1. ISABELLA

Chapter 1

ISABELLA

The room is silent save for the gentle ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner. I stand before a full-length mirror, my reflection a picture of reluctant elegance. My dress, a masterpiece of ivory silk and lace, clings to my slender frame, the delicate fabric shimmering in the morning light.

The bodice, adorned with intricate beadwork, hugs my waist before cascading into a flowing skirt that pools around my feet like liquid moonlight. It is a beautiful dress, but like my life, the dress was not of my choosing and not the dress I'd dreamed of one day getting married in.

My dark hair is swept into a loose chignon, a few rebellious tendrils escaping to frame my heart-shaped face. The dress, the hair, the makeup—it's all perfect. Yet, the woman in the mirror feels like a stranger—a puppet with invisible strings dancing merrily to my master's tune with the false hope of freedom on the horizon.

I found out two days ago that, like the horizon, my freedom was but an illusion in the distance—a cruel promise to keep me in line, playing the role of the obedient daughter. There was never any real hope for me to finally escape this gilded cage meticulously designed by my traitorous father.

My father has controlled every aspect of my fucking life: my education, my social circle, and now, my marriage. A marriage that I had no idea had been planned since I was three.

My hazel eyes, usually so full of life, are dull and lifeless, reflecting the bleakness of my situation. The heavy door to the room is closed, and guards are posted outside, ensuring I remain exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I glance towards the double glass doors, teasing me with a framed picture of serene beauty beyond—fuck you, glass doors, and your false promises too.

I know all that beauty it's trying to tempt me with has dangers lurking around the edges of it. I also know, without even trying, that they are bolted shut. Even if I did manage to get out, there are probably guards built like brick shithouses and carrying big guns lurking unseen near them.

I've been trapped in my future husband, Andrey Belov's penthouse for the past two days. On the first night, I tried a daring escapade of harrowing balcony hops down the highest fucking building in Boston. Until Andrey caught me and all chances of escape evaporated as I cemented my status as a flight risk. All balcony and fresh air privileges were revoked, and my guard doubled.

The only place I was ever alone after that was the bathroom. After the wedding ceremony, we are to go to my family home in Back Bay for what was supposed to be my twenty-first birthday party. Which is now also going to be the wedding celebration— happy fucking birthday to me.

A knock on the door jolts me from my thoughts. I turn to see my father enter. Marco Moretti, with his imposing presence, carries himself like a goddamn king—the king of criminal defense. He defends nearly every nefarious figure on the East Coast.

My mother, older brother, uncle, and aunt became victims of one of his disgruntled clients making a point when I was three. Their deaths haunt me like my own personal boogeyman.

That tragedy shaped my life, making me accept this existence and endure the grueling survival boot camps my father insisted on every Saturday and vacation. I was under the misguided impression that my father wanted to make sure I knew how to protect myself and disappear should one of his enemies come for me.

It was a pity I didn't realize before two days ago that my real enemy was the man I'd trusted the most in the world. The man I thought was protecting me and always felt safe with was really the fucking big bad wolf all along.

After all these years of protecting me, my dickwad of a father never even batted an eye when Andrey basically told him he'd fucked me, and now the marriage had to be moved up by six months. Okay, so Andrey didn't say fucked, although he did explain that I was no longer a virgin.

It was kind of funny when Andrey towered over my father and his, reminding them who the new king in town was and criticizing them for allowing me to escape. I loved the shocked look on my father's face when he realized that his darling little Isabella had escaped to the notorious Velvet Lounge.

His eyes nearly popped out of his handsome head when Andrey went on to tell him about the rest of my plan. I was at the Velvet Lounge with the sole purpose of spiting my father by having a good time . There was no mistaking what kind of good time I had planned either from Andrey's description.

There was a glimmer of satisfaction as I'd at least destroyed my father's and Ivan's plans of handing over the chaste virgin sacrifice to ensure world domination and power. Well, at least that's how I think of it. I still have no idea what my father gains from this arrangement. Right now I don't fucking care. I'm just staying focused on my mission.

All I really am to my father and Andrey's father is a business transaction. To Andrey, I'm now a possession that he had been promised he could add to his collection. Then take out, command about, fuck, and do with as he pleases. According to Andrey—he now owns me.

