Chapter Two

Chapter Two — POV: Nikolai Meadows

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The man on the floor gurgled as Luka’s boot pinned his chest, and a bullet silenced the sound for good.

Crimson splattered across the cement. The stench of blood and piss filled the Bratva basement—my personal playground for handling betrayal.

I didn’t flinch.

This was routine.

A message.

A statement.

I adjusted the cuffs of my black dress shirt, watching Luka drag the corpse across the blood-slick floor like it weighed nothing. My second-in-command moved with eerie calm, as if he were taking out the trash rather than a corpse.

I walked to the steel counter at the back of the room, poured myself a glass of vodka, and stared into the clear liquid. My phone vibrated on the metal surface.

Matthew Ambrose.

I let it ring once before answering.

“She knows,” the man said without a greeting. His voice was tired, nervous—an emotion I didn’t tolerate.

“Alyssa?” I asked, cool and flat.

“She caused a scene at dinner. Screamed. Threw wine. Accused me of selling her like property.”

I let out a faint chuckle. Of course she did. My future wife had a mouth that matched the flames in her blood. I’d be disappointed if she hadn’t fought back.

“Good,” I said simply.

There was a pause on the other end.

“You really think she’ll go through with it?”

“She has no choice.” I downed the vodka, the burn sliding down like fire. “And I’m not interested in her consent.”

“You’re a cold bastard.”

I smiled faintly, gazing out the bulletproof window of my underground fortress.

“She’ll thank me eventually,” I said. “When I’ve torn down her walls and rebuilt her into something better.”

“You don’t know my daughter.”

“Oh, but I do.” My voice dropped. “I know every inch of her.”

I ended the call before he could respond.

**

Later that night, I stood in my penthouse—walls of glass showcasing Moscow’s skyline like a kingdom I ruled. The city below didn’t sleep. Neither did I.

The manila folder lay open on my coffee table.

Inside were photos of Alyssa Ambrose.

Some tabloid, others captured through my surveillance network. But every one of them told a story—of temptation, rebellion, and the wildfire I’d soon own.

Alyssa strutting in high heels and tight leather pants outside a tech launch.

Alyssa caught mid-laugh, head tilted back, lips parted.

Alyssa lying on a beach, tan legs sprawled, sunglasses half off.

Every image fed the monster inside me.

The desire to dominate her.

Break her.

And then... keep her.

My cock hardened at the thought. Not just of her body—but her resistance. Her spirit. That mouth that never shut up, always so quick with sarcasm and heat.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she once told a reporter.

I traced a finger over the photo.

“You do now, krasotka.”

I leaned back in my chair, watching the city.

In less than a month, she’d wear my ring.

And soon after, my last name.

Not Ambrose.

Meadows.

And I’d make sure the world—and Alyssa—never forgot it.

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