Page 75 of Punish Me, Daddy

“We ran,” he explained. “Landed in New York under an assumed name. Maxim negotiated with one of the old bosses from Brighton Beach. Bought us time. But Boston…” He looked out the window. “Boston was supposed to be our fresh start.”

“What happened after that?” I asked softly.

His jaw ticked. “Now we hold a corner of the city, but we’re still new blood here. Still earning our seat at the table.”

“And me?” I whispered.

He looked at me.

Soft. Steadfast. Unflinching.

“You’re going to make sure we keep it.”

I stared at him, chest tightening, heart thudding in my ears.

“Keep what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Power,” he answered simply. “This city. Our name. Everything we’ve built.”

The words landed heavily between us.

“I don’t understand,” I replied. “I’m not… this isn’t my world.”

He nodded slowly, as if he expected that answer.

“But you walked into it anyway,” he murmured. “And now that you’re here, you’re a Morozov in the making. That means something.”

He leaned in closer.

“We’ve worked for years to claw our way into this city. Boston didn’t welcome us, it watched us. Judged us. Waited for us to fuck up. But when my brother’s daughter Irina married Aidan Murphy, when the Kozlovs crossed a line, and we bled with the Murphys to take them down, that’s when we earned our foothold. But it’s not stable. Not yet.”

The room suddenly felt too large.

“And you think marrying me is going to fix that?” I really tried not to let my voice squeak.

“I think marryingyou,” he continued, “will seal everything. A Kingsley at my side? The mayor’s daughter wearing my name and my ring? That’s not just a wedding. That’s a message.”

I didn’t answer, just let him keep going.

“You’ll be a symbol,” he continued. “To the families. To the city. A declaration that we’re not outsiders anymore. That we don’t just take what we want, wekeep it.And you’re the one thing I intend to keep most of all.”

He stepped away from the counter, walked over to the sideboard near the fireplace, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small matte-black rectangular box. When he returned, he didn’t open it right away. He set it gently in front of me on the counter, next to the now-empty plate.

“What is it?”

He finally lifted the lid. Inside was velvet lining. There was a thin gold chain, delicate, with a single teardrop ruby at the center, dark and rich and stunning.

“This was my mother’s,” he said softly. “One of the few things we managed to get out of Moscow after the explosion.”

My throat tightened.

“Why are you giving it to me?” I asked, and my voice was smaller than I meant for it to be.

He looked at me for a long time. Not just at me—butintome. Like he was seeing all the pieces I kept under lock and key.

“Because I want you to remember that you’re not alone anymore. That you have me.”

I blinked.

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