A thousand-man Bratva.

And a giant fucking target on my back.

"Ready, boss?" my best friend Konstantin asks as he takes my mother's place at my side.

"Don't call me that."

"Don Orlov, then?" I shoot him a glare that makes his smirk wither. "Sorry, man. You know I'm not good at funerals."

My cousin's coping mechanism is humor. He's still never quite learned when he ought to keep it tucked away.

"We're one dysfunctional family, aren't we?" I mutter under my breath. Then I shake my head in dismay. "Come on. The men will have gathered by now. Time to get this over with."

3

MISHA

"The Crimson Orchid," Konstantin mutters, looking around the room with incredulity. "Really?"

I understand his skepticism. The back room of the restaurant is small, sparse, understated. The Orlov Bratva owns a hundred properties more impressive than this one. But we're here for a reason.

"It's where my father hosted his first meeting as don," I inform him. "My brother, too."

I don't tell him this, but we're also here because it just feels right. I wasn't around when my father held his first council, but I watched my brother navigate this same chaos after our father's death. It's funny, in a grim sort of way-Maksim is six feet beneath the earth right now, and I'm still following in his footsteps.

"Don Orlov," Klim Kulikov greets as he walks into the room.

He's followed by the five other men I've appointed as my Vors. All of them served my brother. All of them will serve me, too.

Konstantin takes his seat beside me. He is the only change I made to the status quo. This will be his first sit-in at a don's council. The older men pretend not to eye him, but I don't miss the questioning glances, the furtive looks.

"Be seated."

Shuffling feet and scraping chairs fill the room as the seven of us take our seats. The table is round, which was an intentional choice. Maksim told me a long time ago that it is easier to gain respect if you make your men feel like your equals.

Then again, he also told me that a don's word was law.

I'm still not sure if there's room for both their opinions and mine. I suppose we'll find out in a moment.

"You all made your pledges of fealty to my brother," I begin. "You swore to follow him until the end of your lives or the end of his. As of three days ago, those vows have been upheld. But now, I'm asking you to make another one. To me."

Vasily Novikov is the first to turn his dark gaze on me. "You are the don's brother and the rightful heir to the throne of the Bratva. There is no question of our loyalty to you, sir."

The others follow along with similar sentiments. I greet each one with a solemn nod. I figured they would support me, but it's reassuring to hear it out loud. I'll need their help in the coming days. Petyr Ivanov will not die easily.

Danil Vinogradov is the last to offer his oath. "Don Orlov?" he ventures hesitantly once he's made his pledge.

I can't decide if the words grate against my nerves because of his raspy voice or the title he chose.

Three days ago, I was simply "Misha."

Now, I'm Don Orlov.

The idea of Misha is dead.

"Speak freely," I tell him.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful in moving onto business so quickly in your time of grief, but there are some things that need discussing. Our position now is fragile. We need to re-establish our strength and fortify our defenses."

"What we need is to hit back," Klim hisses before I can answer. "Petyr Ivanov killed our don. That is an open declaration of war. It must be met in kind."

"So what you're proposing is a suicide mission," Konstantin interjects.

Klim's eyes narrow. As the eldest man in the room, no doubt he's not thrilled about being questioned by the newest member of the circle. "What I'm proposing is necessary."

"What you're proposing is stupid," Konstantin mocks.

"Enough." I don't even have to raise my voice. The moment I speak, the room falls silent and every pair of eyes turns to me. "You are both right. We cannot let this go unanswered. But the Ivanovs are too strong at the moment. It's the reason Petyr made such a bold move against us. He knew he had the upper hand."

"So what do you suggest?" Klim asks.

"I suggest a shadow war. We fight quietly. We peel open their defenses with scalpels, not swords. We buy up their resources. We bring them to their knees without them even knowing it. And when they're sufficiently weakened, that's when we cut off their heads."

The men exchange glances.

Isaak Egorov leans forward. "What you're describing sounds like a hostile takeover."

I nod. "That is precisely what I'm describing. We will dismantle them from the inside. The most difficult thing will be having patience."

"It will also give us time to shore up our defenses," Yuri muses. "Sir, if I may be so bold, perhaps one of the best ways to do that would be... with a strategic partnership. The kind that demonstrates the extent of our reach. An unassailable show of resources."

For a moment, I wonder why everyone is looking at me. Then it clicks in my head what Yuri is suggesting.

A marriage.

My expression falls flat. "No."

"Don Orlov-"

"I just buried my brother. I'm a little full-up on ceremony at the moment."

"Not now, of course," Klim demurs. "But... in the near future, perhaps? A marriage alliance will not only bring us added strength; it will also ensure an heir."

