Going to America

WARNING, LOVES.

This isn’t your sweet cinnamon roll romance.

Inside these pages, you’ll find obsession, dubious consent, stalking, emotional manipulation, violence, and a heroine who doesn’t just break the rules—she lights them on fire.

There will be blood. There will be spice. There will be twisted minds doing twisted things in the name of love (or something like it).

If that makes you uncomfortable, close the book.

But if you like your romance dark, your villains deliciously unhinged, and your morals tied up and begging for mercy...

Welcome and please dive into my world.

---

Lissa

You ever sit across from someone and just know…

Like know know…

That killing them once wouldn't be enough.

Yeah. That’s me right now.

I’m sitting in this empty little café, trying to look as not so bored as possible while imagining how fast this place would go up in flames if I just tilted my lighter the right way.

Spoiler alert: real fast.

I shifted my gaze to the old geezer sitting across me in his signature gray suit, and wondered how many more words he had in that big, lying mouth of his.

I mean for crying out loud, the fucker's been talking for the last twenty minutes like I asked for a damn TED Talk yet he still didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

“And of course, your grandfather and I had understandings. Business isn’t always clean, Lissa. Sometimes we take what we’re owed.”

Sir. Be so serious.

This old prick just sat there and admitted with his crusty little mouth, that he’s been bleeding our empire dry since Grandpa kicked the bucket. And now he’s trying to make it sound noble???

Damn!!

I am so going to enjoy this.

Leaning back in my chair, I cross one leg over the other, letting my boot heel hit the table.

I flicked my lighter and he visibly flinched.

Good. I smirked.

Click.

I flicked it again.

Did I light anything? Nope.

I just liked the sound. The spark. The tension it built.

Plus, it was fun watching grown men sweat.

His nervousness didn't stop him from going on though.

“I mean, you’re still so young, Lissa. There’s a lot you don’t understand. Viktor, bless his soul..." he did the sign of the cross. "...was a legend. But you’re…well.” He smiled.

The kind of smile that made me want to punch his fucking face.

“You’re young. Beautiful, of course. But young. You don’t know how hard these things get. Your grandfather understood that. He respected what it meant to lead. You on the other hand are just a girl trying to run things meant for men. Dangerous men."

Oh.

Oh.

I look up at him again. Really slowly this time.

He gulps, sweating.

They were only two kind of feelings people got when they looked me in the eye. One was fear and the other was disgust. This wasn't due to my aura or anything, it actually had to do with my eye. One eye.

He seemed to be the latter since it was winter in Moscow and he’s sweating.

“Are you done?” I ask.

He blinks. “I...I just want you to understand. We’re all trying to survive, right?”

I nod once.

He takes that as a good sign, giving him more courage to open his prickly mouth again.

“If you ask for my advice, I'll tell you that this business needs real men, not little girls playing dress ups."

No one asked for your advice in the first place, old geezer and I know he didn't just make fun of my dressing.

Malik, my right hand shadow, exhales from behind me.

I could tell he was bored of our facade already. It's just a formality but it's really not something I plan on doing again.

“You're just a girl, after all, you should be focusing on marriage and all that, not this. I really don't know what Viktor was thinking." He continues, spitting the words from his mouth.

I push my chair back.

“You’re right.”

He blinks up. “What?”

“I am just a girl,” I say, standing. “And girls have things to do. You know, like brush my hair, put on makeup and all that, not talk to old pricks like you."

He stands up angrily. “Did you seriously just insult me? I really don't know why your grandfather gave you that seat. He himself would’ve known better than to cut me short in a conversation, even calling me an old prick.”

What part of this was a conversation? The asshole's been monologuing for half an hour and I didn’t even blink. That was generous enough.

I could see his guards straighten too but they didn't dare come any closer.

I didn't bother replying him, and just turned on my heel, heading for the door.

My boots clicked real pretty across his expensive tile.

Outside, snow was falling. Russia's always cold, which was one thing I loved about it. Makes the blood freeze slower.

I pull out a cigarette, light it, then turn to stare at the building.

Café Viktoria.

Named after his dead wife.

Fitting.

My lighter clicks open and I smile, tossing it right through the glass.

The café lights up instantly.

BOOM.

Glass bursts. Heat waves slam my back. I hear screams coming from inside and it was fucking music to my ears.

Yep. That’s the sound of consequences.

Malik opens the door of the black car and I step in, my bodyguards following right behind and entering the rest of the convoy.

“That’s what happens when you talk too much.”

---

Ever felt like the walls had eyes?

Yeah. That’s this office.

It's got the same old creepy vibe that grandpa had, plus the air felt colder in here, crawling up my spine and whispering, “You don’t belong here.”

Too bad for it, though.

This office was mine now.

I dropped into the chair he used to sit in like it owed me money.

And for the record?

It kinda does.

It owed me grandpa.

Sure he was also an old prick but he was my old prick.

I wasn't ready to lose him the way I did.

Click.

I flicked my lighter open. I'd gotten a new one from my safe earlier, I had about a hundred of these. I just couldn’t help loving the sound.

“Miss.”

I turned.

Malik was standing there in a dark suit, his signature poker face on. He never smiled and I liked that about him.

“It’s done?” I asked.

He nodded. “Fire crews are calling it faulty wiring. Our people paid off the right ears. No loose ends.”

“Perfect.”

He walked in, placed a file on the desk. “The Bratva movement’s been quiet. A little too quiet. Fedor’s crew backed off from the docks, but I think they’re planning something on the Belarus border. I already sent our men to monitor.”

I hummed, flipping open the file. Boring names. Bloody numbers. The usual.

“And the Volkov shipment?”

“Intercepted. Their loss.”

I smiled faintly. “Ours now.”

He gave another curt nod, like we were talking about groceries and not weapons, humans and drugs, that could end in gunfire.

There was a beat of silence.

Then I asked it.

The question that had been sitting on my tongue like bitter candy.

“What about the boy?”

He didn’t need to think about it, he already knew who I was talking about.

Right before grandpa died, he'd dropped a bombshell on me.

I was betrothed to someone. Since birth. How could he just drop that on me then? I was fucking twenty five already and he just told me that, like what'd he expect? That I just married some prick I didn't even know.

Malik cleared his throat. “Your betrothed is...”

I raised my hand.

“Don’t call him that,” I muttered, flicking my lighter open again. “God. Betrothed. What is this, 1820?”

He said nothing.

Smart man.

“I don’t even know who his grandfather is, or what kind of favor mine owed to set something like that up. For all I know, the guy's a womaniser. Or worse, a romantic.”

I made a face of genuine disgust. “I’m not marrying some sap, Malik. I’ll throw some money at him and we’ll call it even."

He didn’t argue.

We both knew I wasn’t the marrying type.

Hell, I barely had the capacity to feel anything that wasn’t rage or apathy.

“Anyway,” He continued, adjusting his gloves, “He’s in Chicago. He's a..."

“Chicago? What the heck was grandpa finding all the way there?"

"I don't know but according to the info we got that's really where he is."

I flicked my lighter open, then snapped it shut, standing up.

"Get the jet ready.”

“Chicago?” he asked.

I smirked.

“Yep. Time to go meet my so-called betrothed."