Chapter 3

Luna's POV 

We walked the long corridor together in silence, Gabriela’s arm brushing mine with every step. She paused halfway, turning to me, and I saw it.

Not just fear.

Terror.

Not of Misha.

But of what would happen if she said no.

My father had made a deal with the devil, and if it breaks, we lose everything. Protection. Supply lines. Power.  We’d be a target. 

Her voice was barely a whisper. “People die when the wrong families go cold.”

I’d heard it before. Words thrown like threats at cartel meetings, whispered by guards, etched into our upbringing like gospel. But hearing her say it?

It felt real.

Too real.

“Then I’ll find another way,” I said firmly. “I’ll talk to Misha Petrov myself.”

She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “He doesn’t strike me as the negotiating type.”

She kept walking. I followed, the silence stretching taut between us.

She wasn’t wrong.

My stomach was tight. Dread curled low in my gut like a warning siren I couldn’t shut off.

The dining room door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, heart thudding.

And stopped cold.

A man sat at the far end of the table. Not our father.

Not anyone I recognized.

But I knew who he was.

Misha Petrov.

Dark tailored suit. Knife-straight posture. No expression on his face, just that pale, glacial stare that pinned you to the floor and made you forget how to breathe.

My father stood beside him, all fake smiles and ingratiating nods, like a rat trying to charm a snake.

Gabriela gripped my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin.

He shouldn’t have been here. Not yet. Not like this.

And yet, he was already seated at our table. Already acting like he belonged.

His gaze shifted from Gabriela… to me.

Lingering. Assessing.

His eyes met mine. And they didn’t move. Like he was reading a file someone had sealed and buried.

I didn’t flinch.

But I hated that my heart did.

The dining room gleamed like a showroom for power. Gold-rimmed plates. Crystal glasses. Armed guards stationed just beyond the double doors like decorations. Everything gleamed, except the people sitting around the table.

My father sat, the smirk on his face wide and practiced. Gabriela was placed beside Misha, like a prize being presented. I was seated across from him—directly in his line of sight.

He was larger than I remembered. Not in size, though he had the frame of a man built for war, but in presence. He radiated command without saying a word. It was in the way the guards didn’t look directly at him. In the way my father leaned slightly toward him, like approval mattered more than pride.

“Mr. Petrov,” my father began, raising his glass. “To new alliances.”

Misha lifted his in response. No smile. No toast. Just a quiet nod that said: I don’t need words to get what I want.

My father cleared his throat awkwardly. “Allow me to reintroduce my daughters. This is Gabriela, your intended.”

Misha’s eyes slid to her. He gave a polite nod. “Gabriela.”

Then his gaze drifted.

To me.

He didn’t say my name. Didn’t smile. Just stared.

Like he’d already claimed something I didn’t realize I was offering.

I didn’t look away.

If he came for prey, he picked the wrong fucking sisters.

Misha didn’t eat much. Neither did I.

Gabriela kept her eyes on her plate, answering softly when spoken to, hands in her lap like a proper offering. She was playing her role. The sacrificial daughter. 

I played mine too. The shadow.

Until Misha spoke directly to me.

“You were at the gas station,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

The room stilled.

I raised an eyebrow. “Should I apologize for defending myself?”

He tilted his head. “You broke one of my men’s noses.”

I shrugged. “He should’ve moved faster.”

The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile. Just an acknowledgment.

“Luna has always had a… sharp spirit,” my father said quickly, voice clipped. “A little undisciplined, but harmless.”

“Is that what you think?” Misha murmured, eyes still on me.

My fork paused. “Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

My father laughed. Too loudly.

Misha leaned back slightly, studying me.

“Spirit is only dangerous when it hides a weapon. Or a lie.”

His words landed like a stone in my chest. He wasn’t just talking about the gas station. He was hunting for something. And he thought I had it.

Then Gabriela reached for her wine glass, hand shaking.

Misha didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.

His eyes were still on me.

Not like he was admiring me.

Like he was deciding where to break me first