The asshole!
“Argh!” I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling strands loose as I pace the living room. I should’ve shot him. If I’d gotten my hands on a gun, I wouldn’t have missed.
My father didn’t have me spend hours at the shooting range, starting at age eleven, just so I could miss a target that a common man could easily shoot with one eye closed. Unlike my dead fiancé.
But I had been in shock.
I had so much on my mind already—finding out that my father had disappeared the day before my wedding, leaving a message urging me to go ahead with it because the fate of our family depended on the union, was enough to mess with my head.
First off, I was marrying a man I barely knew. A week earlier, Dad had called me into his office. I’d assumed it was to talk about retirement plans and how he wanted me to finally take over.
To take up the position I’d been training for my entire life.
No. I found a man there. A lean, unsteady-looking man with a moustache, standing in my father’s office. I recognized him immediately because he looked like Boris Glazastov’s son—the head of the Glazastov bratva faction.
And then he tells me I’ll be marrying him in a week.
Even though I protested, I had to marry him because it was the only way to keep our family safe. Dad wouldn’t give me any more explanation. If I valued duty and responsibility and wanted to take over, I’d do as he said.
So, I did.
Only to have my wedding interrupted by none other than Roman Volkov. A ruthless, cold, arrogant bastard whose reputation preceded him.
I would’ve shot him on the spot before he had the chance to walk down the aisle, but for the fear on the faces of the men my father said would protect me. And the shock that hadn’t quite left my system.
“Marry him?” I scoff loudly, thrusting my hands onto my hips. “Never.”
And the blood pact. What was that about? I know my father had dealings with the Volkov family, but according to him, it had been a short-term contract. The way Roman makes it sound, my father was a consigliere.
My father killed Roman’s father? That’s impossible.
Dmitri Volkov died in an accident. It was on the news. Roman is looking for someone to pin it on, and it’s definitely not going to be me.
My anger builds to the point where pacing doesn’t work anymore.
“I’m not a ditzy bride who’s going to cower and agree to everything just because he has some power,” I mutter under my breath, kicking off the heel I didn’t throw at Roman.
My feet hurt like hell.
The hallway leading from the living room stretches longer than I expected—wide, with high vaulted ceilings and tall windows that let in faint streaks of afternoon light. The floor beneath my feet is polished marble, cool and smooth. My anger simmers as I take in the elegant sconces that cast a soft golden glow against walls decorated with portraits of people I don’t recognize.
It’s beautiful. But also cold and imposing. Much like Roman. I’m sure he needs the space so he can contain his frigid personality without turning anyone to stone.
I’d rather turn to stone than take his last name.
I pass room after room—an ornate dining room with a table long enough to seat ten, a drawing room that smells faintly of old leather and cigars, and a sunroom with sheer curtains billowing ever so slightly.
None of them hold the man I’m looking for.
A curving staircase looms to my left, and I take it, my hand trailing over the gleaming mahogany rail. The second floor is quiet, and the silence is deafening enough that my steps quicken as I walk past closed doors. Some are slightly ajar, showing glimpses of guest bedrooms, a darkened library, and another hallway that turns sharply left.
A frustrated breath leaves me.
Did he leave? I muse, biting my lower lip. Maybe I can escape, get out and find my father.
Doubling back, I head down the stairs, turning right past the grand piano I somehow missed earlier. Then—finally—I spot a door set back from the rest, half-shielded by shadow. It’s heavy and dark, the wood carved with faint patterns.
My fingers curl around the handle, and my pulse thrums. With a soft exhale, I open the door and step into his study.
Like every other room in the house, the study is spacious. The walls are so tall that I crane my neck to see the ceiling, and the bookshelves on the side walls are filled to the top with books.
But it’s the man seated behind the desk, his face half-illuminated by the lamp perched at the edge of the desk, that catches my attention.
And steals my breath.
I never stopped to think about it, probably because I was fighting for my freedom and wondering how a man could shoot another person dead and not bat an eyelid. But Roman Volkov—as much as I hate to admit it—might be the most striking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
His eyes are a dark, deep blue. Like the ocean. A blue that carries a tempting chaos. Looking into those eyes feels like the first time I held a gun in my hand, not because my father wanted me to, but because I’d finally found the one I could call mine. It felt heavy, like it could pull me under, and I wouldn’t survive, but I craved it regardless. His hair is a striking black, with streaks of gray around the temples, and sits in thick, orderly waves pushed to the back of his head.
My gaze flickers to the bridge of his nose and the cut of his jawline. It’s almost impossible to believe he hasn’t had some work done. And his lips—slightly wide and pressed into a thin line.
His appearance sends one message. That he doesn’t care whether you live or die.
Everything about Roman Volkov screams power. Danger. At the back of my mind, alarm bells go off, telling me to run. To turn around and make it as far as possible.
For some reason, it’s not because he has me captive in his house.
No. It’s something else that pools in my stomach and sinks below with a faint but present throb. Roman Volkov might as well be the most dangerous man I’ve ever come across, but unfortunately for me…that also means he’s devastatingly irresistible.
“You’ve agreed to my proposal, yes?” His voice is rough around the edges, like silk dragged over gravel, unmistakably thick, deliberate, and unapologetic. It sinks into my skin, reaching for my senses.
Thankfully, the words get through first, and I snap out of my daze.
“Proposal?” I spit. “Even if I had a reason to, I’d never marry a liar.”
His brow arches. His head tilts. “Liar?”
