The Dress
Katya
I stood on the raised platform in the center of the penthouse drawing room, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, concentrating on the New York skyline, trying not to breathe. The silk draped across my skin might as well have been a funeral shroud.
“Ah!” I flinched as another pin dug into my rib cage.
My father’s personal tailor shot me a venomous glare, a warning to remain still or we were both in trouble. I swallowed and sucked in a breath, trying to stand a little straighter, relieving just the tiniest bit of pressure.
“She’s too thin,” my older brother Illya muttered. He stood by the fireplace, a cut-crystal glass of thirty-year-old scotch swirling in his fat fingers. “Grigoriy likes his women with more curves, something to hold on to.”
Illya mimed ramming his dick into a fat ass, hoping for a horrified reaction. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on not breathing. He had always reveled in my discomfort, pushing every boundary until I finally broke and locked myself in my room. He got off on making me cry.
“Turn, Katya.” My father ordered from a heavy leather chair, barely glancing up from his tablet. I gave the tailor an apologetic glance and did as I was told, my bare feet slipping slightly on the polished wood pedestal.
“Her weight is where I want it,” my father replied without looking up. “Volkov can fatten her up himself after the wedding. In three weeks, she belongs to the Pakhan. What he does with the meat after the papers are signed is his business.”
Bile burns the back of my throat.
Grigoriy Volkov—my betrothed, Pakhan of the Volkov Syndicate, and the man my father had sold me to in exchange for thirty million dollars of forgiven gambling debt and an alliance. I had seen him once, at a distance, at a private gala in the Hamptons. He was twice my age, with silver-threaded hair and eyes that looked through people as if calculating the easiest way to break their bones. I would be his fourth wife. I didn’t have the courage to ask what happened to the first three.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the room swung open. The tailor froze, needles suspended in mid-air.
A shiver ran down my spine, raising gooseflesh on my arms. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Two men walked in. The first was Grigoriy Volkov himself, wrapped in an immaculately tailored five-piece suit, a brutal smirk on his handsome face and a predatory glint in his eyes. But it wasn’t my fiancée whose gaze froze my blood.
It was the man following silently behind him.
He was massive, a towering wall of muscle clad entirely in black. His blond hair was cropped short, swept away from a face that looked as though it had been chiseled out of granite. A jagged scar ran down his jaw and throat, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
Rafail Antonov. Aka, “The Wraith”
He was Grigoriy’s Torpedo—his shadow, his executioner, the guy who made people disappear without leaving a single trace behind. The Syndicate’s personal boogey man.
“Grigoriy!” my father said, practically leaping from his chair, his tone too eager. “We didn’t expect you ’til tomorrow.”
“My business concluded earlier than expected,” Grigoriy replied, bypassing my father without acknowledging his proffered hand. He walked straight to the platform to stand in front of me. Hooking a finger under my chin, he lifted my face, inspecting his asset. I buried my hands in the silk folds of my almost dress to hide their trembling.
“Hmm.” His eyes were cold. He dropped his voice low, leaning in so his breath whispered against the shell of my ear. “Are you scared, little rabbit? We are going to have fun, you and I.”
He grabbed my ass through the fabric, causing me to jump which forced the sharp pins to prick my flesh. I tried to hold it in, but the tiniest whimper escaped my lips. A wicked grin spread across his face.
“Viktor,” he turned to my father, releasing me. “There are rumors that the Cosa Nostra are sniffing around and I realized I couldn’t leave my future bride unguarded in your care. It makes me look vulnerable.”
I saw my father bristle at the implication, but he held his tongue.
“Of course,” he bit out, “whatever you think is best.”
“This is Rafail.” Grigoriy gestured to the silent hulk not five feet away. “From this moment until you become my wife, he is your shadow. He goes where you go, eats where you eat, sleeps outside your door.”
He leaned into me again, wrapping his fingers around the back of my neck, anchoring me in place.
“And if anyone tries to steal my property before the wedding, sweet Katya, Rafail will peel the skin from their ribs while they watch. Try not to make his job difficult.”
He placed a punishing kiss on my lips while my heart hammered like a trapped bird in my chest. Over his shoulder, Rafail Antonov watched me, his expression never changing.
Grigoriy let me go, turned on his heel and strode from the drawing room, my father and brother following like starving puppies. The tailor had departed almost immediately after Grigoriy and his man had entered, leaving me trapped in a decadent prison of silk and lace.
Rafail stood motionless, hands folded in front of his vest, watching me as I let out a shaky breath.
We were alone.
I reached behind my back in an attempt to free myself, but all I succeeded in doing was dig more pins into my torso.
I cried out as blood bloomed in tiny droplets across the white fabric. A muscle in Rafail’s jaw feathered. Silently he crossed the distance to stand behind me, looming over me. The scent of sandalwood, leather and something metallic overwhelmed my senses.
“Stop moving.” His command was a deep rumble that brooked no argument. He pushed my hands away, his tone flat, “You’re making a mess of yourself.”
His touch was gentle and efficient, removing the tiny metal daggers with precision. As he slipped the last pin free, I inhaled my first full breath in hours.
I clutched the fabric to my chest, casting around for the robe I’d been wearing before the fitting. Before I could step off the pedestal to retrieve it he was there handing it to me, my hands shaking.
“You’ll have to toughen up, little mouse,” he said in a deep baritone, a mocking edge to his voice as I shrugged on the robe. “A proper Bratva bride does not flinch from a few pins and a little blood.”
Before I could answer he had already crossed the threshold to take up his post outside the door, closing me in with a soft click. I collapsed onto the sofa, pulling my knees to my chest, and cried silently. My world had always been a gilded cage, but I feared it was about to get a whole lot smaller, the bars closing in until there was no room left to breathe.
