Arranged To The Bravta King: Chapters 1–5

Maria

My heart races from excitement even as my breath slows down. I pass several streets, occasionally stopping to listen for approaching footsteps, or worse, Dad's Ford truck.

But tonight, I'm lucky.

Soon, I hear music and laughter coming from my friend Diana's house at the end of Clover Road.

Party time.

I grin like a fool, thinking about how much fun I will have tonight. I should feel guilty, but I won't. It's my high school graduation, for fuck's sake, and I have a right to celebrate.

As I approach the house, laughter and music spill out from the open front door, welcoming me inside. I slip into the house and instantly start smiling at the crazy energy of my friends and classmates as they jam out to vintage late 90s and early 2000s music.

A small group of people stand by the pool, drinking beer and laughing loudly. I take a deep breath and walk toward them, grabbing a Coors from an open cooler as I try to blend in.

"Maria Rostova, as I live and breathe!" Diana squeals in delight when she sees me. "You made it! Oh my God, I love this look! Come on, girl. Let's show them how to dance!"

Diana's skirt is shorter than mine, and her eyes are already glassy from drinking. She's wearing heels and not Chucks like me. But most importantly, her parents are nowhere to be seen, despite all the cars in the driveway. To hear her tell it, they don't really care as long as the house doesn't burn down and the cops don't show up. It's not the first time Diana has thrown a party like this.

God, what I wouldn't give to have her parents instead of my overbearing dad.

She pulls me to the patio, and the pulsating beat of the music ignites something inside me. I throw my hands up in the air and shake my hips to NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye." My yelps rise above the rest of them.

Diana's eyes widen as she watches me act wild. The attention urges me on and I throw all caution to the wind, acting crazier and crazier. Slowly, the fear dissipates that my dad will appear to snatch me away like he's done so many times before. I'm just happy to be out of that house and having fun like normal people.

Even if it's just for one evening.

The first of many evenings, I resolve silently.

"It's always the quiet ones." Diana is laughing when I open my eyes. She grips my hand and pulls me close to whisper in my ear. "Check it out—Trevor's got his eyes on you."

I glance over my shoulder and see that Trevor—our high school's star quarterback with an athletic body toned from hours in the gym and on the field—is watching me.

My heart skips a beat when he catches my gaze. I had—no, still have—the biggest crush on him. And if I'm throwing caution to the wind tonight ...

Just play it cool, Maria. Don't get weird. Don't get nervous. Oh God, he's coming over.

"Hey, Maria!" He grins like he has me already. "Didn't think you'd show up."

"Neither did I," I admit stupidly. Ugh. So much for playing it cool.

Trevor smiles. "I'm glad you're here." He takes my hand, and we start to dance. Our bodies move in sync with the rhythm of the loud music. As our arms circle each other's waists, I feel his chest against mine. His hands caress my back, moving lower. Our lips are inches apart, and I feel the heat coming off his body. Our mouths are about to meet when an unexpected panic wave swallows me whole.

This is all happening too fast. What am I doing?

My father will ground me forever if he finds out.

No.

When he finds out.

Because somehow, my father always finds out.

"Wait." I press my hand against Trevor's chest and gently push him back, breaking our connection.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I want to ... but not here," I whisper, and the heated look returns to Trevor's eyes.

I want my first kiss to be special. I don't want to make out on the dance floor while everybody from school watches.

"Afraid your dad's going to make a surprise appearance?" Trevor teases, brushing a strand of my curly hair behind my ear. "He won't."

Everyone at school knows about how strict and controlling my dad is. And I've endured more than my share of hidden whispers and gossip.

I gaze down at my feet. I want fun. But there are boundaries I'm still not ready to cross. Should I thank my dad for that? For ruining my fun while he's nowhere in sight and keeping me safe whether I want it or not?

"It's just you and me." Trevor grins, pulling me closer. "And I'll treat you right."

I stare at him and he's waiting for approval. I nod hesitantly and Trevor smiles, lowering his head. My heart beats wildly against my chest. My common sense tries to tell me to stop, but it's too late.

"It's okay," he whispers in my ear as he pulls me close. His other hand pins my waist against him, and I feel his hardness—warm, throbbing, and inviting—press against my stomach.

