Lisíchka

GIANNA

My last night of freedom tastes like expensive vodka and bad decisions.

“Slow down, G!” Sophia laughs, trying to grab my shot glass as I down another round of the clear liquid. “You’re going to be too wasted to remember your own rebellion.”

“That’s the point,” I shout over the pulsing bass. I wave at the bartender for another, letting the burn of alcohol fuel my courage.

The club throbs around us, a sea of beautiful people bathed in electric blue light. My body moves to the rhythm without thought, the beat vibrating through my bones. We shouldn’t be here. The Volk is strictly off-limits—Russian territory. If my father knew his only daughter was knocking back shots in enemy territory, he’d lock me in my room until my wedding day. But that’s exactly why I chose it. One last act of defiance before I’m handed over like property to cement some bullshit alliance.

My brothers would lose their minds if they knew. Antonio would probably drag me out by my hair. Marco would stand guard while Luca lectured me about family loyalty. And Dante—sweet Dante, the youngest and the only one who ever really sees me—would just look disappointed, which is somehow worse.

I touch the knife strapped to my thigh through the slit in my dress, the familiar weight grounding me. I’m never unarmed, a lesson beaten into me since childhood. In our world, safety is an illusion, especially for a woman.

“I’m going to get another drink,” I tell Sophia, already sliding away from our VIP table and into the crowd before she can protest. I need a moment alone, away from the sympathetic glances of my girlfriends who know tomorrow my life ends.

I weave through the mass of bodies, the thrill of being somewhere forbidden sending electricity through my veins. Or maybe that’s just the vodka. Either way, I feel alive, dangerous—everything I won’t be allowed to be after tomorrow.

The bar is three-deep with people, but I’ve never been good at waiting my turn. I slip between two men, ignoring their protests as I claim a spot at the counter. One of them mutters something in Russian, but backs off when I turn and fix him with a look I learned from my father. The don’s daughter might be getting married off, but I still carry the Rossi name tonight.

While waiting to catch the bartender’s eye, I feel it—the weight of someone’s gaze. Not the usual appreciative glance men throw my way, but something more intense, like being sized up by a predator. My fingers twitch toward my knife instinctively.

I look to my right, and that’s when I see him.

Blue eyes. The kind of blue that doesn’t exist in nature—ice and electricity and something darker lurking beneath. He’s big—broad shoulders stretching the limits of a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to expose forearms covered in intricate tattoos. Dark hair, styled but not too perfect. Stubble that would leave burns in all the right places.

But it’s his smile that gets me. When our eyes lock, his lips curve into a grin that’s pure sin—like he can see right through me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. There’s intelligence in that grin, and danger, and something else that makes my pulse quicken.

I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. I let my eyes travel deliberately down his body and back up, one eyebrow raised in appreciation. In this light, with that face, he could be the devil himself and I’d still be tempted.

His grin widens.

The bartender finally notices me, but before I can order, a glass slides in front of me—top-shelf vodka, neat.

“For the woman who doesn’t like to wait,” Blue Eyes says, his voice deep with just a hint of an accent. Russian, but Americanized. Smooth like aged whiskey.

I shouldn’t take drinks from strangers. Especially not Russian strangers in a Russian club. It’s the type of stupid that gets people killed in my world. My father’s voice echoes in my head, listing all the ways men can slip things into drinks, all the bodies we’ve had to dispose of because of careless trust.

I pick up the glass and take a slow sip, my eyes never leaving his. The vodka is better than what we were drinking at the table—it slides down my throat like silk, warming me from the inside.

“Thanks,” I say. “But I don’t think you know what I like.”

His laugh is low, intimate despite the noise around us. “I’d be happy to find out.”

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. There’s something about him—beyond the obvious physical appeal—something familiar in the way he carries himself. The careful awareness of his surroundings, the way other patrons give him space without seeming to realize they’re doing it. He’s somebody in this world. Somebody dangerous.

Which makes him perfect for tonight.

“Does that line usually work for you?” I ask, taking another sip.

