Chapter 27
Peighton
I’m in trouble.
Not the bad kind, like when Gustav punished me. A different kind. The kind that feels warm, soft, and dangerous in my chest.
I’m falling for him.
I haven’t said the L-word explicitly. He definitely hasn’t said it. But after the library... after the way he kissed me, after the way he touched me, my fears and doubts chipped away. We both know the truth. I don’t have to say it.
He’s winning this war.
He keeps making it harder to stay grounded, too.
He walks me to class every morning, even when he has far more important things to do.
He brings me flowers flown in from distant places because I complained my dorm was drab.
He always makes sure I’m warm, fixing my scarf, tugging my coat tighter, holding my hand until he’s satisfied I won’t slip on the icy path.
He remembers things I forget before I even forget them.
He gives the best hugs of my life. Heavy, whole-body, all consuming hugs.
“Like?” he says as he opens my dorm room door to let me walk in.
I gawk as the scent of pine needles fills my nostrils.
A grand Christmas tree sits in the corner, complete with lights and an angel on top. Its glow bathes the room in a golden glow. It’s absolutely gorgeous.
“Gustav! You got me a tree?”
“Micha mentioned you miss the holidays at home. I cut down the tree. Set it up. Keira decorated it.”
“She did?”
“Da. I told her, make it look American.” He smirks as he studies the opulent ornaments. “She succeeded. No? Very... loud.”
I push his shoulder playfully and beam. “If loud means big, beautiful, and mouth dropping, then yes, this is a perfect American Christmas tree.”
He gives me a tender kiss. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I am truly scared by how intense this feels.
God, I pray this man doesn’t hurt me, because if anyone can, it’s him.
Worse? It’s only been three days since the library when we really reconnected, but I feel closer to him than I expected ever to feel toward Gustav Sokolov.
The next day, I take my seat for Mafia Law, surprised as Brutus slips into the chair beside mine. He flashes that friendly, boyish smile.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“I take classes too,” he says. “I don’t want to be a low-level enforcer forever.”
That makes sense. Ambition is practically a survival skill in this world.
“That’s great,” I reply.
“Are you sore?”
“What?”
“From our drill yesterday? I figured you would be bruised badly when you had to be dragged while chained to bricks.”
I nod fast. “Don’t remind me!”
He chuckles warmly. “You did great. Only one of three girls in class who escaped.”
I smile proudly. “I am trying.”
Then he glances away and says casually, “Are you taken?”
There’s no flirtatiousness in his tone. Just genuine curiosity.
“Uh, yes,” I answer quietly.
He nods, slow, almost reluctant. “Figured a woman like you would be. I hope he makes you happy.”
The sincerity shocks me. Most men here don’t care if a woman is taken, let alone wish her well.
I open my mouth to reply, but the classroom door opens.
And there she is.
Keira.
Prim and proper, as always. Elegant. Moving like she’s balancing an invisible book on her head. Not a single glance in my direction. Not a flicker of recognition. Just that chilly, professional composure she wears better than any couture dress.
She sets her bag and gloves down with precise, almost ritual movements before addressing us.
“Today,” she begins, her voice smooth as glass, “we will discuss Card Law.”
A murmur spreads across the room. It’s a hot topic. Everyone knows about the cards, but hardly anyone knows all the rules.
“A card,” Keira continues, “is assigned to individuals the Council considers high-risk, untested, or extremely dangerous. They are not rewards. They are deliberately crafted traps, designed to reveal whether someone is fit to lead.”
Her gaze sweeps the class. She still doesn’t acknowledge me.
“The blue card is given to certain bosses running prostitution enterprises. It grants them permission to take five high-value women from any family — except wives — to upscale their business.”
Gasps. Whispers. A few disgusted faces.
“The red card is for a new-to-mafia boss who rose too quickly. He may choose five skilled men from any family to stabilize his new bratva.”
Then she reaches the final card, the one that makes the room go still. She looks directly at me for the first time since entering.
“And then there is the Yellow Card.”
My stomach tightens.
“A Yellow Card is given to heirs who are considered unstable, untested, or suspected of betrayal. They are granted five lives to use however they see fit: marriage, alliance, or execution. Their choices determine whether they survive their first year as boss.”
She pauses.
“History shows Yellow Card holders almost never choose correctly. Only twice in the last century has the Council spared such a man.”
I feel everyone staring at me, though Keira hasn’t said my name. Not yet.
“Who,” she asks, “in Russia received a Yellow Card this year? And why?”
Hands shoot up instantly.
A girl with glossy red lips answers, practically bouncing in her seat.
“Gustav Sokolov. The Council thinks he killed his own father to take over the Raven bratva.”
Brutus nods and adds, “He also talks to himself. People say he’s insane.”
Another voice joins in. “He kills with a hatchet even if a gun is right next to him. Likes the gore. That’s why they call him the mad butcher.”
“He chopped his dad into pieces,” a guy in the back says. “Nobody can prove it, but still.”
A beautiful blonde girl lifts her hand with a coy smile. “If I were one of his picks, I’d kill myself... if he wasn’t so damn hot.”
A woman next to her fans herself dramatically. “Honestly, same. He’s terrifying, but I’d... be open to it.”
Keira cuts through their giggles like a knife.
“Enough.”
Silence slams into the room.
“Gustav Sokolov has already made a few choices,” she says. Then her eyes land on me again, sharp and gleaming. “His chosen wife sits in our front row.”
A wave of gasps rolls through the class. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. All wide, curious, pitying, jealous, hungry for gossip.
A guy whispers behind me. “I thought I saw that woman walking with Gustav. I didn’t know why he was on campus.”
Everyone’s attention of me causes my cheeks to burn. My throat tightens. I swallow hard.
Keira folds her hands neatly in front of her, a polite smile curving her mouth in the most condescending way imaginable.
“Those chosen by card,” she says coolly, “should be grateful for any allies they have.”
My pulse stutters.
For a moment, I swear she’s saying me: you took me for granted.
Her gaze flicks to Brutus, but just for a second.
Brutus shifts beside me, sensing something is wrong.
I sit very still, spine straight, hands folded on my notebook like a perfect little mob wife.
But inside, panic ripples through me.
Because Keira isn’t just teaching.
She’s warning me.