Jesus, we are already talking about heirs? It makes me sick to my stomach. My brother should be here, right fucking here-but he's not. He's dead, and the weight of the world is crushing me.

A mere three days ago, all of this would have seemed like a hilarious fever dream.

Now, it's all sickeningly real.

"My brother's son-"

"Is a threat to you," Yuri cuts in firmly. "Unless you would consider Cyrille Orlov as a bride...? Marrying her would counteract the possibility of a splinter faction rallying around the boy."

I look around the table, jaw clenched tight. Konstantin is the only one who remains pointedly silent. If they'd brought this up with him beforehand, he'd have been able to warn them not to mention it.

"You want me to marry my newly widowed sister-in-law as a political ploy?" My voice is low, gravelly, dangerous.

"There will be men within the Bratva who wish to throw their support behind the son of the deceased don, not the brother," Klim warns carefully.

His implication is obvious. Schism. Mutiny. Civil fucking war.

I grimace. "The son in question is currently nine years old. If they wish to do that, they're welcome to. They'll find him less interested in hostile takeovers and more interested in video games."

"Sir-"

I slam my fist down on the table and the room falls silent a second time. "Let me make this very fucking clear: my nephew is not a threat. My sister-in-law is not a pawn. I will not use either one of them in this game-and I will not take a wife. This is the last I wish to hear about it."

I look around the table, searching for signs of dissent or disapproval. I'm met with nothing but acceptance.

I nod, satisfied. "Our goal now is simple: take down the Ivanov Bratva. Once we do, Petyr Ivanov will have nowhere to hide. Then he will finally be made to answer for my brother's murder."

Konstantin clears his throat. "So once the mourning period is over-"

"No," I say, cutting him off. "There will be no mourning period. We start immediately. We start now."

PAIGE

Silver Eyes is watching me closely as I sit. He took the position in the corner booth with his back against the wall. I note how his eyes flick to each of the exits quickly, as if measuring the distance, calculating probabilities, planning his next moves.

Anthony used to do that exact same thing. He'd refuse to sit anywhere he couldn't see everything happening in the room. I used to call him paranoid.

On Silver Eyes, though, it just makes me wonder what kind of dangers I'm not seeing.

My stomach growls again. "Sorry," I mumble, my cheeks on fire. "I haven't eaten much today."

"No wonder you were ready to devour Francesco."

I roll my eyes. "He wasn't in any real danger."

A server brings over a tray with drinks. Silver Eyes sips on his gin and tonic while I reach for the glass of Coke. I only mean to take a sip, but the sweetness and the fizz are so good that I end up downing the entire glass.

Silver Eyes doesn't look away, not even for a second. He just raises his hand and the server materializes instantly. "Another drink for my guest," he orders.

"Right away, sir." The man practically sprints away to carry out his orders.

I regard him suspiciously. "Are you the owner?"

"Just a faithful patron." Setting his drink down, he folds his hands on the table in front of them and leans forward to observe me closer. His eyes seem to crank up in intensity when he does that. It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.

Those things are weapons in his hands. Or in his eye sockets, or whatever.

I'm not making much sense. Even after downing a whole pizza, I'm still hungry.

"Is there a reason you aren't eating?" he asks. "Or do you just like to torture yourself?"

This is the part where I lie. I don't want to sound like a victim, and God knows I've been the beneficiary of enough pity these last few weeks.

But somehow, I get the feeling that this man isn't the type to feel pity for anyone.

"Cash flow is a little lacking at the moment," I explain stupidly.

"Did you lose your job?"

I suppress a sigh. "My job, my home, my husband-you name it, I lost it." The waiter arrives with another glass of Coke. He sets it down and vanishes once again. "Although, considering my husband was never really my husband, I suppose he doesn't count."

"Explain."

I gulp. Normal people don't talk like that. They don't hold up fingers and have waiters haul ass to do their bidding. They don't say Explain to strangers and sit patiently as if anything but a complete explanation is immediately forthcoming.

Silver Eyes scares me.

"Apparently, our marriage wasn't legally binding."

"But you thought it was."

I wince. The more times I hear that out loud, the dumber I feel. "For the last six years, yeah."

His irises glisten in the candlelight. "Let me guess," he says. "He cleared out your bank accounts before he disappeared on you, so now, you don't have any money of your own."

I thought when we sat down that I'd appreciate the refreshing change of pace. No pity from this guy, no I'm so sorry that happened to you; hang in there, champ. But when he says it like that-cold, apathetic, condescending-I find myself bristling instead. I'm about ready to throw my drink in his face and storm out, free Coke be damned.

But then the waiter returns with pizza.

That's what my pride is worth, it seems: a slice of pizza. There's no way I'm leaving this table now.