"Will you be my first?"

This is what I've wanted for so long, right? A guy who wants me badly enough to do something about it. One who will give me everything he's got and not be afraid of my father.

Suddenly, the music stops.

Oh no ...

Shocked silence grips the room, and my eyes fly open to find everyone staring at me. My heart drops like a stone when I see my father, Michael Rostova, standing by the patio doors, watching me. His face is contorted in anger, but his eyes are filled with hurt. My cheeks sear in shame as I quickly disentangle myself from Trevor, who goes wide-eyed with fear when he sees my father.

Dad strides toward us with such intensity that it feels like a tornado has just hit the party.

"Step away from my daughter." He doesn't raise his voice, but there's no need for him to. The hurt in my father's eyes is gone, and in its place is something new. Something I've never seen before.

He looks like he's ready to kill.

"Fuck you, man," Trevor speaks up, drawing my father's baleful glare instantly.

He grabs Trevor by the collar and lifts him up like he weighs nothing.

"Dad! Stop!" I shout, trying to pry his tight grip off Trevor. "Don't hurt him!"

"Enough," he says, never raising his voice, yet there is no mistaking the power behind his words. His free hand grabs my arm with an iron grip that I had no idea he was capable of. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Let her go, asshole!" Trevor shouts and reaches for my dad.

Wrong answer.

Everything happens in a blur. Without warning, Dad hurls Trevor across the patio, knocking another boy into the bushes. Other than the sound of rustling branches as Trevor struggles to get up, there is only silence.

"Home. Now." Dad's voice is iron-hard like his grip, and there is an edge to his voice that tells me he will not tolerate backtalk or dissent.

All my life, he's been strict and overprotective. But this ... this is extreme, even for him.

He drags me toward his truck, ignoring the tears welling up in my eyes as he publicly humiliates me. I turn my face away from my friends' gaping stares burning into my back. I don't dare look at them, and I hope I'll never see any of them again.

Not after this.

As we approach his truck, I yank my arm free, tears streaming down my face.

"Why do you always have to ruin everything?!" I scream. My voice ends in a whine, a fact that I resent almost as much as him ruining my life.

Maria

"I don't want you to get hurt, Maria."

Dad opens the passenger's side door when we get home. He stares at me, and I sit there with my arms folded as if I could defy him. But slowly, my resolve crumbles, and I leap out of the truck, running past him to the front door. It's pathetic. I have to wait for him to open the door because I don't have a key.

"There are things I need to protect you from," he replies, unlocking the door. "Things you don't know about."

"Then tell me!" I demand. "You can't keep me in the dark forever! It's my life you're ruining, not yours!"

"You're like your mother," he says quietly, taking in a ragged breath. "Maybe I wouldn't worry about losing you if she was still here."

He always wins our arguments when he mentions her. He told me that she passed away from cancer when I was still a baby, long before I could even form any memories. But whenever I ask for any details, he never goes into it.

Almost as if he can't bear to.

Dad has raised me by himself my entire life. He's handsome in his own way, and I've seen more than a few women checking him out throughout the years. But he's never even so much as spared them a second look.

I guess he will never get over Mom. I think about her and wonder how different he must have been when she was alive. I've never even seen a photo of her. Dad said he destroyed them during a fit of grief—an act that still fills him with regret, or so he's told me about a thousand times.

But that doesn't give him the right to keep me from the world!

I hurry into our claustrophobic colonial-style house as soon as he opens the front door. Our quiet house is pretty to the eye but filled with tense silence. I turn on all the lights on the first floor; otherwise the darkness will feel like it will press down on me until I don't exist.

My knees tremble before I toss myself into a chair in the living room, and Dad sits down in a chair across from me.

We don't need to speak to keep on fighting. I refuse to look at him, but I feel the storm of emotions—anger, concern, and something else—radiating off him. I feel trapped and smothered by his love. Did Mom ever feel trapped too?

I refuse to be the first one to break the silence. It's not entirely from spite. I can hardly breathe, much less say a word.

Finally, he speaks, and his voice is strained.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe, Maria."

"You didn't have to embarrass me in front of all my friends," I mutter, staring at the empty fireplace. The overstuffed plaid furniture looks new despite being almost as old as me.

