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"Smile, Peach Bottom," Ciara purrs, her tone silken but laced with venom. "You'll make a perfect Kuznetsov bride. And I... a Karpov." Her lips curve, sharp as a dagger's edge, slicing through the facade of sisterly affection. The nickname—Peach Bottom—slithers through my ribs like a cold blade, not just mocking my generous curves but cutting into the very essence of what they claim I'll never embody: Delicate. Disciplined. Deserving. The Infinity Lounge thrums with danger, a symphony of smoked glass and black marble, where fortunes are made and bodies disappear. Tonight, the champagne bubbles taste like swallowed screams. "What if I want more than to be some Bratva babymaker?" I ask. "Then you’d better learn to love the game more than your own spine, darling. That’s the only currency that buys survival here. Women like us don't get to want. We get to choose which chains suit us best." My sister leans in closer, her perfume—something venomous and obscenely expensive—clashing with the whiskey-soaked greed in the air. "And let’s be honest, with your… distinct silhouette, you should be on your knees thanking your lucky stars that any Bratva captain spared you a second glance." I don’t blink. "Just say it. I’m not some porcelain doll meant for a display case." Her gaze drags over me, slow and surgical. "We’re Donovans, Eileen. In our world, crowns are reserved for the slender and silent. But maybe Sergei likes a challenge. Maybe he’ll even fund that little café dream of yours—the one Dad laughed out of the room." She shrugs, swirling her drink. "Take the win. The Kuznetsovs aren’t Karpov-level rich, but they’re close enough." The condescension burns, but I’m done swallowing it. "Or maybe I’ll build it myself—without a man’s money or permission." Before she can strike back, a shadow falls over us—Tommy Benedetto, all shark’s teeth and snake’s charm. "Ladies." His gaze lingers on me like a stain. "You two look… festive." Ciara’s laugh is polished arsenic. "Engagements, Tommy." His smirk twists. "Both?" The disbelief is a slap. For a fleeting heartbeat, I envision the sharp crack of my champagne flute against his smug grin. Instead, I bare my teeth with a smile. "Surprised? Sometimes the dark horses leave you choking on their dust." Ciara interjects, too eager. "Join us for a drink?" "Tempting." He adjusts his cufflinks, eyes never leaving mine. "But I’ve got a Siberian wildcat waiting. Promised me the authentic Russian experience." Ciara’s giggle is brittle as spun sugar. "Always sampling the merchandise, aren’t you?" Tommy’s grin stretches, grotesque. "Enjoy the night, ladies. Some brides get twitchy once they feel the collar click shut." Freaking predator. I rise, slow and deliberate, the silk of my dress whispering secrets against my thighs. "Funny, Tommy. In your world, men think they can leash us like dogs." I step closer, close enough to taste the cigars and decay on his breath. "But even a leashed dog has teeth. And if you yank too hard?" My smile vanishes. "She just might tear out your throat." Silence. Then—Tommy laughs, cruel and mocking. "I'm eager to see how you'll dress up as a bride — what a spectacle that will be." His words slice through the air like a blade, an unmistakable declaration of war. Ciara’s fingers dig painfully into my arm. "Eileen, he’s just teasing." I wrench away from her grip, my momentum carrying me into the solid mass of Paddy’s chest. His brow, lined with old scars, furrows deeply in concern. "Miss Donovan—" "Bathroom, Paddy," I cut in sharply, already striding away. The hallway envelops me, the club's vibrant pulse now a distant murmur. A sudden flicker in the smoked glass catches my gaze—my reflection, a striking vision in emerald silk. The dress embraces each defiant curve, accentuating a body sculpted by passionate dances through tumultuous nights, not timidity. My glossy red curls tumble provocatively around my shoulders, setting off my creamy skin and fierce green eyes that smolder with unyielding spirit. I shove through the back door, gulping the alley’s frozen air like a lifeline. Think, Eileen. There must be a way out. Above me, the sky is a hollow black sheet, Chicago’s neon greed devouring every last star—a perfect echo of how my family aims to devour my dreams, leaving