I guess I'm lucky I got to have at least a bit of a life, even if it was in a cage before I learned of my eighteen-year engagement. My father planned on announcing it this Saturday. Just something else to ruin my twenty-first birthday. After meeting Andrey, I feel like I've been locked in a tower for the past two days. It may as well have been one, as it is twenty-six stories up.

I do get a teeny bit of joy thinking I at least got to turn that plan of his into a shit show, although it wasn't quite how I had planned my great defiance to go. At least I'm not wearing virgin white to my wedding.

Now, I feel more of just a transaction than a sacrifice as I'm about to marry the man I had no intention of marrying and to whom I accidentally gave my virginity.

When I met Andrey at the Velvet Lounge, correction, when Andrey plowed into me at the Velvet Lounge, I had no idea who he was other than a dark, dangerous, extremely good-looking stranger.

Who, until he took my virginity, had no intention of marrying me either—so that was a major fuck up. Who knew that a bloodthirsty Bratva boss had a code of honor about taking a woman's virginity?

And what are the fucking chances that the Bratva boss would be the very man I was trying to avoid giving it to?

My thoughts on this are that Karma bitch-slapped me because of what I'd done to sneak out to the club.

I can hear my father's voice loud and clear in my head. Actions have consequences, Isabella. Some you can anticipate, but some you don't see coming. The best you can do is be prepared and try to anticipate what reaction could result from your action.

How goddamn right he was too. I didn't see the consequences of drugging my cousin and housekeeper to sneak out coming at all. Because the consequences had been doled out by Karma with her wicked sense of humor and irony sending me headlong into Andrey's path.

My father's eyes soften as they fall upon me. "Isabella," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "You look beautiful."

I don't respond, my eyes fixed on the mirror. We haven't spoken in days, not since I've been confined to Andrey's penthouse under heavy guard. While I did tighten the noose around the neck of my freedom, my father had no business pretending everything was normal, as if he hadn't played a part in this charade.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder, but I pull away. He sighs, dropping his hand to his side. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but—"

"It's never been about what I wanted . So nothing you say matters to me," I interject, my voice glacial, eyes devoid of emotion—one of the only things my father taught me well is how to shield myself from prying eyes. "Let's just get this over and done with."

My father's face tightens, but he says nothing more. Instead, he offers his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, I take it. Together, we stride through the grand halls of the Belov mansion, a stately manor nestled on Battle Street in Cambridge.

The opulent surroundings speak of old wealth and power, with intricately carved oak paneling adorning the walls, catching the soft glow of crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceilings.

Persian rugs, woven with intricate patterns and rich colors, cushion our steps as we pass ornate vases and sculptures that seem to whisper of centuries past.

The mansion's architecture blends classical elegance with modern luxury, its rooms filled with priceless art and antique furniture, each corner echoing with the whispers of history and prestige.

As we near the open glass doors of one of the living rooms, I can see into the back garden. I catch glimpses of the guests. Andrey's family and close Bratva members stand in small clusters, their expressions a mix of curiosity and calculation.

My own father's closest associates are here as well, including my cousin James and my best friend Stacy Thompson with her parents.

I'd like to say that I'm glad she was allowed to be here, but the only reason Stacy and her parents are here is because her father, Judge Thompson, is officiating the ceremony. Both of Stacy's parents are prominent judges in Boston and have lived next door to my family in Back Bay for generations. I'm now wondering about their alliances and if they have made a pact to work with the devil like my father has.

Again, my father tries to explain himself as we walk, his voice a low murmur in my ear. "Isabella, I—"

"Save it," I snap, cutting him off. "Unless you have a plan to get me out of here without having to marry a monster, I don't fucking want to hear it!"

I don't even look at him as I hear his soft gasp. I have never used foul language in his presence, let alone directed at him. But I'm no longer innocent, naive Isabella trying to please my father and hiding under the guise of being kept safe from his enemies. I'm about to marry goddamn public enemy number one, delivered on a silver platter by my father.

My father is the reason I'd never become an attorney or trust the law. His reasoning that there are always two sides to a story and that someone's right is another's wrong never sat well with me. There is definitely a line between wrong and right. Even those standing on the wrong side of that line are well aware of it, but they choose that twisted notion to help them sleep at night.

A pang zings through me as I remember a similar conversation I had with Andrey that first night I was locked in his penthouse. Again, my body betrays me, and a fast flash of desire curls through me when I think of that night. My stomach tenses, and other parts of my anatomy pulse.

