Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
The few times Dad has bothered to look at my screen, I switch to whatever video I’ve got queued up in the other window. This morning—two days after Dad told me about the marriage—it’s a silly pop video. Dad thinks I sit in here for hours and hours, days even, watching videos, wasting my time.
Then, it finally happens—what I’ve been dreading. Dad doesn’t bother to knock on my door. He rushes right in, his face red, beaming like a man who’s just won the lottery.
“Konstantin did it,” Dad says breezily. Very few people would ever guess he’s talking about someone supposed to be a close friend. “It’s time.”
After those two words, “it’s time,” everything changes. Suddenly, Dad is rushing me to pack. It’s time for the drive to Vegas. It’s time to meet my future husband, Dimitri Sokolov.
In a matter of hours, I’m sitting on my bed with three suitcases piled up, my heart beating so hard it’s on the border of causing me actual physical pain. Drake is on my lap, fighting off tears, holding me tightly, but I can’t cry. I can’t let myself feel. I have to be strong now for both of us.
When Drake finally stops crying, he says, “Is he nice? Your new husband?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
I have to make him love me, want me, or … I don’t even want to think about it.
Soon, Dad barges into the room again. He looks disgusted at Drake, probably noticing the tears, and then snaps at me, “The car’s here. Time to go.”
Drake bursts into tears, and Dad roars, “Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
Of course, that gets Drake crying even more. When Dad marches across the room, his hand raised, I quickly leap to my feet and get between them, cringing as my body gets ready for whatever happens next. Then Dad scowls, lowering his hand. “You’re lucky you have stayed pretty for your new husband.”
I hug Drake one last time, and the staff carries my suitcases to the chauffeured car. Several staff members assemble at the front of the house, and two cleaners have tears in their eyes. I give them hugs, and then it’s time.
The drive begins. I put headphones on, listening to heavy metal, eyes closed, not even looking out the window. I want to enjoy these moments, my last ones of freedom, or semi-freedom, anyway. I’ve never really been free.
As we drive, I mentally note what I know about my husband. I’m twenty-three, and he’s in his forties. He’s now the Pakhan, or boss, of the Las Vegas Bratva. I don’t even know what he looks like, but it won’t make any difference. I’m a fully grown woman, but sometimes, it doesn’t feel like that. It’s like this cloistered life has stunted me. I seriously need to stop thinking like this. It won’t help anything.
I open my eyes when the car comes to a stop, taking off my headphones. I haven’t checked the time once, but my body feels sore and drained from travel. We’re in the middle of the Vegas desert outside a large estate. From what I can see, it’s huge, with two large mansions set within massive grounds surrounded by walls. As I peer between the front driver’s seats, I spot long, green lawns—starkly contrasting the desert—and a tennis court. Is that a basketball court, too? Yep, I spot the hoop.
“Miss Petrov,” the driver says. “Your father asked me to remind you gently that Dimitri Sokolov is of vital importance. He also asked me to say that Anatoly would much prefer if things went well.”
“What lovely phrasing for a threat!” I practically shout.
The driver flinches. He’s not used to me talking back, but I can’t help myself. My throat feels like it’s closing up with nerves.
A man approaches the gate from the other side. He’s wearing the clothes of a butler, his head shiny with white hair, his posture straight. He presses some buttons, and the gate begins to open. Two guards stand just beyond the gate holding weapons, but that’s nothing new.
“You should get out,” the driver says.
I climb from the car. “Miss Petrov,” the white-haired man says, rushing over to me as one guard walks toward the rear of the vehicle, presumably for the suitcases. “We’re so delighted to welcome you to the Sokolov compound. My name is Yuri, and I am the Chief Steward. You must be starving.”
“Uh, sure,” I say, “but could I clean up first?”
“Of course, of course! We’ll show you to your room. It’s in the main house.”
My driver leaves without saying goodbye. He doesn’t care about me. Sometimes, people call the Bratva a family, but I’ve never felt that. As I walk toward the larger of the two houses with Yuri at my side, I try not to think about the threat and Drake. Yuri is talking, telling me who people are, pointing out the grounds, but I barely hear him. Dread rushes in my ears.