Page 2 of Hers to Command

I’m well educated. I know my legal rights, and I damn well know this shouldn’t happen to me. I also know that it happens to women every day and that the police do shit to stop it. What can they truly do when half the officials are being paid off, and the bureaucracy has them towing a line that is under-funded and over regulated?

“Please have a seat.” My father gestures for Solntsev to sit. “I wanted to give you a chance to meet my beautiful Anya before we talk business.”

Beautiful. His primary selling point, because the rest would make me seem less attractive. My Master’s degree in business, the fact that I can shoot a .45 caliber handgun with sub-MOA precision at 25 yards, and that I’ve secretly run the entire operation out of our Flemingdon Park club for years. Though, of course, he doesn’t know about that last part.

Solntsev is staring at me again. “She’s aware of the arrangement?”

Father nods. “Anya knows.”

A smile spreads across Solntsev’s face. “The first shipment of girls will arrive in one week. A dowry, as discussed. After that, we will begin the actual business.”

My skin is crawling by the time Solntsev finally turns to my father. “She can go now. I want to discuss the Italians.”

“Yes, of course. Anya, you can go.”

Dismissed. Because business isn’t for women. As if this isn’t relevant to me. My heels dig into the carpet, taking away the sound that would give away my fury.

The lights are dim around the club, only the stages illuminated more brightly, giving the visitors a chance to stare at the bodies on display while the lowered lights over the booths give the illusion of anonymity.

I ignore the urge to scream and head straight for the door. My convertibleis waiting out front in my reserved spot, and I slide in. I’ve got to get away from here to think. It hasn’t even been ninety minutes since I received my father’s call, telling me that Dmitri fucking Solntsev is in town and that I’m supposed to marry the guy. Under different circumstances, I may have been excused for needing a minute to process this shit, but here I am, almost out of time.

I need to get my shit together and figure out what I’ll do next. Because one thing is for certain, my long-term planning strategy started smoking when Mikhail up and left to stick his dick in his Italian princess, but now it’s caught fire and I’m still tied to the damn witch pole.

Fortunately, my apartment isn’t too far away. A mere ten-minute drive, despite the Toronto traffic in the late evening. Father wanted me to live at home, not approving of having me rent my own place, but Mikhail helped me convince him that I’d be better off close to campus while I did my degrees. Not that my father cared about my education, beyond their value in giving me a more polished look. I wasn’t one of the whores he kept inhis stable. Nope, I was a valuable racehorse to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Someone who could be trotted out during business meetings for small talk, just as long as I didn’t get any ideas in my head about having an actual career.

Not like Gianna Bruno, Mikhail’s wife.

I slam my apartment door behind me, hating the envy I experience every time I think of the head of the Bruno syndicate. Which is why I put her out of my mind and head straight for my bar. What I need is a drink. Hard liquor. Unfortunately, all I have is wine.

I uncork a bottle and pour the red goodness into an oversized wine glass. It fits almost half the bottle. Not bad.

Before I can sit down, my cell rings and, with a look at my phone, my mood sours even further. Mikhail.

“Brother dearest, what can I do for you?” The sarcasm drips heavily from my words, and I refuse to acknowledge that today is his wedding day. That slight is about the only reason why I even picked up the phone.

“I want to know what’s going on with you. Riccardo Angelo told Gianna that Solntsev was at father’s club.” Mikhail sounds pissed, which is about the only good thing about this conversation. I’m not sure what he’s pissed about—that I’m not gushing about his pretty bride, or that I’ve ignored most of his recent calls.

“And you care why?”

“Because you’re my sister.”

He says it like that truly means something to him. Our entire adult lives, I’ve done everything I could to make his life easier while carving out a space for myself. I’d run the club father entrusted him with, despite the disgust I had to swallow at being the one to keep a stable of drugged-up trafficked women. Yeah, a good person I am not, but I fucking did what I could to at least set myself up to not be dragged down with the rest of them.

And what did Mikhail do? Instead of paying attention and doing the bare minimum, he ran off to stalk no other than Gianna goddamned Bruno. Imagine my surprise when she not only put up with him, but as far as I know, actually went through with it and walked down a goddamned aisle for him today.

Then again, is it really such a surprise? At least she turned the tables on the men in her life. When her father died, she killed her uncle to take control of the syndicate and now she walks around with the son of a rival mafia family following her around like a trained puppy dog. It’s hard to hate the bitch when I’m so fucking impressed.

“How is yourwife?” I ask, venom in the words that remind him of the priorities he’s set. Gianna over me. He didn’t even invite me to the wedding. Instead, Mikhail had asked if I wanted to get together with them for dinner to celebrate privately, as if that sounded any better than slitting my own throat with his favorite knife.

Mikhail huff. “Gianna is good. Busy at the reception.”

Yeah, of course, she is busy. She’s got a companyanda syndicate to run. People to impress.

“Great. Good chat.” I’m about to hang up when Mikhail speaks again.

“I know you’re pissed. I get it, but I want to see you.” The pained sound of his voice soothes some of my anger. My brother is a psychopath, sure, but he used to have a soft spot for me. That losing me hurts him at least tells me I’m not the only one suffering from his decisions.

I take a long sip of my wine, swallowing audibly, and allowing that bit of satisfaction to linger. “Well, you’ll have to get in line. Looks like Dmitri Solntsev has first dibs on me these days.” Then I hit the red button.

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