Dad never invites anyone, and I'm never allowed to bring any friends over either.

"Embarrass you?" He scowls. "Is that what you think?"

I turn to look at him and see worry lines etched deep into his rugged face. What is wrong? What is he afraid of? It can't be me.

"What else would it be?" I demand.

Dad does everything he can to keep me from having any kind of contact with the outside world, even my cousin Mercy. Hell, with the outside world in general. I'm eighteen years old and still don't have a phone or any social media profiles.

It's like he wants to keep me hidden from the world. But he never tells me why. And the longer the two of us sit here, stewing in each other's anger, the more curious I become.

I deserve to know why. I'm an adult now, aren't I?

"Dad." My anger dissolves into a mild headache. "Why do you keep me locked up like some princess in a castle? What are you so afraid of?"

"Maria ..." he starts, but then stops himself, swallowing hard. The shadow of some secret hidden pain passes over him. And then he blinks, and the emotions are erased in an instant.

I hate it when he does that.

"You won't allow me anything! Why don't you trust me? You never even give me a chance to screw up." I look away and whisper. "Who else do you have to trust but me?"

I can almost hear his mind turning behind his skull. But he refuses to answer my question, leaving us with nothing. Our chance is lost. No. His chance is lost. I won't let go of mine. I know that something has to change—for my sake.

"Fine, keep your secrets." I jump up. "I'm going to bed."

"Maria!" he calls after me, but I hurry past him, running up the stairs.

I slam the door shut, rattling the frame and letting the sound echo through the house. The silence that follows is deafening—both of us too stubborn to say anything else. As soon as I hear his footsteps pass by my door to his bedroom, my anger and frustration boil over, spilling out in hot, angry tears.

I scream into my pillow, battering it with my tight fists. My dad loves me, that much I know. But his past has a hold on him. I can't believe my mother would have wanted this life for him, for us.

What can he possibly be scared of?

I pace around my room and my thoughts fuel my need to escape. And something catches my eye. My graduation congratulations card from my cousin Mercy, adorned in the art deco style of the Empire State Building.

But most importantly, there's a return address on it.

New York ...

I can disappear, live my own life in New York, and crash on Mercy's couch for a few days as I figure life out. A fresh start, far away from Dad.

I reach for a small wooden box hidden beneath my bed—an old family heirloom that holds my secret stash of cash. Over the past year, I've been saving cash from my allowance. I thought one day I would just announce to my father that I was moving out.

I just never thought that day would be coming so soon.

Slowly, I count every dollar, and count again, just so I'm sure. Less than three hundred dollars ... It's not much, but even I know it's more than enough to pay for a bus ticket out of Holtsville forever.

I can start a new life.

A better life.

One without someone like Dad keeping me on a tight leash, locked up in a tower that I can never escape from.

I start grabbing things to put into my backpack. A couple of shirts, a few pairs of socks and underwear, a toothbrush. My eyes settle on the massive book of What Great Paintings Say—my sixteenth birthday present from Dad in happier times and one of my most treasured possessions. It's huge and heavy, but I can't bear leaving it behind, so I stuff it into my backpack.

I take one last look around my room—the hot pink walls, the neatly arranged art books, and the plush stuffed animals on my twin bed since childhood. It's a cage, a pretty one, but a cage that I have to leave.

The moonlight casts a pale glow on my bedroom wall. I pull the covers up to my chin and nervously glance at the clock—almost midnight. My gaze is fixed on my bedroom door as I wait for a sound, any sound. The soft sound of the clock in my room seems to slow with each tick until I'm sure that no one is awake but me.

Now or never.

I ignore the gnawing guilt in my stomach and open my bedroom window quietly. I hoist myself onto the ledge, gripping the ivy trellis for dear life. My ankle wiggles as I secure my balance, and I inhale sharply, not daring to look down.

I used to do this so effortlessly as a kid, but tonight, the ground seems farther away. Thick ivy presses hard against my face as I gradually climb down.

Finally, I make it to the ground, panting and slightly disheveled, but otherwise free.

