Page 5 of Hers to Command

By the time I leave the club, I’m ready to risk my non-murderess status. Either Mikhail or Dmitri Solntsev deserves to die for putting me in this situation. Mikhail, for abandoning me even though he knew what was happening. And fucking Solntsev, because I can’t stand the memory of his greedy eyes running down my body like he already has a claim on it.

Fiancé, my ass.

I don’t head straight to my apartment. Instead, I take a detour to the shooting range. The sterile, cool air inside hits me as I walk in, and the familiar smell of oil used to clean guns lingers in the background, faint but unmistakable.

Sliding a set of earmuffs over my head, the world becomes muffled. Only the muted thud of distant shots breaks through. After signing in, I set up at the far end, where it’s quieter—more space to think. The cold steel of the gun feels solid in my hands, grounding me.

It always has. Mikhail might have ended up the enforcer of the family, but I’m sure as fuck the better shot. There was always something about coming to the range that calmed me.

I take aim, focusing on the target downrange. My heartbeat slows as I inhale deeply, finger hovering over the trigger. The weight of the gun feels reassuring and familiar. My mind races, but my body is still, muscles taut as I pull the trigger.

Bang.

The sound cracks through the air, reverberating in my chest. The force kicks back against my shoulder, but it’s controlled. There’s something cathartic about the sharp jolt, like everything is momentarily reset with each shot. It clears my head.

I fire again, letting the rhythm of the shots drown out the noise in my mind.

I should have come here yesterday.

I know what I need to do. Have known it for a while. I just wasn’t ready to go through with it.

I don’t have time left to stick to any naïve notions of what’s fair and what’s not. Life isn’t fair, everyone knows that, but I’ll get what I’m owed. Power. Respect. Influence.

Even if that means I actually have to get married to secure my own alliance.

Father might think Solntsev is the best option for me, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only candidate for a marriage that’ll secure my future. It’s just the only one that secures it in a way that’ll allow him to hold on to power for as long as he can.

Since nobody else in my life is willing to do it, it’s time to stop trying to please him and to look out for myself.

Bang. Another shot hits the target dead center. The idea is taking shape.

If I can get my hands on the details of how Solntsev is moving the girls into Toronto, I know exactly who’d want to know about it.

I fire another shot, the echo lingering in the confined space. My mind keeps racing. The details of Solntsev’s operation are in someone’s head. I just have to figure out whose. My father’s right-hand man, Sergei, might know, but he’s not exactly one for loose lips no matter that uncle Sergei has a soft spot for me. Getting anything from him would be near impossible.

Then there’s Ivan, the one my father usually trusts to move the girls. He’d be the one coordinating their arrival in the city. He’s a more promising lead. There’s also the bookkeeper, but I doubt my father would share much with him, not after being burned by other bean counters in the past. There are few people he distrusts more than number pushers.

Ivan is my best shot. I lower my gun, eyes still locked on the target for a moment longer. Then I pack up my gear. Time to head to Flemingdon Park for some recon. If I’m going to make a move, I need to do it fast.

Half an hour later, I’m at the club and I have what I need. Getting the information was easier than I could have ever imagined. Ivan was drunk as fuck when I arrived, courtesy of Lana, the girl he’s dated for less than six months and who ditched his ass earlier today, only to take off with her ex.

Thank you, Lana.

“Need another one?” I wave the bottle through the air to catch Ivan’s attention, who nods fervently. I pour him a glass and leave him sitting at the bar.

Time to retreat to plan a visit to Riccardo Angelo.

Chapter Four

Anya

The glass doors slide open with a soft hiss as I step into Riccardo Angelo’s office building. My heels click against the marble floors, the sound echoing in my ears despite the noise made by the other people walking around. The guards stationed at the front barely glance at me, but I know they’ve already flagged my arrival. One of them spoke into his headset, and even if that wasn’t him notifying his boss, the security cameras all around the building’s lobby undoubtedly have facial recognition. I don’t doubt for a second that Toni Giordano, Angelo’s right-hand man, is already on his way. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here to sneak around.

Nor will I let any of this intimidate me. Riccardo Angelo might operate at a different level than my family, but that’s exactly why I am here, and I know my pitch by heart.

As the elevator climbs, the knot of tension in my stomach tightens, but I push it down. I’ve walked into much more dangerous places than this. Despite that, the stakes today are high, so I don’t quite manage not to wipe my sweaty hands on my slacks. If he sees it on his surveillance feed... well, fuck it.

The doors slide open, and I step out, already sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Everything in this building screams wealth. The plush leather, polished wood, people in fancy suits. It’s the subtle scents and sights of money and power my thesis supervisor in business school always talked about. I can smell it, taste it in the air, mixed with the ever-present undercurrent of espresso.

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