Vik blinks. “We’re being good hosts. We can’t leave.”

“If you want to be a good hostess, you’ll come with me right now.” His tone is light, but his words are slightly threatening. Who is this man, and why does he think he can talk to us like this?

“If you have something to say, then say it.” Vik crosses her arms. “We’re not going anywhere, especially alone with you.”

Boris chuckles darkly. “Trust me, Viktoriya, you’ll be safe nowhere. Not anymore. Not now that your father is dead.”

“How dare you?” she gasps. “You don’t get to speak to me like that.”

“Maybe we should go,” Mila offers. “Hear what he has to say.”

“Don’t be naive,” Vik scolds, and Mila looks like she wants to cry even more. Mila has a tendency to be so innocent that I’ve silently nicknamed her the Disney princess.

“Talk,” Vik orders Boris. “If you have something to say, then say it.” More men are starting to look in our direction. I feel so exposed even though I’m covered in a chaste black dress.

“Fine, then. I was a partner with your father in his business. He left me this”—Boris pulls out a letter from his pocket— “in the case of his death. I shall read it to you now.” He opens the letter and clears his throat. “Boris, take care of my daughters. See to it they’re married and taken care of. You were always a good partner to me. Be a good man to my daughters.” He smiles smugly at us as he closes the letter. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Let me see that.” Vik rips the letter from his hands. She skims it. “It’s Father’s handwriting. I recognize it.” She looks up at Boris. “So, you’re supposed to help us get married? Then you should know I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing.”

Boris nods. “I understand. Which is why I wanted to tell you, Viktoryia, that you and I will be married.”

Mila gasps. I remain in stunned silence. And Vik, well … she looks so aghast it would be funny if the situation weren’t so un-funny.

“I’m not going to marry you,” she says, making Boris frown. His expression clearly shows he never thought he would get rejected. “I just told you I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing. And you …” She looks him up and down with a sneer on her face. “Are not worthy of my standing.”

Boris straightens up and sniffs, trying to look cool even though he just got rejected by a beautiful, much younger woman than him in front of all these men. A few of them are laughing again, but most look angry—as if how dare Vik turn down a marriage proposal.

“I am more than worthy of your standing, Viktoryia,” Boris says. “I worked with your father. I was practically the leader of the Bratva.”

“Practically, but not actually,” she says, shutting him down with only four words. It’s impressive.

“Now that your father is dead, someone will take over, and that someone will be me.”

Vik waves a dismissive hand. “I’m done with you now. What did you say your name was?”

“Boris. Smirnoff,” he says through gritted teeth. The anger radiating off him scares me, but Vik seems unrattled.

“Well, Boris Smirnoff, I will choose the man who will become my husband. And it’s not you. Now, leave my sight. I’m tired of looking at you.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. I’m doubly impressed. If I had an ounce of my sister’s confidence, I could take over the world. Or, at least, take control of my life. Because right now, I feel very out of control.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Boris says before walking away. I see a man shake his head in disapproval at Vik’s actions. I want to shout at him to applaud my sister for sticking to her guns, but nothing comes out.

Because nothing ever comes out. Because I’m too shy, and it hurts me.

“Can you believe that man?” Vik says in a low voice. “Thinking I would marry him? Ridiculous.”

“Vik, what if he forces us to marry men we don’t want?” I ask.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he has a handwritten letter from Father giving him express permission to do just that. I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” Mila adds.

Vik looks at us, then rolls her eyes. “Don’t be scared. Being scared is pointless. We’re the daughters of Denis Morozova. We shouldn’t be scared of anyone.”

Right at that moment, my eyes land on a man standing in the living room archway. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s not eating or drinking anything. He’s only looking at the three of us.

Or, more specifically, me.

He’s handsome in an older man sort of way. He has to be in his forties at the youngest. Rich black hair with the tiniest bit of gray streaked through. Broad shoulders. A crisp, navy suit.

And eyes that are boring right into mine. Deep, dark eyes that reach my soul.

I’ve never felt this electric before. It terrifies me but also makes me want to walk over to him and introduce myself.

I feel rooted to my spot. Stuck. Moored to the floor.

Why is he staring at me like this? And why do I feel … this mixture of emotions in my body? A combination of fear and desire.

And as suddenly as I feel it, it’s gone because the man turns away from me and leaves the living room.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I tell Vik before following after the man.

“We’re supposed to stay together,” Vik calls out, but I ignore her.

When I round the corner, I see … nothing. The man, whoever he was, is gone. And I’m left shaken.

“Good riddance,” Vik says, shutting the door on the last guests to leave—a drunk middle-aged couple who kept making out instead of offering their condolences. “Thank god that’s over.” She slips out of her shoes, which gives Mila and me permission to do the same.

We go upstairs to Vik’s room and settle on her bed. She has the largest bed out of all of us. Mine is a queen, Mila’s is a full, while Vik’s is a king. Of course, it’s a king.

“I hated seeing those men all over our furniture,” she says, sitting ramrod straight. Vik has perfect posture. Always has, even when she was a kid. “I think I’ll burn it all. How does that sound?”

“Don’t do that,” Mila says. “Daddy bought that furniture.”

“Well, Daddy is gone. It’s just the three of us now, Mila. You can’t get attached. You’re eighteen, an adult. Start acting like it.”

Mila instantly breaks down into tears.

“You don’t have to mean,” I tell Vik as I wrap my arms around Mila.

Vik shrugs. “I’m not being mean. I’m being reasonable. And you know I’m right.”

I don’t answer because I’m unsure if I agree with Vik, and that bothers me.

“What are we going to do about Boris?” I ask, rubbing Mila’s back.