CHAPTER 1
DANIKA
I’ve never had cancer,but I suspect this is how a patient might feel as they walk back to their doctor’s office to learn their diagnosis. Stomach wedged high in my throat. Heart jackhammering inside my chest. Uncertainty sending my panicking nervous system into chaos.
Memories of the last time I came to this place provide an endless supply of ammunition to the fear assaulting my body and mind. I swore I’d never come back here, but I had no choice. When Biba Mikhailov, boss of the Russian bratva, summons you, you come, especially when he’s your father. Not that I think of him as my father—I’ve never even met the man. But in this part of the city, you don’t have to be on a first-name basis with Biba to know you don’t refuse him.
I can’t fathom what I’ve done to earn this summons. That’s the worst part. I have no clue what this is about, and the less-than-courteous man who came to deliver Biba’s message was about as informative as a brick wall. Which brings me here—to a run-down auto repair shop deep in the heart of Brooklyn. I’m walking down a dimly lit hallway so saturated with tobacco that the substance is literally dripping from the yellow walls. Thesickly sweet odor does nothing for my already rioting stomach, but I do my best to hold myself together.
You avoided him the last time you were here. Maybe you’ll manage to avoid him again.
Right, and if he kills me, I’ll be too dead to care.
Hate to break it to you, but that’s not how optimism works.
Debatable. But not right now.
I’ve come to the last door in the hallway. A door guarded by a bald man with a gruesome scar on his cheek and eyes bleached of any possible empathy. This is where Biba is hiding. Word is he’s rarely ever seen anymore. I’m taking that as a good sign—that perhaps the guy is terminally ill or hopelessly agoraphobic. Though, it appears he doesn’t have to leave his hidey-hole to be a menace. It’s a lesson I won’t soon forget, should I be lucky enough to leave this place alive.
The guard utters a few guttural words in what I assume is Russian as I approach. I’m about to tell him I don’t understand when a single syllable resonates from inside the office.
“Da.”
The guard presses the door open enough for me to enter, eyes trained on me the entire time as though ready to take me down should I make the slightest wrong move. He isn’t taking a single inch of my five-foot-two, hundred-and-ten-pound frame for granted. As if I’d try something. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Instead, I nod and take the final steps on wobbly legs to discover my fate.
“Danika, so good of you to join me.” Biba sits at a large intricately carved desk, papers spread across it with a bottle of vodka and several crystal glasses atop them. His skin is noticeably more leathery in person than photos had conveyed, and his voice grates like a hacksaw thanks to a lifetime of smoking. He’s tried to overcome a receding hairline with a classic combover. It looks somewhat incongruous withthe rudimentary tattoos etched on the backs of his hands. Everything about this man is designed to intimidate, and it’s working. I have to clear my throat twice before I can coerce my voice to function.
“Mr. Mikhailov.” I nod, unsure what else to say or do.
“You know who I am, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” I wish I didn’t.
He flashes a wide, yellowing grin. “Good, and you should call me Biba. We’re family, no?” He motions to a chair. “Sit and talk.”
The slur of his Russian accent rings in my ears as I hear the wordfamilyecho repeatedly in my mind. Technically true but irrelevant until now. Why? What could he possibly want from me? I can’t think of a single answer that ends well for me.
I sit and wait for him to pull the rug out from beneath my feet.
“Your mother, she’s good?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“She’s done well with you. Such a beautiful young woman.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, feeling increasingly awkward and desperate for him to tell me what I’m doing here.
“And my men here tell me you’re quite an artist. Isn’t that right?” He looks at the guard and my escort and waits until they each murmur their agreement while I mentally unravel.
Why is he talking about my art? Has he seen my paintings? What else does he know about me?
Pleased by his men’s affirmation, he looks back at me. “Yes, very talented,” he continues. “And I’m sure you are also very curious why I’ve brought you here.”
I offer a thin smile, my heartbeat thudding against the inside of my skull.
“I have wonderful news for you. As part of my family, you have the honor of uniting us in a very important alliance.” His eyes glint as he grins at me as if eagerly anticipating my excitedreaction. As if this man genuinely believes I will feel honored by his proclamation rather than the gut-wrenching horror now coursing through my veins.
“Alliance?” I ask shakily. Between the blood draining from my head and the utter disbelief, I’m having trouble thinking coherently. I’m pretty sure he’s hinting at an arranged marriage, but that can’t be right. I never even considered that as I racked my brain on the way over here about what he could want since I’m nothing more than a distant afterthought to this man. Hell, I’ve never even met him until today. Why now? Why me? I know I’m not the only female family member he has. Why not one of his two sons if the alliance is so important? This can’t be happening.
