“I don’t care who Mikhail is. I don’t care who he’s going to be. I don’t want to marry him, and that’s final!”
Tori put every ounce of defiance she could muster into her expression and glared at her stepfather across the massive oak desk. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she refused to let even a flicker of fear show on her face. She had learned long ago that in this world, showing weakness was the fastest way to lose.
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been summoned to this study over the years. As a little girl, she used to sneak in here when her stepfather was on the phone, crawling around on the thick Persian rug while pretending to be a secret agent on a mission. Later, when she was older, she would sit at the edge of the big desk and draw pictures with crayons, her tongue poking out in concentration. And then there were the endless hours spent sinking into the oversized leather chair opposite him, legs dangling, while he delivered one of his calm, icy lectures about her “penchant for unruly behavior.”
But today was different. Today the air felt heavier, thicker with the scent of aged leather, polished wood, and the faint trace of her stepfather’s expensive cologne. Today she wasn’t here for a scolding. She was fighting for her entire future.
“Tori, you must be reasonable.” Stanislas Vasiliev leaned back in his chair, his narrow face as composed as ever. He was the very image of a powerful man within the Boston Bratva — sharp cheekbones, a meticulously trimmed pointy goatee, and a tailored black suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. His stoic demeanor rarely cracked, but Tori had learned to read the tiny signs: the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, the way his intense blue eyes could pin you in place like a butterfly on a board.
“I am making arrangements for your future,” he continued smoothly. “I will not be here to clean up your messes and take care of you forever.”
Tori felt a sharp twist in her chest. She wasn’t sure what angered her more — the casual way he spoke about “cleaning up her messes,” as if she were still a reckless teenager getting into trouble, or the grim reminder that one day he might not be here at all. The thought of losing the only father she had ever really known sent a cold wave of panic through her, but she shoved it down hard.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said, forcing her voice to sound light and nonchalant even as her hands clenched in her lap. “You’re as healthy as a horse, and I don’t need you to take care of me or my messes. I can take care of myself just fine.”
Stanislas studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the smooth, gleaming surface of the desk. He pressed his palms together as though he were praying for her compliance — or perhaps praying for patience.
“Tori,” he said, his voice low and measured, “I have no son to take my place within the Bratva. After Alexei ran away, there is nobody left. I must name a successor.”
Tori shrugged, trying to appear indifferent even though her stomach was churning. “So name him. Whatever. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Mikhail is my successor,” Stanislas said flatly. “I have already notified the council. They have approved my choice.” His piercing blue eyes bored into hers, as though he could see every rebellious thought swirling in her head. “The only thing that remains is to fortify Mikhail’s position within my household.”
Tori’s mouth went dry. She had a terrible, sinking feeling she knew exactly what that meant. “What does that mean?” she asked, though the words came out weaker than she wanted.
“I’m not Alexei. I’m not your natural child. That’s not for me to do!”
Stanislas ground his teeth together — a rare visible sign of irritation. Tori had seen that exact look countless times before. It usually appeared right after one of her more reckless stunts, when she was dragged into this very room and forced to endure another lecture on how a young woman in their world was supposed to behave.
“Alexei was my son,” Stanislas said, his voice dropping to an ice-cold tone that sent chills down her spine. “He was also a coward.”
“Being gay does not make him a coward,” Tori shot back, her protective instincts flaring. “You have to stop judging him for that someday.” Alexei had been her brother in every way that counted — the one who had taught her how to sneak out, who had covered for her when she got in trouble, who had made her laugh even on the darkest days. She kept it a carefully guarded secret that she still talked to him regularly, even after he had been cast out of the family.
“Alexei ran from his responsibilities,” Stanislas said, rising suddenly from his chair. He pushed away from the desk and turned his back to her, folding his hands behind him as he stared out the tall window overlooking the manicured gardens. “My son could not handle the life of a mafiya man. He was too squeamish. Too weak.” He paused, his shoulders tense. “Mikhail is nothing like him. Mikhail is strong. He is loyal. He has been tested over and over again. But to make him my son in truth, I must marry him to my daughter.”
“That’s not fair,” Tori whispered, bitterness rising like bile in her throat. Why should she be the one sacrificed on the altar of Bratva politics? Why should her entire life be reduced to a tool for strengthening alliances? “Why don’t you marry Mikhail to your son, then?”
The way Stanislas spun around to face her told Tori instantly that she had crossed a dangerous line. His eyes flashed with cold fury. She bit her lip hard, tasting the metallic tang of blood, suddenly aware of how far her insolence had carried her.
“Victoria,” he said slowly, deliberately, using her full name like a weapon. “You will do this for me. You are my child in every way that matters. I have given you much. I will continue to give you everything your position deserves. You cannot follow in Alexei’s footsteps. You cannot turn your back on your Papa.”
That was low. The words hit her like a physical blow. Tori felt every last bit of fight draining from her body, leaving her hollow and exhausted. Stanislas had always known exactly where to strike — the guilt, the loyalty, the love she still felt for the man who had raised her when no one else would.
“You’re the only parent I know,” she said quietly, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. “My mother died when I was five years old, and you still haven’t told me what really happened to her. So I guess I have no choice. Is that what you’re telling me? That if I want to be a good daughter to the man who has taken care of me like his own child, I’ll stop thinking that marriage is supposed to be about love and just accept that it’s about strengthening alliances and balancing power?”
Stanislas’s expression softened — just a fraction. “Your mother and I were married for exactly that reason,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “Her people — the Orlovs — are a powerful Bratva family. The council wanted to see the end of the feuding. Your mother’s first husband — your biological father — was an Orlov enforcer who got killed in a warehouse raid, leaving her with a tiny baby to look after.”
Tori held her breath. All her life, nobody had ever told her even this much about her origins. The revelation left her dizzy. Why had they kept it from her? And why had she never dared to ask before?
Her stepfather wasn’t finished. “Your mother and I were ordered to marry to bring peace between the families. Yet it became more than duty. It was love. I loved her deeply. I loved you as my own. My first wife had died bringing Alexei into the world. For the first time, we were a real family.”
“Then she died too,” Tori said bitterly, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “And so what if you were ordered to marry? You guys still found love with each other. But what if Mikhail and I never have that? What if I never get to experience real love at all? Are you okay with that? Or do you just not care?”
“Security is far more important than love,” Stanislas replied, the note of finality in his tone sending a fresh chill down her spine. “You will marry him. Tomorrow. And you will be obedient and respectful to him, as a wife should be.”
Anger made her feel lightheaded, but there was no point in arguing anymore. Her fate had been sealed the moment he made his decision. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out through numb lips.
“Fine.”
“Now leave me and go to your room,” he said, already turning back toward the window. “You may pack whatever you need for tonight. We will pack and move the rest of your things next week.”
She gaped at him, stunned. “What?”
“You’ll be moving to Mikhail’s home. A married woman lives with her husband.” He looked at her as though she were being deliberately slow. “Surely you did not expect to live separately from him once you were wed.”
“I didn’t think about it at all,” she snapped, rising from her chair on shaky legs, “since I never intended to actually marry the man.” She held up her hand to stop any further lecture. “Whatever. Don’t say anything else. I’m already tired of this.”
Stanislas gave an imperious wave of his hand, dismissing her. “Leave me now. And tell Mikhail I wish to speak with him.”
Tori paused at the door, her hand on the ornate brass handle. “Where is he?”
“Right outside the door.”