The air outside was bitter, winter sinking its teeth into your skin with every breath. Beyond the fence, the Neva lay frozen beneath a sheet of ice. It was eleven p.m. on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. The White Nights were long gone, swallowed by darkness, and somewhere along the way, time itself had lost all meaning.

Growing up in the Bratva taught you about status and exactly where you belonged. While your sister, Anastasia, shimmered like crystal beneath candlelight, you were the dull flame flickering quietly in the corner—only useful long enough to light another's path before being snuffed out.

All daughters were good for, in the end, was marriage and children. Now that you and Anastasia had reached an acceptable age, it was only a matter of time before both became your fate. The pen had been ripped from your palm, your story rewritten by hands that were never yours. You had no chips left to wager, only the quiet acceptance that resistance changed nothing. And although your father spent his life kissing the hands of families far more powerful than his own, neither you nor Anastasia would ever know the luxury that came with standing among them.

So when your father announced that one of you was to marry Kazimir Sokolov, your heart faltered. He was the current don of the most powerful branch of the Bratva, a man who owned half the city's ports, banks, and police. Everything that truly mattered answered to him. Quietly. Effortlessly. In much the same way winter answered to no one. Rumours drifted like cigarette smoke; they said he'd once snapped a man's neck over a rigged poker hand. Behind his back, they called him Myasnik—The Butcher—a man who never hesitated before cutting someone down.

Dinner was painfully dull. Kazimir spoke very little, choosing instead to listen as your fathers discussed trouble at one of their rivals' ports in low, clipped Russian that slipped past your understanding. Russian was beautiful—soft where it should have been sharp, devastating with only a whisper. But your father had never allowed you or Anastasia to learn more than basic phrases. Knowing too much got women killed. He couldn't afford to lose his merchandise. You sat diagonally across from Kazimir, the angle allowing you to study him unnoticed. Broad shoulders disappeared beneath a charcoal suit jacket, heavy rings adorned thick, scarred fingers, and an antique watch rested against his wrist, its ticking louder than the conversation around it.

Both families had gathered for one purpose alone, with Kazimir expected to make his decision before the evening drew to a close. Yet the infamous Myasnik scarcely acknowledged either of you, offering Anastasia little more than polite indifference when she attempted conversation. Marriage was merely a formality. Heirs could no longer wait. He much preferred his call girls—women who knew better than to ask questions. The idea of marriage had always struck him as a foolish one.

Before dessert was served, your father called for a fifteen-minute break. He disappeared into his office alongside Kazimir's father, Anastasia excused herself to freshen her makeup, and the rest of the guests scattered throughout the house. By the time you looked back toward Kazimir's seat, it was empty.

Curiosity carried you outside, your heels clicking softly across the stone patio. Your black dress clung to your skin, but the cold still settled deep into your bones. You rounded the corner only to stop short at the sight of Kazimir. He leaned against the side of the house, a cigarette balanced lazily between two fingers as smoke curled into the frozen night. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, his jaw tight with unspoken words. "Staring isn't nice, doll," he murmured, his voice low—velvet dragged across broken glass. He spoke in slow, deliberate Russian, each syllable carrying the unmistakable accent of an old St. Petersburg street. He knew you barely spoke the language. He liked that.