nothing but emptiness. I press a hand to my chest, as if I could claw back the ambitions they’ve stolen. I belong on sunlit streets, scouting the perfect storefront, breathing in the fresh aroma of espresso beans. I should be scribbling menu ideas on napkins, collaborating with contractors, creating something truly mine. Instead, I'm caged in a gilded cage, mindlessly selecting bone-white china patterns like a docile doll. But dolls don’t bleed. And I haven’t finished fighting. I stand in silence, savoring a fleeting eternity. Minutes had barely slipped by when the scene before me drastically changed. The alley erupts in metallic screams. I whirl around to see Tommy Benedetto—this time, he's being hauled between two Bratva enforcers, his body flung about like a defeated boxer clinging to the ropes. Blood paints his designer stubble, that pretty-boy face now a swollen mess. His left eye pulses shut, the color of rotting plums. "Wait—you've got this wrong!" Tommy's voice cracks as they throw him face-first into a rancid puddle. The pale blue Tom Ford suit drinks up alley filth like a sponge. "I got money! Heck, I got—" The bigger enforcer silences him with a steel-toe kick to the ribs. I hear something crack. The other screws a silencer onto his Makarov with terrifying precision. "Andrei said quick," he grunts, Chechen accent thick as Siberian frost. Heck. Bratva enforcers. My lungs turn to ice. Three stumbling steps back—clang—my heel meets the trash can. The gunman's head jerks up. Moonlight slithers along the barrel as it swings toward me. Run! But my legs refuse to obey. “Wait! You don't know who—" "Don't care." His trigger finger pales. Suddenly, a scent hits me—bergamot and gun oil—an instant before an iron-clad arm snakes around my waist. I'm airborne, stilettos kicking empty air as some mountain of a man hauls me backward. My silk dress rips against brickwork. The lead enforcer's eyes widen. I’m tossed into a Porsche 911's butter-soft leather. The car door slams shut behind me. In the confined space, my kidnapper’s presence overwhelms—all broad shoulders and restrained power. His tailored suit strains across biceps earned through more than just gym sessions. When he shifts gears, tendons flex in his tanned hands, the two-headed eagle signet ring glinting with each movement. He’s Bratva royalty. "Who the HECK—" A single look shuts me up. Just like that. No words. No warning. Just those sharp eyes locking onto mine, cold and commanding, and suddenly my voice dies in my throat. For the first time in my life—me, Eileen Donovan, who never knows when to shut up—I’m left completely, utterly speechless. Those deep, wolfish hazel eyes, more green than gold under the dashboard lights, flash with a menacing intelligence. He appears to be in his mid to late forties, the epitome of a silver fox, with every crease around those piercing eyes adding to his lethal allure. Moonlight caresses the silver threads in his beard, highlighting the stark contrast against his umber skin, making it captivating rather than weathered. As he turns, light dances across the defined angles of his face. This man isn’t merely distinguished; he’s a predator cloaked in the guise of sophistication. The engine snarls to life. My kidnapper throws us into reverse, tires screaming. Through the windshield, I see the enforcer lowering his gun slowly—not from mercy, but recognition. Who the heck is this guy? "Talk," I demand, voice shaking. "Or I'll dive at the next light." Hazel eyes flick to mine, wolf-yellow in the dashboard glow. "You'd break that pretty neck before rolling three feet." Moscow velvet over Siberian steel. "Sit still, devochka. Tonight, I'm your guardian devil." The speedometer kisses 90 as we vanish into Chicago's neon arteries. And I'm trapped with a man who smells like danger and $300-an-ounce cologne. "Bullcrap." My fingers dig into the Porsche's butter-soft leather. "You just kidnapped a Donovan." His knuckles bleach white on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath tanned skin. "Andrei's men would've put two bullets in your pretty skull and dumped you in Lake Michigan before you could blink." That voice—smoke and honey with a Russian edge—vibrates through me like the Porsche's purring engine. A traitorous shiver runs down my spine. "Who the heck