I wake up with a throbbing headache and the sun shining brightly through the open drapes. Polina. There’s no doubt it was her—she must’ve walked in while I was knocked out.
I wonder why she didn’t try waking me up, though. Probably because she saw how much of a shitstorm went down during dinner last night and decided that her plans to bring Roman and me together were futile.
“Shit,” I groan as I drag myself out of bed, almost falling back from the pain that stabs deep into my skull.
Why does it feel like I drank too much? I didn’t. All I did was spend an ungodly amount of time crying and then throwing up, then crying some more and more bile. I thought about showering, but I’m not sure I went through with it. Because all I remember after flushing the toilet was dragging myself to bed and pulling the covers over my head, pretending that I was somewhere far away where nothing could get to me.
Somewhere in the middle of playing pretend, I fell asleep.
I shake my head as I walk to the bathroom, closing the door with a click. I gasp at the sight of myself in the mirror. I’ve never seen worse bed hair than the mess on my head, my eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, dark circles under them, and I must’ve dragged my nails down my throat because I see a fresh cut.
“You look horrible, Isabella,” I mutter, stating the obvious aloud. My stomach grumbles too, reminding me that I not only stink up a storm, I barely ate dinner.
I need a shower first.
As I step inside, the water rains hot down my hair and pours over my body. I throw my head back and close my eyes, taking deep breaths.
“If you think he doesn’t deserve to face the consequences, then you’re as much a hypocrite as your father is.” Roman’s quiet words echo in my head, bringing back patchy images from the argument we had.
Am I…really a hypocrite? I’ve spent the past weeks defending my father and damning Roman to hell. I wished him all kinds of dark fates, and I told myself I didn’t care if he had to die to gain my freedom.
But if my father did kill his dad, can I still blame him for what he’s done? If the reverse were true, what would I have done?
Everything, and that’s the truth. I’d have done anything to avenge my father’s death, no matter the price. Even if it meant pulling a bullet through the forehead of anyone who stood in my way.
He taught me that—my father. Loyalty. Responsibility. Duty. They came before everything else, including fickle emotions like affection or empathy. Apparently, they came at the expense of family too, because he didn’t hesitate to sell me off to the highest bidder.
Why would I expect Roman to behave differently? The Riccis might have been an extension of the bratva, but he belongs at the center. Head of the Volkov brotherhood. Even if he thought of sparing my father, he has responsibilities to the organization under his control.
The water turns cold as I lose myself in muddled thoughts, but when I step out, it’s with one resolution—I don’t care what my father does or who he makes dealings with.
I’m no longer his daughter.
Isabella Volkov. I wipe the fogged mirror, staring at my reflection. “Isabella Volkov,” I whisper.
I told myself I’d never utter the last name aloud, and now it rolls off my tongue with acceptance. My marriage to Roman might’ve been against my will, and he might be an emotionless, ruthless brute, but a life with him is better than holding on to my father’s empty promise.
“He was never going to hand it over to you.”
My hands grip the edge of the sink as I suck in a deep breath, hanging my head low. It’s over now. I need to think of how to survive here, being Roman’s wife, until I figure out a way out.
This might be less than hell, but it’s not heaven either—it’s just a temporary place.
The sound of my phone ringing pulls me out of the bathroom in a hurry. I yank up the edge of my mattress to retrieve it.
It’s Nico. “Nico?” I say.
“Miss Ricci.”
Volkov. I don’t correct him. “Yes?”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes,” I respond flatly. I’m safer here than in my father’s presence.
He sighs. “Good. Your father and I communicated after I called you. And—we’ve decided to do something about Roman Volkov today.”
My eyes widen like saucers, and a gasp dissolves between my lips. “Today?”
“Yes.”
When he told me they were going to take Roman out—kill him—I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon. After I tried finding out the plan without success, I concluded I’d let it happen without my input. Then we argued last night and I completely forgot.
Back then, I saw it as a way out. Now…I’m not so sure. I exhale again, biting my fingernail nervously. “Is he going to do it himself? My dad, I mean? Or is he going to make someone else do his dirty work like he’s been doing for weeks?” Anger seeps into my voice.
“Igor Smirnov.”
