Chapter 3

RAFAIL

"Is she alone?"

"Of course she isn't," Semyon says with an eye roll and icy glare. "She's got an old lady with her and two guards.”

"Old lady?" It’s illogical, frankly, unless she’s employing the classic tactic of hiding in plain sight, exactly where she’s least expected. Right in the heart of Moscow, within walking distance of Zalivka.

"Are you sure this is the right person?" I finger the cufflinks in my pocket, my good luck charms. I don’t go anywhere without them.

Semyon's eyes narrow at me as he slowly pushes his glasses further up his nose. He never makes mistakes. His precision is perfect in damn near everything he does. My right-hand man, Semyon is calm and pragmatic, a master of calculated methods and, when he executes, foolproof. We're identical when it comes to brute force and fear as an effective tactic, but Semyon is the strategist, always seeing several moves ahead.

“Of course I’m right. Do I make mistakes?”

Arrogant, yeah, but he knows his shit. I give him a sharp look as he scrolls through footage and notes on his phone.

Tall and muscular with sharp, angular features, Semyon’s demeanor is cold but composed. He's protective of our younger siblings, prone to showing his care through actions and not words. The cool technician behind our empire's most successful operations. I know what he's put on the line for our family. I know what I have. I know that both of us prioritize our family's stability above all else, and even though I am the eldest and was technically guardian of the rest, he's always pulled his own weight.

"Remember why we're here," Semyon reminds me, always the foil to my intensity. He checks his watch, a force of habit, before he glances at the specs of our location on his phone. "And remember who’s watching. Tempting as it may be, you can't punish her on the streets of Moscow, Rafail, no matter how badly you want to." His voice drops, and his eyes grow ice-cold. "No matter how much she deserves it. Save that for when you get her back to your house."

I breathe in through my nose, and I know he's right. I didn't get to where I am by being hardheaded and impulsive. That would be Rodion, who is standing behind me now, casually flipping a switchblade open and closed.

"Put that away," I snap. “Jesus.” Always the reckless one, though he’d call it courageous, and always the one to land on his two fucking feet like a cat. But thankfully, he has some respect for me.

I narrow my eyes at him. " Rodion .” He blows out a breath and, with great reluctance, tucks his knife away. He loves his fucking weapons. Some assholes jerk off to pinups or porn, but I swear to fuck, Rodion would stroke one off with his handgun if he could.

"What's your plan?" he says, not bothering to hide a note of jealousy in his tone. "Take her back. Tie her up.” He wriggles his brows. “Punish her before you do dirty things to her?"

My vision blurs as rage thrums through my veins. "She fucked over our family," I say with cold deliberation. "I will bring her back. I will tie her up. And I will punish her."

“Fuck, stop bragging,” Rodion groans. Kinky bastard.

"And keep in mind she'll be your wife," Semyon says quietly. "It might be in your best interest to keep it… mildly cordial."

"And it might be in my best interest to teach her who is the man of this fucking house," I say with chilling decision.

I’ll show her in vivid detail why no one escapes me. I’ll make her beg for mercy. I’ll strip her of every last defense, every vestige of defiance, until she doesn’t know where pain ends and pleasure begins. She’ll learn her place—beneath me, pleading, desperate, begging. And when I finally claim her, I’ll take my sweet time, every stroke a reminder of the vows she tried to escape.

Semyon holds a hand up, his gaze razor-sharp and focused ahead of us. “There she is,” he murmurs. “Look.”

The air is tense but chilly. Winter comes to Moscow and neighboring cities with a vengeance. I turn toward the icy cold and look for her.

What is she doing here? When my uncle got word that she'd been spotted, we left dinner immediately. My stomach growls with hunger.

Dressed in all black, we hide in the alleyway bordering an empty square. A bird crows overhead, and behind closed doors, someone plays the violin.

Her shadow passes by a first-floor window. I've stared at those pictures in my file so many times she's begun to haunt my dreams. The Siberian princess, she’s called. A delicate, precious jewel that I’m going to break.

Yeah. That’s her.

Originally from Siberia, she's in her early twenties, so a little older than my sister Zoya. Slender and graceful, she has delicate, aristocratic features and a pale, snow-like complexion. Her long, almost white-blonde hair spills down her back like moonlight, and the pictures I've seen show ethereal blue eyes that reveal a deep well of emotion. Just by looking at her picture, you wouldn't think she was the type to run away from someone at the altar. She seems far too clever for such a reckless, desperate move.

I wonder what she thinks about me.

She appears fragile, almost delicate, but I sense a fiery spirit. A fiery spirit I'm going to fucking tame.

And then something nearly miraculous happens. We step back when she steps onto the pavilion alone. No old lady, no guards, just my beautiful, willful bride. She stands and looks out, not even turning in our direction, and then she turns back and faces her room. Her voice carries in the cold, dark night.

