The morning light spilled softly through the thin, gauzy curtains, casting pale golden beams across the floor. Outside, the rain had finally stopped sometime in the night, but its remnants lingered. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and wet stone. A chill crept through the walls like a warning.
Rose lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all the questions plaguing her. She hadn't slept much—four hours, maybe less. Her mind had been a relentless storm, tossing and turning with thoughts of what was coming.
Alejandro's words echoed in her head.
Good luck.
What the hell had he meant by that?
Was Nikolai Ivanov dangerous?
She didn't know much about him. She had seen him once, briefly, when he'd walked into that sterile, too-clean room that smelled like leather and judgment. He hadn't said much, hadn't done much—except command the air like a war general stepping into battle. He had that energy about him. Controlled, dark, coiled like a predator in a suit. The kind of man who didn't raise his voice because everyone already knew better than to cross him.
Was he the Bratva? Or just a well-dressed lackey? She'd been around enough mobsters to know the difference—some strutted around like peacocks, and others didn't need to. And if Salvatore was willing to sell her to this man for an alliance, that meant Nikolai wasn't just someone in the Bratva.
He was the Bratva.
Or damn close to it.
She sighed, brushing her fingers through her wild red curls. Well, she'd survived this long. She would survive this too. Survival meant adapting, reading people, striking first. It meant sarcasm, defiance, and masking fear with teeth. She would make Nikolai regret the day he agreed to this transaction.
Still… she wondered. Did he hit?
Her stomach twisted. The idea made her cold, sick to her core. She hated physical violence more than anything. The orphanage had been brutal—cold showers, punishment rooms, belt beatings. Her aunts had taught her early that pain was something you earned by breathing too loudly.
If Nikolai ever laid a hand on her, she'd cut his dick off and feed it to him.
She sat up slowly, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Her toes met the chilled wooden floor, sending a shiver up her spine. She moved with a sluggish grace, her body heavy with resignation. A prisoner walking to her own execution.
The bathroom greeted her with misty mirrors and warm tiles. She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water scald her skin. She stayed there longer than usual, scrubbing every inch like she could wash off the anxiety, the memories, the stench of being property.
She didn't know what kind of cage awaited her at Nikolai Ivanov's estate. Would he want her in his bed? Immediately? Would he expect her to play wife? Slave? Decoration? He looked like the type of man who talked with his actions, and she suspected his dick did most of the talking.
When she finally stepped out, her skin was pink from heat. She toweled off slowly, then dressed with care. She chose a deep blue jumpsuit—short, sleeveless, tight in the right places. Something that said I don't care but still commanded attention. She didn't bother with makeup. She never did unless Salvatore insisted. This was her, raw and unfiltered.
Hair curled, lips bare, and eyes sharp, she slipped her phone and a few essentials into her purse and left the room. Her footsteps echoed down the long hallway, past oil paintings and chandeliers, past memories she didn't want. She descended the staircase with measured calm, even as her heart pounded.
The dining hall smelled of roasted coffee and buttered toast. Salvatore was already seated at the head of the long mahogany table, sipping espresso and flipping through the morning paper like he hadn't sold her soul the night before.
She sat down across from him, legs crossed, chin high.
"Good morning," she said, her voice smooth, emotionless.
"Morning," he replied, his tone surprisingly light.
From the way his lips curled around the rim of the cup, she could tell he was in a good mood.
"You seem cheerful," she commented dryly.
"Who wouldn't be? Doing business with the Bratva is every man's dream."
She clenched her jaw but didn't respond. Of course that was why he was excited. Another deal. Another connection. Another notch in his empire.
She wondered what the exchange had been. Money? Arms? Protection?
"Did you pack?" he asked.
"I don't need anything from here. I'm sure Nikolai can afford to dress me in something other than your leftovers," she said with a smirk. "Bratva men are richer, I heard."
His face darkened for a second, the muscles in his jaw twitching, but he masked it quickly.
"All talk," he said. "Give it a week. You'll be begging to come back. You won't last."
She rolled her eyes and reached for a slice of toast. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Each bite felt like chewing on sand. Neither of them spoke again. The only sounds were the occasional clink of cutlery and the soft creak of wood.
Eventually, the maids came in to clear the plates. They moved like ghosts—efficient, silent, used to being invisible.
Then the butler entered.
He was a man in his mid-fifties, tall, always in a crisp black uniform, with silver hair and eyes that never gave anything away. He had been there for everything. The one who brought her painkillers and bath salts after her first night with Salvatore. The one who never judged, never asked, never spoke.
"Mr. Ivanov has arrived, sir. He is waiting outside," the butler said.
"Ah, of course," Salvatore replied, standing and straightening his sleeves.
"Actually…" The butler cleared his throat. "He said he only wants Miss Rose. He'll contact you regarding business."
There was a pause. Salvatore's smile faltered—just for a second. Then it returned, too wide, too fake.
"Go on," he said to Rose. "Try not to cry."
She stood without a word, walked past him, and didn't look back.
The hallway stretched before her like a runway. Her heels clicked with every step. She opened the front door and stepped outside.
A sleek, black luxury car waited at the edge of the driveway. A matte finish. Tinted windows. It gleamed like a panther poised to strike.
The back door opened.
She approached slowly, heart pounding harder with each step. She lowered herself into the back seat.
And there he was.
Nikolai Ivanov.
A man sculpted from danger and quiet storms. His black tailored suit hugged his body like second skin, crisp shirt pressed to perfection. Raven-black hair, combed back with surgical precision. Oceanic blue eyes—cold, unreadable, piercing. His posture was relaxed, but there was something lethal about him. He was still, but not calm. Like a snake that hadn't decided whether to strike or wait.
She studied him briefly, noting how clean the car was. Not just clean—sterile. Immaculate. Not a single smudge on the glass. The leather seats had a faint scent of polish.
What the hell was his deal with cleanliness?
She reached into her purse, pulling out a wrapped bubblegum.
A test.
Before she could even unwrap it, his hand shot out and gripped her wrist—not hard, but firm. His long fingers wrapped around her delicate skin like iron.
He plucked the gum from her fingers, rolled down the window, and flicked it out.
"What the fuck?" she snapped.
"Sit still. Be quiet. No unwrapping. No chewing gum. Not in my car. Not in my house. Not anywhere I own."
His voice was calm. Smooth. Deceptively soft.
But there was no room for argument.
She blinked at him, lips parting in disbelief.
Was this guy serious?
She studied him again, eyes narrowing. Control freak. Cleanliness obsession. A voice that sounded like velvet dipped in arsenic.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
She leaned back in her seat, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"You really are a creep, huh?"
He didn't reply.
The engine purred to life. The car rolled forward.
She turned to the window, hiding her smile.
Let the games begin.