Something about the name makes my brows knot tight. My thoughts scatter, and without thinking, I bite off my cuticle, wincing at the sharp pain. “Who is that?”
Nico’s silence stretches longer than usual, making the tension in my chest grow.
“I deserve to know something, at least!” I snap, frustration bursting out of me. “If you were going to keep me in the dark, you shouldn’t have called.”
“He’s a friend of your father’s. He once asked for your hand in marriage, but your father felt marriage to the Glazastov was a better option for everyone.”
Oh. I see. I shake my head as a mirthless, hollow laugh escapes. “Marriage? Everyone? I was a bargaining tool, and I wasn’t even asked?” Nico doesn’t answer, but I know the truth already, so I don’t push. “Why is he agreeing to help now? I doubt he’s pleased that my father sidelined him.”
“Because you’re going to be married to him once Roman is dead.”
The air feels thin, like I’m suffocating, as Nico’s words hang in the air, vibrating in my chest.
“Marry him?” The question escapes me in a whisper, disbelief flooding every inch of my being. “After everything…you’re telling me that once Roman is gone, I’m supposed to marry someone else?”
Nico doesn’t need to confirm it—my stomach has already sunk. The truth slams into me like a freight train, and I stagger back, gripping the edge of the bed for support.
He doesn’t care. I already know this, but god, it stings. My freedom, getting me out of here…nothing matters to Marco Ricci except his agenda. While I was suffering here, he was thinking about his next move. His next power play.
Killing Roman is just a way to put it into effect.
I try to steady myself, my hands trembling, but it’s useless. “You…you think I’m going to just accept this?” My voice rises, trembling with a mix of fury and disbelief. “You think I’ll marry Igor Smirnov? After I agreed to marry some other person I barely knew? Just like that? Like I’m some pawn to be moved around on a chessboard?”
“It’s for your own good,” Nico replies. “He’s a stable man with enough connections to keep your father afloat.”
Fucking Marco Ricci! I see now why Roman talked about putting a bullet through his eyes.
“Once he’s out of the way, I’ll send some men to get you. I’ll be in touch, Miss Ricci.”
“It’s Volkov,” I hiss, but the call has ended.
I toss the phone on the bed as my head burns hot, anger and rage running white through me. I should’ve seen the signs a long time ago. No. I shake my head. I saw them. I just didn’t want to believe it.
Now, my father is going to kill Roman.
I fly across the room and down the stairs with Polina’s name on my tongue. “Polina? Polina?”
She appears.
“Roman.” My heart pounds. “I need you to call Roman.”
“Mr. Volkov?” She frowns. “Is anything the matter?”
Yes. He’s going to die. “No. But I need you to call him now.”
Still confused, she reaches into her pocket and takes out her phone. Then it hits me—I can’t call Roman. He might not believe me, or he might think I’m luring him into a trap.
I’m the last person he’d trust to keep him from getting hurt by my father.
“Leo.” I snap my fingers. “I need you to call Leo instead. Quickly.”
She does so without hesitation, and I snatch the phone from her hand and hear it ring. It rings, on and on, like a countdown toward an execution. “Pick up,” I mutter frantically as I tap my foot. “Pick up, please. Please answer the phone.”
It clicks.
“Hello?”
“Leo?” I don’t waste time with preamble. “Are you with Roman?”
“Isabella? No. Why?”
“Call him. I need you to call and tell him that he’s in danger. My father is going to try to kill him today.”
Hours.
That’s how long I pace the living room, listening to every sound outside the door. Once, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, but it barely touches my lips before I race back when I hear the door open.
It isn’t Roman. Or Leo, either.
He killed him. I was too late, and my father succeeded. My mind begins to spiral, drowning in dark thoughts. He’s dead. Roman is dead.
The thought of it is too much to bear, too suffocating. I stumble back to the couch, collapsing onto it, my hands tugging through my hair as tears run down my face.
Then I hear footsteps outside. I freeze as my heart leaps into my throat, and the door opens.
Roman.
I barely have time to register his presence before I’m on my feet, rushing toward him, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“Roman.” My voice breaks as he shakes his head, telling me to stay away. His shirt is stained red with blood, and his movements are slow as he cradles his left arm in his other hand, keeping a firm grip on the spot, still leaking blood.