He leans in closer, and I catch his scent—expensive cologne with undertones of something uniquely him. “I don’t usually need lines,” he says, and the arrogance should be off-putting, but there’s humor in his eyes.

“Modest too,” I reply, but I’m smiling despite myself.

“I prefer honest.” His eyes travel to my lips, then back up. “And honestly, you’re the most interesting woman in this club.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you came to a Russian club alone—”

“I’m with friends,” I correct him.

“—and you’re not afraid to take what you want.” He gestures to my stolen spot at the bar. “That tells me enough to want to know more.”

Under normal circumstances, I’d be more careful. I’d run a background check, have Nico hack his phone, maybe even have Marco follow him for a few days before considering anything. But tonight isn’t about being careful. Tonight is about burning everything down before they can trap me in a life I never chose.

“Nikolai,” he says, extending his hand.

I take it, feeling calluses that tell me he works with his hands despite his expensive watch and tailored shirt. “Gianna.”

Just first names. That’s how these things work. No last names, no complications, no connections to the lives we lead outside these walls.

“Dance with me, Gianna?” he asks, and the way my name sounds in his mouth makes me want to hear him say it again and again.

I down the rest of my drink and take his outstretched hand. “Lead the way, Nikolai.”

We dance for what feels like hours, his body moving perfectly with mine. He’s graceful for such a large man, and his hands stay respectfully at my waist, even when I press closer. The alcohol has me floating in that perfect space between buzzed and drunk, where everything feels possible and consequences seem distant.

When his lips finally find mine, it’s like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. Heat explodes through me, and I’m clinging to him, my fingers tangled in his hair, his arms lifting me against him like I weigh nothing.

“Come with me,” he murmurs against my ear when we break apart, both breathing hard.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t tell Sophia where I’m going in person—just send a quick text that I met someone and not to wait up. She’ll be pissed, but she’ll cover for me. That’s what best friends do.

His car is waiting outside—a sleek black Audi with tinted windows. The driver doesn’t even look at me as Nikolai helps me into the back seat. More evidence that he’s someone important, someone who commands privacy and respect. I should be wary, but the danger only heightens my anticipation.

“Where are we going?” I ask as the car pulls away from the curb.

“Hotel,” he says, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare knee. “Unless you’d prefer somewhere else?”

The heat in his gaze makes it clear what he’s asking. This is my chance to back out, to say I’ve changed my mind. Instead, I slide closer to him on the leather seat.

“Hotel works for me,” I say, and his answering smile sends another rush of warmth through me.

He doesn’t press for more information during the drive. Instead, we talk about inconsequential things—music, films, the city—careful neutral ground that won’t reveal too much. His laugh is as addictive as the rest of him, and I find myself saying ridiculous things just to hear it again.

The hotel is expensive, discreet. The kind of place that asks no questions as long as you can pay. He doesn’t hesitate at the front desk, like he’s done this before. The thought should bother me, but tonight isn’t about judgment.

It’s not until we’re in the elevator, his body crowding mine against the wall, his lips tracing a burning path down my neck, that I remember my plan.

“I should tell you,” I gasp as his hands find my hips, “I haven’t done this before.”

He pulls back immediately, those blue eyes searching mine. “You’re a virgin?”

I nod, hating how vulnerable the admission makes me feel. But it’s necessary—the final nail in the coffin of my arranged marriage. No one wants damaged goods. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. Standing here now, with his warm hands still on my waist and his eyes looking into mine with concern rather than the triumph or greed I expected, I’m not sure what I want anymore.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, and the genuine care in his voice almost makes me reconsider my plan. Almost.

“I want to,” I tell him, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “I want it to be you. Tonight. Please.”

His expression turns serious, studying me as if trying to read the truth in my face. His thumb traces my lower lip. “Why me? Why tonight?”

Because tomorrow I become someone else’s property. Because you’re beautiful and dangerous and everything I’ll never be allowed to have again. Because when you smile, I forget all the reasons I shouldn’t.

“Does it matter?” I ask instead.

He considers this, then shakes his head slowly. “I suppose not. But Gianna...” He cups my face with a gentleness I didn’t expect. “If we do this, we do it right. I’ll make it good for you, lisíchka.”

