I read every contract before I sign.
Then my father gave me to the Pakhan in a wedding dress.
Oh God.
Marrying my family’s enemy wasn’t on my bingo card.
Yet here he is.
Six-foot-three of suited Russian.
Thirty-four. Pakhan of three boroughs. Father poisoned at the dinner table.
My surname on his suspect list.
He marries me in a snowstorm.
He hands me a name. A locked bedroom. One rule.
"You don’t ask questions you can’t unhear, malyshka."
I agree to every word.
Then I read the autopsy.
It wasn’t my father’s poison.
But wait.
He catches me in his study at three a.m. with his father’s file in my lap.
He doesn’t ask what I’m doing.
He sits down. Pours two glasses.
"Counselor."
The way his gray eyes track me across every room…
The way his hand finds my back when his soldiers can see…
The way he kisses me like the vow he meant to lie about just turned real…
This dark Pakhan is making me want to mean the damn vows.