are you?" I demand, louder this time. "On a need-to-know basis." His thumb taps the wheel, a signet ring flashing—ruby-eyed eagle eating its own tail. "Christ, did they train you at the Bratva Charm School?" I snap. "Or just the School of Cryptic Bullcrap?" The corner of his mouth twitches beneath that perfectly trimmed beard. "You walked into a warzone back there, little bird. And you're still flapping your wings like it's a freaking tea party." I take him in properly for the first time—that aristocratic nose, the way his hazel eyes shift from moss-green to amber in the dashboard lights. Fine lines fan from his eyes, the kind earned from squinting into Siberian winds rather than laughing at parties. Silver threads glint in his dark waves, catching the light like knife edges. And God, that scent again—leather, gunpowder, and something expensive beneath it all. My traitorous lungs drink it in. "What I walked into," I say slowly, "was your Russian friends turning Tommy Benedetto into ground meat." My voice hardens. "A Camorra prince doesn't just get whacked without consequences." His grip tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough. A dark chuckle. "You do understand the game." "Enough to know you're not some Good Samaritan." I lean closer, whiskey and adrenaline burning my throat. "So who the heck are you really?" Those wolf's eyes flick to me, then back to the road. "Persistent little thing, aren't you?" "Try 'woman with a working survival instinct.'" The Porsche accelerates, pressing me into the seat. "Tough lady," he murmurs, almost approvingly. "You're better off not knowing my name. Unless you enjoy breathing." "Are you threatening me?" "Stating facts." He downshifts, the engine growling like the danger lacing his words. "You're not going home tonight." Ice floods my veins. "Excuse me?" The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt. Streetlights strobe across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw. When he finally speaks, it's so quiet I have to strain to hear: "You're cargo now, devochka. Precious, troublesome cargo." Several minutes later, he pulls up to a gorgeous hotel somewhere on the Gold Coast. "What are we doing here?" My voice sounds hollow, even to me. The building looms before us - all gleaming glass and art deco flourishes. Rooftop lights twinkle like trapped stars above us, promising a world of crystal glasses and Lake Michigan breezes. Snap out of it, Eileen. You're not a guest. "What are we doing here?" I repeat, sharper this time. "You'll be safe here." His voice is calm, but his fingers flex on the steering wheel. I notice how his signet ring catches the light - that damned two-headed eagle winking at me. "Safe?" The laugh bursts from me, raw and jagged. "That's rich coming from my kidnapper." He turns then, slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. The movement makes his suit jacket strain across shoulders that could probably bench press me. "If I wanted you dead," he murmurs, "you'd already be feeding the fishes at Navy Pier." "I could scream," I blurt out. The silence that follows is heavier than the Chicago humidity. My father's voice echoes in my head - That smart mouth will get you killed someday, Eileen. His hazel eyes darken to forest green in the dim light. "Those men back at the club? They're Andrei's attack dogs. And you just became their favorite chew toy." He gets out of the car, then comes around to open the passenger door for me. I get out, immediately smacked in the face by the cold night air. Shivering, I follow this mysterious man into the building, noticing that he doesn’t look around or seem fearful of anyone following us. This is clearly his turf. “Good evening,” he tells the night manager, who sits behind the reception desk, half asleep. He gets a slight nod and a mumbled reply as we walk over to the elevator. “Keep your eyes on me and your mouth shut.” I can't help myself. "What, no blindfold? No handcuffs? I'm disappointed in your kidnapping technique.” The look he gives me could freeze vodka. "Keep testing me, little one, and you'll learn why they call me Kholodnyy." The Cold One. The nickname slithers down my spine. Read Forbidden Vows, FREE on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/Forbidden-Vows-Bratva-Romance-Daddies-ebook/dp/B0F2P1STTD