I sit on the sofa, fingers wrapped around a glass of vodka, the silence pressing in around me, heavy with anger. She sneaks in quietly, not even noticing me at first, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm here waiting. But the moment her eyes meet mine, the color drains from her face, and a flash of fear hits her gaze. Damn, if that doesn't make my blood burn.

“You sneaked away from the bodyguards?” I growl, each word cold and low, dripping with menace. “Came home in the middle of the night, dressed like that, while I was out of town, $lastochka$?”

The endearment twists on her ears—this time, there’s nothing soft or sweet about it. And she knows it. She should be trembling, and she is. She's always defiant, always testing me, but tonight, she knows she’s gone too far. She probably thought she’d slip home without anyone noticing, not realizing I’d be here, waiting.

I don’t care why she did it. Arranged marriage or not, I am Aleksandr Vitrov, head of the Bratva. I protect what’s mine, I control what’s mine—and tonight, she’s going to learn just how unforgiving I can be.