“Yes.” I move from my position by the door and walk to his desk. Up close, his eyes are not just blue. They’re cold and calculating. From the corner of my eye, I see a matte-black pistol resting beside a crystal tumbler filled with whiskey.
He could kill me.
I ignore the way fright wraps around my throat, cutting off the air for a moment. “You said my father broke a blood pact and killed your father.”
Roman’s chin lifts. Yes?
“Your father died in a car accident,” I point out. “It was in the news. CEO of Volkov Industries dies in a tragic car crash,” I say as if reading the headline from memory.
He doesn’t respond, but his silence tells me I’m close to the truth, so I continue. “Why would you say my father killed him? You’re looking for someone to blame, aren’t you? And you think I’m the helpless woman who’ll let you walk all over her and be intimidated by your threats.”
Still no answer. Somehow, his silence is more infuriating than his words. “You think I’m going to cower and call my father so you can threaten him into giving you…” I throw my hands in the air with an exasperated exhale. “Whatever it is you want from him.”
I jab my finger at him. “That’s never going to happen. So you either let me go, and I won’t come after you when I leave, or you lose out on everything, including your life.”
Roman suddenly leans forward, and I jerk back instinctively. His fingers flex on the desk, and the lamplight catches a fresh gash along the back of his hand. It’s red and angry against the lean muscle and the veins that ripple along his fingers.
“I don’t want anything from your father, Isabella.” He runs my name over his tongue. “Except his head, of course.”
His head?
“And I’m disappointed,” he throws out casually. His gaze rakes over my body, open and unbothered, lingering on the low-cut neckline of my wedding dress and the transparent lace that starts inches above my knees and flows all the way to the floor.
I should’ve gone for something modest. Or extravagant. But I wasn’t about to deny myself the pleasure of my dream wedding, even if that wedding was one I didn’t fully consent to. So I went to the bridal shop and picked the second dress they showed me, which was the most expensive.
I regret that decision now because Roman’s gaze makes me feel…exposed.
Like I’m wearing next to nothing, spread out for his sole pleasure. I bite down on my lip, curbing the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
Let him look all he wants. He’ll never touch me.
“I did my research on you, Isabella Ricci,” he continues as his gaze returns to my face. “You were supposed to take over from your father. You’ve been in the family’s business since childhood, and you know how the bratva works.”
“And?” I ask pointedly.
He shrugs. “It’s odd, that’s all. That you’d believe everything you see in the news. I guess it’s because I haven’t killed your father yet. Because when I do, it won’t be an accident. It will be so gruesome that the media will report it word for word. Marco Ricci—” He gestures with his hand in the air, as if he’s reading a headline. “Consigliere for the Russian bratva, killed and dumped in a gutter like a pig.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I sneer. “You wouldn’t dare!”
When his lips curl, I realize it was bait. His theatrics, the delivery…it was all bait to see how I’d react. From the wedding upstaging till now, I’ve just been playing into his hands.
No.
No, Isabella. How could I not have seen it?
I take a deep breath, and another, until I find composure. “So you’re saying that my dad was responsible for your father’s death, and yet you framed it as a car accident? Why?” I purse my lips into a thin line. “Were you so ashamed to admit that the Volkovs have a weakness? Was it that you knew people would find and exploit that weakness, and you had no defense?”
“Did he also teach you how to be manipulative?” Roman replies, not missing a beat. “I can’t imagine you went very far. He must’ve been disappointed.”
The jerk.
“I—” I stop.
There’s no use going back and forth with him when I’m not sure what he has planned. The more I give him ways to get under the skin, the more leverage he has to keep me riled up.
Keep your head down. The first lesson my father taught me when I was finally allowed to attend meetings with him. He warned me he wouldn’t protect me, so I would face the consequences without mercy if I spoke out of turn. I was naive, but I learned my lesson after being publicly ridiculed that day. Instead of showing my hand, I learned to observe—see what the other person has before making a move.
Exhaling slowly, I let my hands drop to my sides. “I guess there’s nothing else to say, then.” I hesitate, just a fraction, to see if he’ll have any reaction to my sudden switch, but his face is like a mask, revealing nothing.
Not yet, anyway.
“I hope you don’t come to regret your decision, Roman Volkov,” I mutter, the words stiff on my tongue as I spin on my heel and walk out.
The door clicks shut behind me, but the rage and helplessness don’t. They stay lodged in my throat like a scream that’s begging to claw its way out. I bite down harder, jaw clenched, fingers fisting the fabric of my dress as I storm down the hall in bare feet.
“Calmati,” I whisper over and over. Calm down. Breathe. Focus.
I take the stairs slowly, knees aching and dress heavy as it brushes along the floor. Halfway up, I pause, bracing a hand on my thigh to catch my breath—and that’s when I feel it.
A bulge beneath the lace. My breath stutters.
I blink, my heart thudding as I hitch up my dress and reach beneath it. My fingers graze the inside of the garter to find a pocket. I find my phone inside, smooth and cool against my skin.
Shock slams into me like a wave. My mouth opens slightly as I pull my phone free, staring at it in disbelief. I slipped it there before the ceremony because I couldn’t trust anyone with it. I didn’t have bridesmaids or friends at the wedding, and my father taught me better than letting valuables fall into the wrong hands.
With the chaos that ensued, I forgot about it.
My phone. A harsh, triumphant laugh slips past my lips as I look over my shoulder, grinning at the study’s door.
Roman Volkov has no idea what he’s done. By the time he finds out he’s brought an enemy into his house, it’ll already be burned to the ground.
I’ll make sure nothing’s left. Not even the ashes.