Fuck, I'm walking with my father here and lusting after a man that stands for everything I despise and who is waiting to tighten the noose on my freedom.

We reach the back garden, where the ceremony is to take place. The setting is beautiful, a stark contrast to the tension in the air. Flowers adorn every surface, their vibrant colors a mockery of the darkness that surrounds this union. Men flank the garden, their hands resting on concealed weapons, a silent reminder of the world I'm being forced into.

I dreamed of a different wedding than this. This is a performance, a show of power and control. But I will play my part for now. Because one thing Andrey doesn't know is that I am not the compliant bride he thinks I am. My time will come, and when it does, I'll be ready—the man doesn't quite know just what a flight risk I am. Only this time, they won't see the consequence of trying to shackle me in marriage is about to unleash on them.

Another thing I can thank my shithead father for is teaching me how to bide my time—although it's a lesson I didn't take to heart too well up until a few days ago. I now fully understand the reasoning behind not letting my emotions drive me!

We step over the threshold, soft music starts to play, and all eyes turn to me. As my father walks me down the not-too-long aisle toward Andrey, my heart feels like a stone in my chest.

Andrey stands there, waiting for me, resplendent in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuates his powerful frame. His dark hair and silver eyes with tints of blue assess me, making my stomach flutter, and my heart jump.

Thoughts of our one night of unbridled passion fill my mind and send an unwanted tingle to the apex between my legs. While that night was filled with a few passionate interludes and one dark one where he sought to teach me a lesson for daring to defy him, Andrey hasn't touched me since.

A fact that has had me in a pent-up state of sexual frustration and arousal every time he just enters the room. My treacherous body craves to experience more of the pleasure he brought me while I battle with my disgust at just how much I want him—and all the wickedly delicious things he did to me, including…

I shake that dark thought away and suppress the shudder, which is a mixture of shame, disgust, and desire. I concentrate on my carefully thought-out plans for the afternoon, trying to ignore the instant spark contact with Andrey's warm hand that shoots through my system when my father hands me over to the man.

My sensitive system, which has now been introduced to the delicious pleasure of sensation Andrey can bring, sends all the sparks directly to my needy pussy. I feel my nipples tighten against the lacy white bra I have on, and I just know the matching panties are going to have a wet patch on them.

Fuck, this is going to be a painfully long day! I have to get my traitorous body under control. I breathe and make sure my face is a mask. My eyes calm as I lift them to meet Andrey's. I force myself to ignore the darkening flicker of desire in his eyes or the smile that lifts the corner of his beautiful mouth.

My pussy pulses as I remember the feel of his soft wet mouth and darting tongue sucking and licking my clit. For the first time today, I'm glad about the billowing skirt of the dress concealing the clenching of the top of my thighs together as I try to relieve the tension there.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Okay, don't think of fucking. That's a bad idea. I'm going to go with Shit balls! Oh God, no, not balls. That just stirs my fantasy of all the things I've imagined doing with Andrey over the past two days, well, the sexual things, not the murdering things.

I hear a soft chuckle rumble from Andrey's chest and look up at his eyes, which have darkened a bit more. The look in his eyes tells me he's basically reading my thoughts. His smile widens, taunting me more.

The fucking dickwad! I wish I could aim a swift kick right at his shin with these pointy satin witch shoes that are painfully squeezing my toes together. But that would show him my anger, and right now, I need Andrey to think I've given up—that he, my father, and his father have won—and that I've surrendered to my fate.

I'll kick him later. Maybe by accident when we have to have the first dance. Ooh, then I can also stomp these ridiculously spiky heels into his foot, too. Oh! That's better. My sexual heat gauge is starting to go back to normal as I think up the many ways to mush his shins and feet at the party. I glance back at him to see his still wearing his sexy I know you're fantasizing about fucking me , smile.

I need to think about something else. What was it Stacy used to say to help me get over my stage fright for public speaking? Picture the audience naked. Well, that's not going to work here and will only make matters worse, but…

Smiling, I draw on an old childhood memory, and in my mind I picture Andrey as the big purple cat from Alice in Wonderland—always grinning and always playing tricks. I remind myself that his charm is a facade, a dangerous allure meant to lead me astray. Down into a rabbit hole of a world that works differently from the one above, and there is a reason it's called the underbelly of society.