“What happened?” My voice shakes, barely above a whisper. He drops onto the smaller sofa and I turn to Leo, desperate for answers. “What happened to him? I thought I called. I was early enough, wasn’t I?”
“A gunshot,” Roman grunts. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
My hands fly to my mouth as I gasp. Gunshot? I was too late, then. I could’ve told him the day I got the call from Nico, but I waited until the last moment, clinging to my anger against him.
I bite my lip hard, keeping the tears away as I approach him.
Regret fills me as I crouch, and my hands tremble when I touch his arm. His body stiffens beneath my touch, and he winces, his jaw clenched tight. “You should go to the hospital,” I say. “Why isn’t he at the hospital?” I turn to Leo.
“It’s a flesh wound,” Roman replies before Leo can. “You should go, Isabella.” His eyes flicker to mine.
I can’t. I caused this. And I need to fix it, somehow.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he moves, his face turning pale from the pain.
I clear my throat and rub my hands down my pants. “You’ll need to get it stitched, at least. I’ll do it for you if you’re not going to the hospital.”
Roman scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “I don’t need a fainting nurse on my hands, printsessa. I’ll see to it myself.”
I grit my teeth, the urge to snap back rising in my chest, but I bite it back—just barely. I step back, folding my arms across my chest, and glare at him with as much defiance as I can muster. “Princess? I’m not weak, Roman. I’ve seen my fair share of flesh wounds and stitched up enough. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m useless.”
His eyes narrow, his gaze sharp, and he tilts his head, a dangerous smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I never said you were weak because you’re a woman, Isabella. Far from it. But you shouldn’t claim to be what you are not.”
“Says the man who’s still bleeding out and might pass out any time soon,” I retort, not backing down an inch.
“Oh?” He chuckles, then turns a shade paler. I don’t wait for his quip before I turn, racing off as adrenaline kicks in, my footsteps pounding against the floor. I find Polina in the hallway, standing by the wall with a small box in her hands, holding it out to me.
“Take,” she urges, her voice steady, almost too calm. “You’ll need this.”
“Have you…” I start to ask, but she cuts in—a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, asking me not to finish the question.
She’s been working with him for years. It’s probably not her first time seeing Roman all bloodied. That’s why she looks so calm.
I nod, accepting the box, muttering, “Thank you.”
Roman is slumped on the sofa in the living room, still gritting his teeth against the pain. Crouching, I open the box, pull out the scissors, and set them to work on his shirt.
As I peel the material away, the sight of the blood—too much of it—makes my head spin. I steady myself, taking a deep breath, trying to push down the rising nausea. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d seen my fair share of flesh wounds, but I was definitely stretching the truth when I said I’d stitched them.
I took some classes because my father made them mandatory, but I never got to practice on a human. I can’t let him know that, though. I need to atone for stopping his revenge in some way. When I do, then I can call it even.
Then, I can leave without a stain on my conscience.
My needle goes through flesh as I work quietly, clamping down my jaw to keep the bile away. I tell myself it’s just like the lifelike dolls I used to practice on, only bigger and more…personal.
Roman doesn’t make a noise, but I can tell he’s in pain from how he jerks and the muscles in his arm strain like they want to escape.
“There,” I say quietly as I step back. “You’re good as new.”
He inspects the stitches as I gather the instruments and the bloodied patch of his shirt, shoving them into the box. I’ll deal with it later.
“You were telling the truth,” he says.
It’s a simple comment, but it feels like high praise coming from him. My cheeks heat up as they turn red, and my fingers fumble, almost dropping an instrument.
“Thank you.” Box in hand, I rise to my feet. “You shouldn’t put pressure on the arm so you don’t rip your stitches before they’re ready to come out. And you might want to go to the hospital to ensure there’s no infection.”
“Bella.” He calls my name as I turn. I pause but can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. “You told Leo that your father was planning to kill me. You could’ve said nothing, and I might’ve died, earning you your freedom. Why didn’t you?”
Because it wasn’t freedom.
Because a part of me didn’t want to see Roman die. It could be that somewhere, in all the hate, I found a way to care for him.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just did.”
“You’re smarter than that,” he replies, not letting me go. “You wouldn’t do something like that unless you had a reason. Tell me, printsessa. Have you fallen in love with me?”