I grab a piece of pizza as soon as he sets it down, ignoring the brick-oven heat searing at my fingertips, and take a bite.

"Oh, sweet mother of God," I breathe as the savory, salty tang of cheese and sauce fills my mouth.

Silver Eyes watches me take down the entire slice without a shred of self-consciousness. I don't even care that there's cheese plastered on the side of my mouth. I don't care that there might be basil leaves stuck between my teeth. I bartered the last scraps of my dignity for pizza, and the sad part is...

It was so fucking worth it.

"You might think I'm stupid, but I'm not," I blurt once I chew and swallow the last bite. Silver Eyes hasn't looked away for even a moment. "I trusted Anthony. He was my husband, and I trusted him. I won't be ashamed of that."

He toys with the hinge on his diamond cufflinks as he watches me dab pizza grease from my lips. "Trust is an assumption. Assumptions get people hurt."

"Everyone makes assumptions."

"Not me." He says it so deadly serious that, as bizarre of a statement as that is, I actually kinda believe him.

"No? You didn't assume anything about me when you saw me getting ready to fist-fight your maître d'?"

"Not an assumption," he corrects. "An observation."

"Tomato, tomahto. Please, tell me, oh Wise One: what did you observe?"

For the second time, the corner of his mouth twitches up in something akin to a smile. It makes me shudder. "That you're not as timid as you seem."

I frown. "Hm. I'm pretty sure there's a compliment in there somewhere."

His lips do that twitch again, and again, I feel a snaking sense of excitement surge down my spine. It's just the sugar rush, I tell myself. It doesn't mean anything.

"I have a hotel room at the Four Seasons tonight," he tells me abruptly. "You should come see the view."

Goosebumps spread down my arms, but I control my expression, hiding my panic deep inside. I wonder how many times he has heard the word "no" in his life. I'd be shocked if the answer had two digits.

"Should I?"

"You should. Unless you have someplace you'd rather be...?"

His eyes glow. I'm pretty sure he's making fun of me.

He opens his wallet and puts five hundred dollars in cash on the table. It's four times the cost of the meal, easily. I get the sense he is trying to make a point: that even if I did turn him down, it wouldn't matter to him. He's bored. Or maybe just horny. Whatever the case, if I say no, he'll just find another woman. With his face and that roiling confidence, it wouldn't be a hard ask. He could just stick his head out of the door and have every female on the block fawning and ovulating in an instant.

For reasons I'm not entirely clear on, I don't like that idea one bit.

"I'm not sure I should."

"It's not like you have a husband to go home to. Or, for that matter, a home to go home to."

That, finally, is what makes me leap to my feet. "Buying a pizza doesn't entitle you to sit there and rip my life to pieces," I snap. "My husband left, yeah, but I didn't do anything wrong. I'm the victim here. You're just a smug douche with a gaudy watch."

He says nothing. Those eyes gleam.

That pisses me off more than anything he could've said.

I turn and storm away, though there's a twinge of regret in my gut for all the pizza I'm leaving behind and the hungry days that lie ahead. I wind between tables, past the gawking patrons who've begun to file in, and burst back out into the night.

The air is bracingly cold, even colder than it was when I went in. My stomach rumbles again, but I silence it as I look up and down the sidewalk.

Silver Eyes was right about one thing: I don't have anywhere to go. Left, right, it doesn't matter. I'm about to flip a coin in my head and march off in a random direction to find somewhere I can huddle up until morning.

But before I can...

A hand clamps down on my wrist.

PAIGE

I whip around with a scream on my lips to see, shocker of all shockers, Silver Eyes standing there, framed by the light from the restaurant.

He looks like a god with that backlighting. Like something on fire. His gray suit fits his shoulders perfectly, and the snowy white of his button-down shirt glows in the moonlight.

I'm honestly stunned that he followed me out. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who chases after things. Life just falls in his lap effortlessly. But chase me he did.

I don't know if I like that or not.

I wrench my wrist out of his grasp, though the heat of his touch remains like a brand on my skin. "Hands off."

"You're a sensitive one," he remarks.

"Yeah, well, I've had a pretty shitty week. I keep running into assholes."

He tilts his head to the side. "There's a saying about that: when you meet an asshole, you just met an asshole. When everyone you meet is an asshole, you might be the asshole."

His breath fogs in the night air. Truth be told, I'm a little dizzy from the sudden deluge of calories and emotions, so I'm having a hard time puzzling out what he's trying to convey.

"Are you calling me an asshole?" I ask at last.

He chuckles. "I'm offering you a place to stay for the night, Paige. No expectations. Just a soft bed and a door that locks."

