swallow hard, blinking fast.
Me
Dad says I have to
I miss my mom.
Tyra
I bet. And I know ur scared
I am not surprised she didn’t offer a real escape. She knows as well as I do that what a boss decides is final, even if it is your father.
Tyra
U better text me EVERY day. Morning and night. I’ll check on u.
And I don’t care if I gotta sneak away, I’ll fly to Russia alone
A tear rolls down my cheek. Warm, comforting, and painful.
Me
Thank u
Tyra
Always. Ur my sister. Blood or not.
I cling to her words like a lifeline until sleep finally drags me under, but morning comes too soon.
I walk through the halls of Stockton Manor for possibly the last time, my suitcase now filled with the most meaningless things: clothes, shoes, the necklace Mom gave me when I turned sixteen. Even a gun, but nothing that can truly protect me from a destiny I didn’t want. Nothing that matters.
Jarvis waits at the bottom of the stairs, eyes glassy. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. He’s been around my entire life. I throw myself in his arms and cry. He holds me until I let go. Always strong for me.
Outside, a black SUV idles by the front steps. Micha stands beside it, arms behind his back, posture perfect and rigid. The air is cold. Crisper than usual for southern California. Or maybe it’s just me.
As I step down onto the stone walkway, my entire body hums with one clear warning:
This is wrong. This is terribly, horrifically wrong.
And for the first time in my life, I wish I didn’t save my innocence for my future husband. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I could’ve chosen the man.