"I'm going for a walk," she says quietly. No one objects. The older woman is talking with the guards as she looks from side to side. Maybe it's a stroke of luck, or maybe fate is playing its hand and uniting us, but I watch in surprise as she walks down the staircase alone.

The guards are talking with the lady as she quickly slips out.

She’s mine. I haven’t seen her this close before, but now that I am, I note the pale canvas of her skin, her thick, nearly white hair, the delicate bones in her wrists, and the slender breadth of her shoulders. The need to claim her claws at me with inhuman strength.

I want to take her. Punish her for betrayal, for putting my family and my entire empire at risk. At the same time, I want to grab her by her delicate shoulders and shake her. How careless—putting herself on display like this, bathed in moonlight—she's a vulnerable target, ripe for the picking.

Doesn't she know I'm looking for her? Does she have no sense of self-preservation? I watch as she turns away, her delicate hand brushing against her cheek.

Is she… crying ? Does she have any remorse?

Or does she know any semblance of freedom she has is about to be snatched away?

“Surround the perimeter," I snap. "I want every exit secured."

But it's unnecessary. She seems completely oblivious to the fact that I’m here.

"Are you sure this is her?" I ask Semyon. "She doesn't look like she's afraid."

Maybe she hasn't quite registered the danger she's in.

“How could it not be her? She’s identical to the pictures we have.”

"She is." She looks exactly like the woman in the picture. The one I've been watching. I've memorized the slender curve of her neck and imagined my face between her breasts. I’ve fantasized about that long, silky hair wrapped around my thick fingers before I pull it. The woman is grace personified. Her skin is as pale as the roses she left fading on our altar. Our altar. The one that she abandoned. And now she’s mine. She is the one I will lay sacrifices upon in atonement.

The older woman comes onto the porch. They speak rapidly in Russian, and my bride laughs. Anger flares in my chest. How could she be so unconcerned? How can she be so blasé about what she’s done?

The older woman turns sharply when someone calls her. "No, no, not that one," she says in English. She rushes away, and my bride follows. I know before she makes her decision what she’s going to do, and I can't believe my luck. The glances, the way she grabs her little bag, the way she looks from side to side tell me all I need to know.

She tips her head into the air, pulls her shoulders back, and breathes in deeply as if, finally, she has some freedom.

"Enjoy that last taste of freedom," I say under my breath. “It’s the last you’ll ever have.”

If she were mine—no, she is mine—she’s going to learn that a little jaunt in the woods is out of the question.

I run my thumb along the silk strands in my pocket, ready to bind my bride's wrists and ankles. I’m hard as fuck just imagining that… that, and so much more.

I’ll bring her back where she belongs—home, with me. I’ll teach her that her place is by my side, where she can’t run or hide again. I can see it now—that pale, porcelain skin tinged pink as she blushes, her lips parted, gasping for breath when my hand’s wrapped around her neck, just enough to remind her who I am, just enough so she knows she’s at my mercy. I can already feel the heat of her punished ass against me when I fuck her, her face pressed into the sheets, and my hand on her back, holding her down. She’ll think she’s on the brink of insanity, begging for release, but I’ll keep her right there as long as I need to make sure she feels her punishment.

I’ll claim every inch of her perfect, sweet body. I’ll make her shudder beneath me, scream my name while she claws my back and begs for mercy I won’t grant until she knows she’s mine. She’ll feel it in her bones and crave my control. When I’m done, she’ll never again question who owns her.

Without warning, six enormous Russian men step outside. They speak into their walkie-talkies, their voices hard. They fucked up, letting her out of their sight. I would punish the shit out of them for that.

"Jesus. Go. I don't know why you're waiting," Rodion says.

He's the fucking wild card of the family. Charming, reckless, impulsive—he's been in trouble since I've known him, and he made my job as his guardian that much harder. But for him, his natural charisma allows him to get out of damn near everything. His insatiable thirst for thrills and aversion to responsibility keep me on my toes.

I ponder what he says for half a minute. I could rush in, claim her for my own, fight them. Drag her back by her fucking hair and put a bullet between the eyes of any man who tried to stop us…

"Because I understand the blowback to the rest of us. I like to have self-control, Rodion."

He narrows his eyes at me. "If that were me, I wouldn't show weakness. I'm not the kid you think I am anymore, Rafail."

I grit my teeth and go to respond, but Semyon gets to him first.

"Rafail is the leader in the underworld and our family, Rodi," Semyon says coldly. "He knows better than to act recklessly."

I watch as her guards bring her back inside. She’s a feisty one, snapping at them in Russian. I hear a door slam. I run my fingers over the silky threads of the bonds in my pocket once more, and I make my plan.