My frown deepens. "No expectations?"

"None whatsoever." He holds up his hands to show me they're empty. His watch reflects the streetlight overhead and inky black tattoo tendrils crawl up the underside of his wrist.

They really are big hands. Capable hands. Dangerous hands.

"Fine," I say. "But you'd better keep those to yourself." I point at his hands so he knows what I'm talking about.

"As you wish." He tucks them into his pockets, then looks over my shoulder.

I follow his gaze to see a sleek black Porsche purring at the curb. "That's yours?"

"That's ours," he corrects.

He walks around to the driver's side while the valet opens my door. I get into the passenger's seat, trying to decide if this is a hunger-fueled fantasy or if this is really happening.

Either way, I decide to see it through. For right now, as we pull away, I enjoy the wind running cool fingers through my hair and the comfort of having someone by my side.

Reality can bite me in the ass again tomorrow. I'll take a beautiful lie for tonight.

6

PAIGE

My heart is hammering so hard that the walk from his car through the hotel lobby is a blur. I'm barely standing, let alone taking in my surroundings. I only clock back in when I walk into the sprawling, palatial suite that he had the audacity to call a "room."

"What on earth is this?" I blurt, pivoting on the spot. "Who are you?"

To say this place is fancy is like saying the ocean is deep. There's a sitting room with white plush furniture to my left, glass double doors that open onto a private balcony with a marble-lined jacuzzi, and a wet bar off to the right. Around a corner is another set of doors that leads to what I assume is the bedroom. Looming over the living room is the head of an honest-to-goodness rhino. I shudder to think what the ivory in those tusks might be worth.

He flicks off his shoes one by one and strips off his jacket, then folds it in half carefully and lays it over the back of the armchair. I watch as he rolls his sleeves up to reveal brawny, rippling forearms. They're borderline pornographic, to be honest. And, like his eyes, he knows how to use them.

"My name is Misha Orlov," he says at last when he directs his gaze back to me.

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"Maybe it's best we keep it that way." He leads me into the living room.

"This place is a freaking castle," I say, following after him because I'm half-afraid of getting lost in this five-star labyrinth.

"It suffices."

"Beats the trailer," I snort. He raises an eyebrow and I blush. "I, uh... I lived in a trailer until I was seventeen. This is better than that, is what I'm saying."

"I see." Misha goes to the bar, leaving me fidgeting awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Would you like a drink?"

I refrained back at the restaurant, but my stomach is full and I'd love to ease the strain between my shoulders. "Okay. When in Rome, I guess."

A minute later, he brings back two champagne flutes brimming with beautiful gold liquid.

"Are we celebrating something?" I ask as he hands me one.

"We're celebrating your full stomach. And Francesco's continued good health."

I laugh against my better judgment and follow him out onto the balcony. There's a table set up there with two ornate white garden chairs. He sinks into one of them and crosses an ankle over the opposite knee. I take the other, though I stay perched on the edge of it like this might all go topsy-turvy any second.

I take a sip of the champagne and have to stifle a gasp. It's like drinking starlight.

Speaking of starlight, I look out over the balcony. The night sky is huge and dark violet, studded with glowing white pinpricks. The stars almost seem within reach from here.

"Your trailer park probably didn't offer a view like this," he remarks.

I wince. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. I don't like talking about that part of my life."

"Which part of your life do you like talking about?"

"More than you seem to think. Up until Anthony skipped out on me, I had a lot to be proud of."

"Like what?"

I finish the flute of champagne and place it on the table next to me. "Anthony and I started a business together. Just a small print shop, but it paid the bills. It allowed us to buy a house and go out for dinner a couple of times a week. I honestly thought we were living the dream."

"Until he made it a nightmare?"

"Yeah. Something like that." Humorless laughter escapes through my lips. "I thought my lowest point in life was living in a trailer with parents who hated me. But I guess it's all about perspective, you know. Even a trailer beats being homeless."

I reach up and twist my pendant between my fingers. For reasons I can't explain, I feel like the floodgates have opened. I want to talk, even if all he does is sit there silently and drink champagne and watch me with those molten eyes.

"I'm being a little dramatic. I'm only homeless for three more nights. Then I get to move into a shitty little studio apartment on Elston Avenue and start a shitty little job at some shitty little company."

"Crash on a friend's couch until then."

If only. "You say that like it's easy. I... lost touch with my friends over the years. Anthony was all I had by the end."

"Then I offer you my condolences. Life without friends is a lonely endeavor."

I eye the champagne bottle where it sits on the bar. Misha follows my gaze and, without asking, rises to go retrieve it. I'm about to protest that he doesn't need to do that, but I get a little caught up in watching him move.