Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

“I can do clothes. Text me a list of what you need.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“I left you one of mine in the living room. It’s bugged and monitored, and if you use it to contact anyone that I do not approve of, I will punish you.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Are you joking?”

“I am not.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re used to with your father, but in this house my word is final. But more than that, this is all for your safety. I don’t think you understand how much danger we’re in right now.”

I chomp down on my tongue to keep from cursing him out. I have to take a couple deep breaths to calm myself enough to respond, and even then I’m on the verge of shouting. I know exactly where I am and what’s going on—he’s the one that seems like he’s living a pretty lie. He thinks we can get out of this with our heads attached.

I fully plan on being a ghost sooner than later. I’ve been dead since the night we met.

“You’re telling me that I escaped from a whorehouse only to be kept prisoner in his place?” I ask, pulse racing. If these are my last days on Earth, why am I spending them locked up with this bastard?

“You keep acting surprised, princess.” He frowns at me for a long moment. “Text me what you need and be good. I’m watching.” He leaves without another word.

I stare at the empty doorway before hurling a pillow. It smacks into the wall in the hallway.

“I saw that,” he shouts from the other room.

“Good,” I say, making a face as I collapse backwards.

His front door opens and shuts, and I’m alone.

I settle into the quiet. The Kremlin is big—I only got a glimpse of all the rooms and doorways—and it feels so empty. The place is a masterclass in upper-crust luxury, and yet it feels like nobody’s around to ever enjoy all the amenities and comforts. Last night at the dinner table, I felt the warmth between their family, and the undertone of danger in all their interactions, especially between Maxim and his brother Feliks—but there are only a few of them, and a massive structure to swallow them whole, like keeping a single candle burning in the middle of a cathedral and hoping it can keep back the darkness. There’s something happening between these people, a power struggle I don’t fully understand. I know it’s sibling rivalry, and Feliks probably wants Maxim’s job as second-in-command, the heir to the entire bratva—but there’s something more.

I can’t quite figure it out.

At least his sisters are nice. I like Emiliya and Galina. They’re both stiff-backed and proper, although they’re quick to make fun of their brothers and clever in their own ways, but also beautiful. Sitting near those two ice queens was intimidating, even if they made me feel welcome.

Then there’s Maxim’s mother and father. His mother was kind, if a little distant, but his father looked at me like I was scum between his toes. He sneered and I knew what he was thinking. I’m a Bastone, the daughter of a flesh-peddler, a minor mafia girl from a minor nothing family, not worthy of being at his table.

He’s not wrong, and I hate him for it. I’ve been told a version of that story all my life—that I’m nothing, that I’m worth less than my brothers, that the best thing I can do for my family is to spread my legs for the first eligible man that’s willing to marry me and pump out as many babies as possible. I hate being reminded of that, and there’s so much of Maxim in his father—or his father in Maxim. I see the same twist of lip, the same confidence, the same piercing stare. But where Maxim’s father is distant and icy, there’s something burning hot deep in Maxim’s core.

I get out of bed, shower, and get dressed. The phone’s sitting on the coffee table on top of a note. Maxim’s handwriting is tense and cramped, but legible. Be careful, princess. Remember what I said last night. Maxim.

I crumple the note and toss it into the trash.

The phone’s an old Apple model. It’s slow, and the battery’s probably terrible, but at least I can download some apps. I check the news, log into my email, check my social media accounts, and soon the world’s flooding back. I didn’t have a phone at The Velvet Rope, but Mira did, and I’d sit with her and watch her scroll through Instagram with an envious smile on my lips. People are so good at making their lives seem perfect, even if everything’s a nightmare behind the perfectly selected filter.

My old friends, the influencers I follow, the famous people I watch from afar, it’s like they’re from a different world, one that I’m not a part of anymore. I wish I knew Mira’s number so I could call her. Screw what Maxim thinks. But I don’t know it, and so I flip open the messaging app and send a text to the only number saved in the address book.