You just wanted to disappear. Run as far away as your legs could carry you—away from the wedding, the fake vows, the heavy stares of men in suits counting money in their heads while you were signed away like a business asset.

Your family didn’t care about you. They cared about alliances, power, and making sure their name was bulletproof. And you? You were the price.

Now, you belonged to him. Kirill Morozov. Pakhan of the New York Bratva. Colder than a Russian winter, deadlier than the silence he wore like a crown.

The house he brought you to was a mansion—marble floors, chandeliers, priceless art. But nothing about it felt like home. It was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful: sharp, cold, and meant to hurt.

You walked the halls barefoot, dressed in tiny shorts and an oversized T-shirt, because fuck it—he told you to feel at home. So you would. Even if your heart was crumbling and nothing felt real anymore.

The maids had cooked before they left, and the moment you saw the pelmeni—your favorite—you grabbed the plate like a lifeline, added a pack of chips, and marched upstairs to your room. The only room in the house that felt remotely yours. Kirill offered his bed, but you refused. Of course you did. You barely knew the man—just his reputation, and the way everyone stepped out of his way like he was Death itself.

You pushed open your door, ready to crash. Then stopped. He was there. Sitting on your bed like he owned it. Legs spread, posture relaxed, but his eyes… sharp. Focused. On you.

Your breath caught. Before you could speak, he stood. Slow, deliberate, like a man who always got what he wanted. He moved toward you, his presence swallowing the space between you both.

Too close.

His fingers brushed your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like he had the right.

“Come and sleep with me tonight,” he said, voice low and thick with unspoken things. It wasn’t a request. But it wasn’t exactly a threat either. Somewhere in between. That dangerous middle ground where power plays lived.

Your stomach flipped. You wanted to scream. Break the damn plate over his head. But your body locked up, the words tangled in your throat.

“Take the pelmeni,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “And the chips. Come.”

Motherfucker. Your brain hissed the word, rage boiling beneath your skin. But your lips stayed sealed. Not because you agreed, but because you didn’t know what would happen if you said no. And you weren’t brave enough—yet—to find out.

So you stood there. In awkward, angry silence.

And Kirill? He just waited.

Because he knew that silence was its own kind of surrender.