Looking up at the second-floor windows, I'm relieved when no lights come on. Darkness shields me from view as I run from the driveway to the street. A few neighbors have their lights on, but I know no one will be interested in what I'm doing except my dad. When I reach the corner, I peek behind me to make sure no one is coming, and then I race down Hill view Road toward the last bus into New York.

I hope he won't miss me too much, even though I know he will.

And it's only after I step on the bus that I realize it's the first night I never told him I love him.

Maria

The moment I step off the bus, I'm hit by a blast of humidity in the face. I'd pause, but everybody is moving fast, and I'm trying to keep up as I exit the Port Authority. I speed walk as if I know where I'm going, and I hope I do. Times Square is like stepping into another world, with bright colors and Broadway billboards over my head. For a moment, I stand still on the sidewalk, soaking in the chaos surrounding me. It's exhilarating and overwhelming all at once—until a woman jostles me out of her way.

Stay focused, Maria. Stop acting like a tourist.

I start moving again, looking for a pay phone, but they must only exist on old TV shows. I pull the card with Mercy's address out of my pocket and start walking, not entirely sure how I will actually get there.

I'm hoping I can stay with my cousin for a little while. I've never been sure how we're related, but we've called each other "cousin" since we were babies.

Until Dad stopped us from talking.

I try to keep pace, walking on pavement littered with flattened trash, surrounded by people of every shape, size, and color imaginable. As I weave my way through the crowd, I can't help but feel like Dad might be right. The time on the electric ticker tape is barely noon. I've been gone for four hours. I wonder what my dad will do. The guilt of leaving him gnaws at me. There's still time to turn around and find a bus back. But if I go back, he'll never let me out of the house again.

"Hey there, pretty girl," a voice calls out behind me. I turn to see a rough-looking man in dirty jeans and a faded T-shirt looking at me with a leering grin. Each time his eyes rake over me, it sends my skin crawling with unease. The wind picks up, and I can smell that his last shower was probably months ago.

"Leave me alone." I try to keep my voice steady as I pick up the pace.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," he sneers, following me. "You need a daddy, little girl? I'll be your daddy."

I feel my chest tighten, panic setting in. "Leave me alone," I repeat, fighting to keep my voice from quivering.

"Aw, don't be like that, baby," he coos. "I just want to get to know you. We could have some fun together."

"Get away from me!" I shout, my voice cracking in fear. People pass us, but no one seems to care that this man is bothering me. They look straight ahead, moving quickly down the street. I start to walk faster toward the avenue, but he hurries up to catch me.

"Fucking cunt," he growls. "You think you're better than me?"

He grabs me by my backpack and yanks it open. To my horror, my book falls out. But I don't have time to react as the man reaches out to grab me. I squeeze my eyes shut, regretting every moment of my foolish decision.

But the hand never reaches me. I open my eyes and see a hand grabbing my would-be assailant's wrist.

"Didn't she tell you to leave her alone?"

I turn to look at my savior and stare into the face of a handsome man in a suit. He looks a bit older than the man harassing me, with dark hair and piercing green eyes. He looks like he just stepped off a GQ cover, and I can't help staring at him.

Calm down, Maria!

"Or what?" the punk sneers, but his bravado doesn't match the doubt in his shifty eyes.

"Or I'll make you regret laying a finger on her," the handsome man threatens, stepping between us.

His tall frame towers over the man and I instinctively move behind him, catching a hint of his scent—something light and airy instead of the choking body spray of high school boys. It's so subtle that it makes me want to lean in and discern the subtle texture of it all.

There's a familiar tone in his voice, and it takes a moment before I realize that it's the same tone my father had when he pulled me away from Trevor. Suddenly a chill seizes me, and I wonder if what I saw earlier is about to play out again.

The punk's gaze darts from the handsome man to me as he weighs his options. With a curse, he wrenches his wrist free and steps back.

"You're not worth it, you stuck-up bitch," he mutters, shooting me a venomous glare before he slinks away.

"Is this your book?" the handsome man bends down, picks up the copy of What Great Paintings Say effortlessly despite its weight, and asks. There is concern in his green eyes but also admiration as he casually thumbs the edges of the book. His sudden appearance is a relief, and I'm grateful but also bewildered.

"Y-yes, thank you," I stammer, trying to catch my breath.