The Russian endearment sends a shiver through me. Little fox. Clever and wild.

The hotel room is all understated luxury—cream walls, plush carpet, a massive bed that makes my heart race when I look at it. Nikolai moves to the mini bar, pouring us each a drink, giving me time to change my mind. The ice cubes clink against crystal as he hands me a glass.

“Dutch courage?” I joke, taking a small sip.

“A moment to breathe,” he corrects, his eyes never leaving mine. “We have all night. No rush.”

The alcohol loosens something in my chest, and I set the glass down on a side table. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Good,” he says, setting his own drink aside. “Neither am I.”

He kisses me then, slow and deep, different from the heated exchanges in the club and elevator. This kiss is deliberate, thorough, like he’s memorizing the taste of me. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head as if I’m something precious.

I’m not used to being treated like I might break. In my family, even affection comes with an edge. My brothers roughhouse with me, my father’s rare hugs are brisk and firm, and the men I’ve dated never dared to touch me at all, too afraid of what my family might do.

But Nikolai touches me like he has every right to, like no one could stop him, and yet with a care that makes my chest ache.

He takes his time undressing me, kissing each new inch of skin he reveals. When he finds the knife strapped to my thigh, he doesn’t seem surprised, just raises an eyebrow and carefully sets it on the nightstand.

“Insurance policy?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Never leave home without it,” I reply, and his answering laugh vibrates against my skin.

He’s beautiful with his clothes off—all hard muscle and intricate tattoos telling stories I want to trace with my fingers and tongue. There’s a large scar across his ribs that I don’t ask about, and smaller ones scattered across his skin. Battle wounds from whatever life he leads outside this room.

When we finally fall onto the bed together, I’m no longer nervous. His hands and mouth have worked magic, turning me liquid with need. He’s careful with me. Patient in a way I never would have guessed from the dangerous edge I sensed in him at the club. His fingers seem to know exactly where to touch, when to be gentle and when I need more.

When he finally presses into me, the sharp pain is brief, replaced by a fullness that builds into pleasure I’ve never felt before. He watches my face, adjusting his movements to my reactions, learning my body as we move together.

Something passes between us as we find our rhythm. Something more than physical. In his arms, I’m not a bargaining chip or a duty. I’m just a woman, desired and wanting.

"Lisíchka,” he whispers against my skin as we both fall over the edge.

Afterward, he holds me against his chest, his heartbeat slowing beneath my ear. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and for the first time in months, I feel completely at peace.

“Stay,” I murmur, already drifting toward sleep.

His lips press against my hair. “Until morning,” he promises.

I know I should ask questions. Who he is, what he does, whether we could see each other again. But questions would break the spell, bring reality crashing back in. So instead, I close my eyes and let myself pretend, just for tonight, that this could be my life instead of the one waiting for me tomorrow.

Morning comes too soon, sunlight filtering through curtains we forgot to close. I wake to find him already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.

“You’re leaving,” I say, pulling the sheet up to cover myself, suddenly shy in the harsh light of day.

He nods, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I have to.”

I want to ask him to stay, to suggest breakfast, to beg for his number—anything to delay the inevitable return to my real life. But the regret in his eyes tells me it would be pointless.

“Last night was...” he begins, then pauses, searching for the right words.

“Just one night,” I finish for him, trying to keep my voice neutral. “I know the deal.”

He studies me for a long moment, then leans down to press his lips to mine in a kiss that’s too tender for strangers, too sad for lovers.

“I’m sorry it can only be one night,” he says softly when he pulls away.

I nod, not trusting my voice. His fingers linger on my cheek for a moment before he stands.

At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with those impossible blue eyes. “Thank you, Gianna.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, taking with him the last taste of freedom I’ll ever know.

I lie back on the rumpled sheets, breathing in the lingering scent of him, and allow myself five minutes to mourn for what can never be. Five minutes to remember the feel of his hands, the sound of his laugh, the way he called me lisíchka in the darkness.

Then I get up, shower away the evidence of the night, and prepare to meet my future husband.