Chapter 17
Peighton
Traveling with Gustav is like traveling with a storm.
The four of us — Gustav, Micha, Dimitri, and me — move through a city in a bulletproof SUV, then through a private airfield, then into a small rattling prop plane that fights every gust of winter wind. I sit by the window clutching my seat, the world blurring into a sheet of gray and ice.
Gustav doesn’t speak to me.
Not once.
He sits across the aisle, broad shoulders tense, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. The cold coming off him is worse than the Russian winter outside.
I don’t know how to feel about him after what I saw at the castle. My father tortured people too. I grew up around whispers and warnings. But I never saw it. I never smelled a torture room or watched a man die because I lit a bomb.
Was that normal or too far? Gustav might be something worse than I imagined.
I don’t know.
And the silence doesn’t help.
Finally, we descend toward a valley where St. Andrews waits.
From above, it looks like a monastery carved out of stone. Beautiful arches, towers, snow-dusted rooftops. It looks peaceful.
Gosh, this feels weird. So much has changed in just a day. I’m living in a fever dream or a dark fairytale.
When we land, the cold hits like a slap. We walk through the gates into a courtyard where Keira stands.
It’s a surprise to see her and instantly lessens tension in my shoulders. Her smile is warm, soft, exactly what I need after hours of Gustav’s icy indifference.
“You made it,” she says, looping an arm through mine. She smells like tea and roses.
Behind her, Petyr, her husband, greets the men. They immediately begin speaking Russian. I only pick up on the words Morozovs, killing, and Vlad. Gustav doesn’t want to talk about it. I see the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of his fingers.
But he goes with them anyway without a word for me. No goodbye. No see you later. Not even a glance. Much colder than last time.
Just walks away.
I stare after him, stunned.
Keira laughs under her breath. “He is really angry with you.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s the way he walked off. Shoulders stiff. His arms tense. He only does that when he is trying to avoid an emotion. Very Russian.”
“Oh, he’s emotional.” I assure. “Gustav is a volcano of emotion.”
She chuckles. “Wonderful. You are already learning him. Be sure to only tell a select few. Like me. Everyone will want to know about him. Being a boss’ wife is difficult. You can never trust people. They’ll use you to get close to him.”
I nod, but my instincts twist my stomach. She’s been watching Gustav closely if she knows when he’s upset. Her husband is next in line to be boss since the Sokolov’s have no other heirs. Maybe she is trying to get closer to my husband through me.
I don’t need another problem at the moment, so I shelf my doubts for now.
Luckily, lunch with Keira makes things easier.
She explains traditions. History. What St. Andrews is, a place where bratva men and women learn rules, conflict management, and the politics of a world behind locked doors. College for mobsters.
To my surprise, she even tells me about Gustav’s past flings in a gentle, neutral way. They never lasted. He scared some. He confused others. Some left without asking, but he didn’t stop them.
Jealousy gnaws in my gut, but I don’t show it. I can’t help it. I figured he wasn’t a virgin, but I guess I don’t want to know about past women.
“He is unpredictable,” Keira says softly. “Not cruel for cruelty’s sake, but... untamed. A typical Russian mobster but with extra edges. As I advised earlier, you must learn when to approach and when to give him space.”
I swirl with my spoon in my tea.
“Should I be worried about his temper? Should I plan to escape if something bad happens?”
Her eyes widen. “Goodness, no.”
“But—”
“No. You learn him. You adapt. You read him. Petyr is a hothead too, but ultimately, a good husband. You will have it harder, but that is how you survive a man like Gustav.”
She sure knows a lot about my husband. I say nothing, though. I’m in no place to lose her trust.
My first class begins after lunch. A course just for new bratva wives.
Apparently, marriage into a criminal dynasty comes with special coursework. I’m ushered through the building by Micha until I’m deposited in front of a classroom door with a brass plaque. The letters gleam sharply.
Etiquette. Protocol. Conduct.
The rules of spouse survival.
Also, lame. Definitely seems more European than American.