"It's one of my favorites." He smiles. "You have good taste."

Oh my God, it's like he knows all the right things to say!If I thought he was handsome before, he's downright gorgeous now.

"Thanks," I say as he gives it back to me.

The handsome man watches with amusement in his eyes as I try and stuff the book back into my backpack. I finally manage to wrangle the damn thing inside, but I can't zip up my bag.

"I ... I just ... I should get going." I say it, but my feet don't move.

"Where are you headed?" His green eyes—lit up by the million lights of Times Square like a pair of perfectly cut emeralds—compel me to look back at him, and I can't help staring.

I bite my lip, unsure if I should accept his help. But not wanting to be accosted by another crazed weirdo, what choice do I have? I show him the card with Mercy's address, and his brow furrows for a moment as he looks at it.

"It's not too far from here," he says. "But are you sure it's the right address?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, I happen to be familiar with that place," he replies. "It's a bar."

"Well, my cousin says she lives there." I blink stupidly. "Can you point me in the right direction?"

He looks at me, and for a moment, I imagine him telling me that he'll walk me there. But instead, he disappoints me and simply points to our right.

"Go north two blocks," he says. "And make a left."

"Thanks," I mutter. "What's your name?"

"Mikhail," he replies. "Mikhail Ivanov."

"Maria," I reply and extend my hand to him. "Maria Rostova."

"Nice meeting you, Maria Rostova," Mikhail smiles. "Perhaps I'll see you soon."

Without another word, he turns and walks away. I resist the urge to call out to his retreating figure.

"Come on, Maria," I whisper to myself. "Get a hold of yourself."

I begin walking north like he told me to, still trying to wrangle my book into place. And as the lights of Times Square dance all around me, I notice something poking up from the pages of my book. Stopping at a crosswalk, I pull it out.

It's a card that says "Chrysanthea" on it. When I turn it over, there's an address and Mikhail's name. But it's neither of those things that send my heart skipping a beat.

It's the words on the other side.

Owner. Contemporary Art Gallery.

Maria

It doesn't take long for me to get to the address on Mercy's card, and true to Mikhail's words, it's a bar. The name "Somewhere Bar" is lit up by neon lights, and even though it's not too far from Times Square, it looks surprisingly empty.

I wonder if I've made a mistake when I spot her red hair—same as mine—before she sees me. I wave at her like a fool, and her dark eyes narrow on me for a moment before they light up with recognition. She coughs and tosses her cigarette to the ground.

"Maria!" she calls out. "What the hell! What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Mercy!" I shout back, dodging a pedestrian to reach her.

Mercy wraps me in a tight hug. Her welcome is the reassurance I need right now. She steps back and looks me hard in the eyes. "Where's your dad?"

I swallow hard. "I ran away."

"Ran away?" She laughs loudly, verging on a coughing fit. "You're eighteen, for Chrissake. Call it what it is: you left home." She gives me another bear hug before pulling back, smiling."Well, you just gave Michael Rostova a huge dose of his own goddamn medicine."

Mercy rarely calls Dad anything but his proper name. "The dictator just got dicked over. Gotta love it."

I frown, and Mercy takes it down a notch.

"Sorry, Marie," she mumbles.

"You won't tell him, will you?" I ask.

"Do I look like a snitch?" Her smile turns into a hard frown. "Don't be like that, cousin."

"Sorry," I reply. "I'm just still wrapping my head around everything that's happening."

"All good, cousin." Mercy sighs and then looks to the heavens. "Look, I'll tell my dad because you know yours will call everyone, including him. But until then, let's give you a few days of freedom." She grins. "Got a place to crash?"

"I was kind of hoping I could crash on your couch?" I ask furtively. "I know New York's pressed for space."

"For you, girl? I got all the space in the world!" Mercy smirks. "Come on." She takes my hand and leads me into the bar. "I work here and live upstairs. Once you get settled, I'll introduce you to my coworkers."

"They're nice people, right?" I ask, eyeing the scowling bald man with the tattoos behind the bar.

"Jesus, Joseph, and doggy-style Mary." Mercy gives me a look that's a mix of concern and annoyance. "I keep forgetting you're the closest thing to a cloistered nun in this fucked-up family."

