Page 3 of Hers to Command

Let him swallow that one. After all, had he not jumped ship, father wouldn’t be looking to consolidate his business withoutsiders. Because god fucking forbid, he might consider letting his daughter take over for him, now that his son has shown him the middle finger and went literally into bed with the enemy.

My forehead slams onto the kitchen counter while my hand still grasps the wine glass. Tears that I didn’t allow to come until now press against my eyelids and, finally, I scream.

Chapter Two

Riccardo

Power. Money. Control. Most people walk around thinking their little lives mean something, but most of them don’t have the slightest clue how this world truly works. They might suspect, but they don’t know. They certainly don’t know who really runs things. I know, and yet, here I am—almost an entire day lost to a wedding, of all things.

With Toni following, I slide into the front pew, my fingers drumming against the polished wood, willing myself not to get a goddamned headache from the air. It’s thick with the scent of candles and flowers. The church is overdone, as expected—tapestries that are meant to remind you of old Italy, of tradition, of power. A façade. A show. Just like this entire wedding.

It’s not even the wedding itself that irritates me. I get it. Which is why I’m here. What gets me is who’s getting married.Gianna Bruno.One of the sharpest, most ruthless women I’ve ever known. Our current alliance works for now, but it doesn’t change the fact that every time we sit across from each other, we’re both calculating how far the other can be trusted. Still, of the few people in this city who get what really matters in this life, she’s at the top of the list.

Which is why my father suggested I ought to marry her. May the rats feast on his corpse.

Organ music starts, but I manage not to roll my eyes. Many of my men are religious. It wouldn’t do for me to be seen like I shun the traditions and rituals that give them something to hold on to.

In Gianna’s case, it’s less about her being religious and more about her holding onto power after her father died and she decided to hook up with the worst match possible. Today’s wedding is less about vows and more about positioning. She’s tying herself to Mikhail, the former Russian enforcer and son of Bratva boss, Adrik Tsepov, and I can’t help the twitch of irritation that surges through me at the thought. It’s not just the fact that I have to sit here, watching them make a spectacle out of it. No. It’s that she’s chosen him.

Him.

Mikhail is known for being cold, calculating, and dangerous. I give him that. But the fact that Gianna sees something in him—something she wants to tie herself to—grates on me more than I’d like to admit. Not because I ever wanted her for myself, but because Gianna doesn’t do anything unless it benefits her, and I can’t yet see what her endgame is.

My eyes flick to Mikhail standing at the altar, tall and stone-faced, like he owns the place. The music swells and everyone turns. Gianna walks down the aisle, her steps slow and deliberate. The vision of a woman in control. The entire roomholds its breath, and I can see why. She’s a force of nature—beautiful, yes, but more than that. Every step, every glance, radiates authority. No one doubts for a second that she’s the one pulling the strings in this marriage.

Exactly the kind of posturing I expected. I expected it, because that’s what I would do, which is why a marriage between Gianna and me would have never worked. She’s too much like me—hungry, ruthless, always two steps ahead. There was never room for both of us. Which is why I shouldn’t be this fucking irritated at having to sit through this whole charade.

Except marrying someone like Gianna might have been the only option to have someone in my life who’d actually survive it. Few women get positions inla familia, and even less want them.

Which is why I don’t plan on ever going through this kind of spectacle myself.

Still, watching Gianna stand beside that Russian bastard... it bothers me more than it should. It’s not jealousy, not really. I never wanted her, not like that, although I wouldn’t have minded giving her a go between the sheets. But this marriage—thismove—gives her something. Something I haven’t figured out yet, and it pisses me off.

The priest begins his speech, his words low and solemn, but I tune it out. My mind’s racing, calculating what this means for me and for my organization. Power is never stable. It shifts. It crumbles. And I’ll be damned if I let her or the Bratva outmaneuver me in my own city.

I might be here, playing the role, but peace has never been my goal. Power, yes. Control. And if I have to tear this city apart brick by brick to maintain my hold, I will.

The ceremony drags on, but I barely hear the words. My mind is elsewhere. This wedding is just the beginning. The actual game starts after the vows are spoken and the toasts are made. I might have wasted my day at this wedding, but there is oneman who dislikes this union more than me. Adrik Tsepov. And he’s already made his move, which is the main reason I’m stuck upholding the alliance with the Bruno syndicate.

Tsepov senior has invited the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood to Toronto and Dmitri Solntsev is arriving in my goddamned city today, perhaps at this very moment, and that is a serious problem, because that man has resources that I don’t need messing with my organization.

There are too many moving pieces, too many players waiting to make their move. And then there’s me.

I smirk, leaning back in my seat as the priest finally pronounces them man and wife. The crowd erupts into polite applause.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Three

Anya

After a sleepless night, I’m back at the Downsview Park club, heading to my father’s office with some lunch, like every Wednesday. Like the good little girl that I am.

Fuck that. Desperate, more like it. Desperate for more information, because I’m in a limbo that’s about to kill me. I’ve got to do something, but first I need to do this.

“Anya,” my father smiles at me when I walk in as if he hadn’t commanded me to a meeting to show me off to the highest paying bidder only yesterday. It’s the genuine smile he gives me when I’m the daughter he always wanted me to be. Which I usually am, at least as far as he knows. “What did you bring for us today?”

“Pelmeni from Arbat’s.” It’s one of my father’s favorites and he rewards me with a pleased smile. I need him in a good mood.

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