Inside, ten women sit in a semicircle. Their coats rest over their chairs in neat folds; their hair is pinned with precision that makes me suddenly self-conscious of my own. Elegant, immaculate, disciplined. Their expressions give nothing away.
I take the last empty seat.
The instructor, a rigid woman with silver hair scraped into a knot tight enough to pull her brows, taps her clipboard.
“We begin with introductions. Name and bratva.”
Simple enough.
One by one, the women rise.
“Olga. Volkov Bratva.”
“Yuli. Orel Bratva.”
“Brinna. Mogilevich Bratva.”
Their pronunciations are flawless. Their confidence is carved from iron. Each family name lands with weight, as if each one carries centuries of pride and power.
When the last woman sits, all eyes slide to me.
I stand, heart beating too loudly, and smooth my sleeves.
“I’m Peighton,” I say. “Sokolov Bratva.”
The name comes out wrong, the consonants clumsy. I know it, but the room’s reaction is far worse than a few raised brows.
Every woman side-glances.
One girl grimaces.
Another performs a tiny, quiet sign of the cross.
Someone else’s mouth parts in a soft gasp, like I just announced I belong to a cursed house.
I grip the back of my chair. “What? Did I mispronounce it that bad? I’m American.”
Silence.
Then one woman, all sharp bone structure and icy beauty, narrows her eyes.
“Sokolov,” she repeats slowly, almost reverently. “Your boss... is Gustav Sokolov, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer. “He’s my husband.”
A ripple of reactions passes through the semicircle. Quick glances, averted eyes, a few pale faces. Russian women don’t gossip openly, but they communicate volumes in single movements.
“What?” I ask again. “What is the problem?”
No one answers.
Except one.
She sits near the end, dark curls, warm eyes, an American softness in her posture. The only familiar accent in the room.
“They won’t say it,” she murmurs. “They won’t dare. Not to you.”
I swallow. “Say what?”
She exhales slowly. “Your new family... they’re not like the others here. Known for weapons dealing, but run by a broken family. The name is respected out of necessity, not admiration. People keep their distance.”
“Why?” I ask.
She glances at the Russian women, then back at me. “The Sokolovs are seen as outcasts. If you want grenades and bombs, you go to the Sokolov bratva. But rarely. They’re dangerous. Unpredictable. And your husband... he’s known as the Mad King. Or the Mad Butcher.”
I frown.
Maybe the torture I saw at the castle was abnormally brutal.
The room seems to shift around me. Although nicknames like that should send fear through my veins, instead, something far stranger rises inside me.
A quiet instinct. A flash of protectiveness. A sense that whatever they think they know about Gustav or legends they fear, I have already stood closer to the fire than they ever will. And whether I like it or not, he’s my husband.
“And?” I ask, lifting my chin a little.
The American woman studies me, almost impressed. “And you’ll need to get used to being alone, Peighton. The other families carry pride. You’ll need to carry resilience.”
I sit straighter in my chair, even as the others refuse to meet my eyes. Maybe they don’t revere my husband. Maybe they fear him. Maybe they even despise the family I married into.
But the moment they said his name with dread, something inside me aligned.
If he is the Mad King, then I am his queen.
And I won’t let any of them forget that.
The class continues, but they fixate on dumb etiquette drills that aren’t necessary. How to pour tea in front of elders. How to conduct myself during tense meetings. How to hold your posture when your husband is being challenged by another boss.
It is self-explanatory to me. A waste of time. Some of it feels misogynistic too. My father taught me to be a man’s equal, not stand in his shadow and be quiet. I don’t know how Russian women do it.
By the time evening falls, I’m over it and hope future classes won’t be this old-fashioned.
I need to get ready for dinner. I slip on a tight, dark green dress with long sleeves.
My chest is fairly exposed with a low-cut neckline.
I stare in the mirror, wondering if I should wear it.
It might make Gustav mad. Honestly, I want to be sexy and turn him on.
Make him desire my body. Then, maybe he will warm up to me again. At least get us talking again.
I opt to wear it.
Hopefully, I don’t regret it.