"What's with the name?" I frown at Mercy. "Somewhere Bar."

Mercy laughs, but the scowling man behind the bar breaks out in a friendly smile. "It's always five o'clock somewhere. Get it now?"

I grimace at the terrible pun. "That's clever."

"C'mon, Marie," Mercy gestures at me. "Put your stuff down. Take a deep breath, and let's hit this town!"

We walkthrough the heavy brass doors into a lower Manhattan club. I'm immediately swallowed up by a sea of sweaty bodies. Mercy grips my hand so hard it tingles as she drags me through the crowd. As she searches for her roommate Alyssa, my eyes are drawn to the art adorning the walls—a vivid contrast to the wild vibe in the place.

"Mercy! Maria?" Alyssa's voice cuts through the noise, and I spot her waving. "Maria, what are you doing here?"

"She legged it," announces Mercy.

"I moved out." I try to sound confident, but I sound like a brat. "My dad ... He's just ... suffocating me, you know?"

Alyssa looks at Mercy. They've known each other so long that they can communicate with glances.

"Maybe he'll come around," Alyssa shrugs. "For now, though, let's enjoy your big night. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Alyssa," I say, hugging her tightly.

Alyssa stares at us and then laughs. "Mercy, your cousin looks like the innocent version of you. If you gave up cigarettes and one-night stands."

"Alyssa, I say this with love ..." Mercy laughs. "But you are one opinionated bitch."

As we walk further into the club, I can't help but be drawn to the art again—bold strokes and vibrant colors that defy the commotion around us. I stop momentarily, captivated by a piece that speaks to my disordered feelings as I clutch the purse Mercy lends me for the night.

We can't find an empty table, so Mercy drags me onto the dance floor. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Let's tear this place down, baby cousin!" she shouts over the noise.

I can't help but grin, but I feel on display. Back in Holtsville, I was a small fish in a small pond. Now, I'm a small fish in New York City. I don't recognize the songs. My body moves mechanically to the beat, but deep down, I know I'm out of my depth. New York is an exciting and terrifying mix of drive and energy. This world is so different; these people are wild, bold, and confident.

For the past few minutes, a man has hovered near us. He's tall, with dark hair and an unnerving smirk that sets the alarm off in my head.

"Hey." He's holding a phone and grinning at me.

Light flashes from his phone. "You're a star now!"

Before I can respond, Mercy appears between us, her face set in a determined scowl as she snaps her fingers. "Take a hike, bozo!"

The man raises his hands defensively as his face twists into a scowl. He mutters a string of curses under his breath and disappears into the crowd, leaving me feeling weird. Mercy wraps an arm around my waist, her grip firm and protective.

"You need a good radar here, Marie," she says. "Some men don't bother with being decent. Just stick with me, okay?"

"Why did he just take a picture of me?" I ask.

"People do that all the time at clubs." She scoffs. "And you've got this innocence about you, Marie. It's the same kind of innocence that assholes gravitate toward."

"Oh," I say dejectedly, remembering the man who tried to grab me. Suddenly I feel annoyed, and my evening is ruined.

Mercy looks at me, clearly recognizing my newfound discomfort. "Look, if you wanna bounce, just say the word."

"Yeah." I nod. "It's just too much to take in right now."

"No worries, cousin." She turns to Alyssa. "Hey, cover me for the drinks, will ya? I'll pay you back next time."

"That's the third time this month, Mercy!" Alyssa fakes indignation and waves us away as she heads back to the dance floor.

"You gotta have some backbone in this city," Mercy says as we walk out into the still night air. Overhead, the sky is starting to turn light. "Otherwise, someone's bound to take advantage of you."

"I know." I may not be tough like Mercy, but I'm not clueless.

"Maria," Mercy says hesitantly. "I'm serious. Being tough is real important in this city."

"I hear you," I respond coolly. "I'll keep it in mind."

As we walk in silence, I can't help but feel a tinge of guilt for snapping at her. After all, Mercy is doing me a massive favor. But something about her words sting—maybe she thinks I should turn around and go home.

"Look, Marie, I'm sorry if I sound too harsh," Mercy breaks the silence. "I just worry about you, that's all."

Now she's starting to sound like Dad.

"Thanks, Mercy," I murmur, touched by her concern. "But I promise, I can take care of myself."

"You sure?" she asks, her eyes searching mine.

"Trust me, I'll be fine," I insist, forcing a smile. "I'm tougher than I look."

As we continue walking, I feel a mix of gratitude and irritation. I know Mercy means well, but why is she underestimating me? I only need a chance.

It isn't until after we finally return to Mercy's apartment with the rising sun that I pull out the card from Mikhail. I walk over to the map of New York hanging on Mercy's living room wall as she steps into the bathroom and find the street I'm looking for.

It's surprisingly close.

An art gallery, I think. I wonder what kind of art he shows. I wonder if there's any that I might like.

I glance at the bathroom door, listening to Mercy sing off-key in the shower. Something tells me that she'll try and tell me not to go, especially after what happened in the club earlier.

But this is why I've come to New York, isn't it?

To live life on my own terms.

Mikhail

I stand tall in the dusty and stuffy anteroom of Sorokin Castle, my heart racing as I adjust the cuffs of my Saville Row suit. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror and I try hard not to grimace.

For years, I've both anticipated and dreaded this moment. And with my father, Gennady's, recent passing, it somehow doesn't feel real.

Inhaling, I exit the small room and enter the grand hall where my coronation is taking place. I kneel before the head of an ornate conference table and lift my head to heaven while the others remain standing. Grigori Schevchenko, the priest, nods and begins the liturgy of ascension, reciting the familiar words as my late father's gun is placed before me.

"You care for no one but the Bratva," he drones. "And you shall love none other than the Bratva."

This was never supposed to be my burden, I think bitterly as I repeat the words. It was always supposed to be yours, Desmier.

Father lost the son he loved—the son he always wanted to pass the Bratva to.

And now, his legacy rests on my shoulders. The son he despised. The spare, instead of his heir. God has a cruel sense of humor, it seems.

Grigori gestures at the gun and I pick it up, feeling the weight of my father's legacy bearing down on me like a heavy iron crown. I rise, a prince no longer but the pakhan of the Ivanov Bratva.

A sea of faces greets me when I turn around, some familiar, others not so much. Dmitry Chuikov stands beside his wife, Natasha. In front of the two of them is Andrei Barinov. His wife Paige isn't present, but Bratva royalty Zhanna Nikolaeva is. I try hard not to stare at any one of them for particularly long, lest I accidentally insult the honor of anyone else before me.

Anatoli Popov beams at me while Radomil Sorokin holds a solemn expression on his sour face. This crowd will expect champagne, and not the usual cheap white wine. But they all have one thing in common: they are here to acknowledge my position, respect my title, and show their support to me as one of their own.

But they're also here to remind me that they can crush me beneath the heel of their boot if they so wish.

The Barinov and Morozova Bratvas are more powerful along the East Coast, but it is the Ivanov Bratva that holds Manhattan and the rest of the five boroughs. New York City is the gem in the hilt of the Bratva sword, and my father wielded it for decades with ruthless violence.

I lift my chin higher and gaze at no one in particular among the crowd, but all I can feel is my father's ghost—resentful and angry—staring back at me as he whispers the refrain he told me for eighteen years.

You should've died, and not Desmier.

The limousine is dimly litas it enters FDR Drive, and my shoulders relax when I'm back in the city again. Something about the air of this city sets me alive with excitement. My eyes drift to the darkened window and take in the boisterous night filled with people, lights, and noise.

The limo comes to a stop, and I step out onto 59th Street. The sticky, humid air hits me in the face. I take a deep breath, feeding off it. The energy of the city hooks into me like an IV of adrenaline.

Thisis where I belong. Not out among Twin Rivers with the likes of Sorokin, Popov, or Barinov. Here, where the very atmosphere itself is electric and alive.

The Bratva expects me to take my place in my father's mansion, with its hateful spires that overlook the immense grounds, but I have no desire to be back in that place.

Instead, I have chosen to make the seat of my power the place that still holds a shred of when I knew the word happiness. Even though that happiness died more than a decade ago.

The Gardner building is not in the most fashionable part of Manhattan, but Ony Sokolo opened his first gallery here when he fled Russia. The lower half of the building still functions as commercial property, and I am the building's sole resident in the penthouse.

The elevator ride up is slow in an old building like this. But such is the trade-off for owning a piece of history, both the beautiful and the grotesque.

When I enter the penthouse adorned with endless art on its walls, I find my father's three most powerful brigadiers waiting for me, all of them drinking my best scotch and looking comfortable sitting in the living room. My finger brushes my father's gun in my holster. Briefly, I wonder if it has any bullets left.

Shadows play across the faces of the three brigadiers—Alexander Vorobyov, Gunsyn Bolotov, and Ippolit Tsarnaev—as they raise their glasses at me in a celebratory toast.

When my father ruled New York with an iron fist, the three of them hovered near him like remoras around a shark, picking at whatever crumbs they could get their greedy hands on. Over the decades, they became the most powerful men under my father's command.

Will they toast my successor with equal enthusiasm?I briefly muse.

"Gentlemen," I greet them when I join them, schooling my features into an inscrutable mask to hide my displeasure at their intrusion. Other than my green eyes and commanding height, it's not hard to imitate my father.

"A toast." Gunsyn passes me a glass of scotch as he raises his own. "To your father and to you, Kolya."

I clench my teeth at Gunsyn's usage of my diminutive name, feeling a surge of anger at his subtle disrespect. They still see me as nothing more than a boy, playing at being a pakhan in my father's chair.

The three of them sip from the glass, but I set mine aside. I don't feel particularly celebratory tonight.

For no particular reason, my mind turns to something else. Auburn hair like spun fire, and hazel eyes so innocent they almost bordered on naïve. A chance encounter, nothing more. But somehow, this otherwise unremarkable girl has planted a seed in my mind that I cannot dislodge.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the glass and turn toward Alexander. "Tell me about the finances. I haven't had a chance to go over all of my father's books just yet."

"Our finances are secure." Alexander grins. "Your art galleries have been doing surprisingly well lately. They're actually making a profit. Smart idea to add a wine bar. The Upper East wives are lapping it up." He grins. "Among other things."

The art galleries started as a personal passion project, a way to hold onto a memory of something good in this world. But they are also a convenient way to launder the illegal money of the Bratva. Art and business are my double passions when I have the time, as evidenced by my MBA from Harvard and my stack of art books.

Ippolit nods, his quiet voice commanding attention. "One of your more brilliant ideas that your father was foolish to oppose. He would be proud."

"Being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art," I quoted Warhol. "Making money is art, working is art, and good business is the best art."

"Well said!" Gunsyn nods, looking at me with an odd expression I can't decipher. "You've got a good eye for talent, Kolya."

There it is again. The subtle jab of disrespect. As my father used to say: once is an accident. Twice a habit.

"Are we all so familiar already?" I ask them sharply. "Am I Kolya, the boy at your pakhan's side, or am I Mikhail Ivanov, your pakhan?"

They exchange a rude look as if I can't see them.

"Apologies, Mikhail Ivanov," Gunsyn replies, the sound of his voice grating on my nerves. "We meant no disrespect. As you know, your father considered us family. We just thought that you should enjoy the evening."

"I am not my father," I retort sharply. "And it's not time to enjoy the evening, as you say, Gunsyn. The Lanzzare won't be resting during this time, and neither should we."

The Lanzzare Mafia have been our enemies for as long as the Ivanov Bratva has existed. Our blood feud runs deep and was made deeper still eighteen years ago when their don, Emilio Lanzzare, put a bullet in my brother Desmier's head. The mere mention of their name sends a surge of anger coursing through my head that culminates in a rush at my nose. The same haunting words from my father's ghost return.

You should've died, and not Desmier.

"Weapons shipment is coming in tomorrow night," Gunsyn said. "We've got it covered, Kol—Mikhail Ivanov."

"Make sure everything goes smoothly," I tell him, my tone firm and commanding. "No mistakes. No noises. And no sneaking off to strip clubs looking for girls to fuck, Gunsyn."

"Of course not, my pakhan." He smiles, revealing a mouthful of pristine veneers. "As you command, so we shall execute."

"See that it happens." My gaze holds his until he nods in acknowledgment.