Page 30 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

The gates open just before we drive through. It reminds me of the Sanctuary in the sense that it feels like a contained community, separated from the rest of the world.

The estate is sprawling. A handful of buildings dot the area. All look gleaming new. Bunkers, warehouses, everything sparse and utilitarian.

Except for the structure at the far edge. That is lavishness incarnate. It drips with luxury and fine craftsmanship. I’m guessing those are the don’s quarters.

We grind to a halt. My car door is whipped open and one of Phoenix’s guards is already waiting for me with a stern expression. “Out,” he orders. He holds out a hand to help me down to the dry earth.

I get out with Theo in my clutch and shield my eyes from the sun arrowing down at us. I glance around, but I don’t see Phoenix anywhere.

“I’ll take him now,” Leona says, removing Theo from my arms.

“Why can’t he stay with me?”

“You’re to be shown to your room now.”

I narrow my eyes. “You mean my jail cell?”

“If you want to call it that. It’ll be a hell of a lot nicer than the bunkers where the rest of this lot are going,” Leona says as she jerks a thumb at the trucks queuing up behind us.

“Bunkers?”

“Don’t worry—there are actual beds, running water, the whole nine yards,” she assures me. “But it’s more, shall we say, spartan than your accommodations will be.”

“Perks of being forced into marriage,” I ask bitterly.

She just grins at me. “At least you get something out of the bargain.”

She proceeds to walk away from me, taking my son with her. I make an automatic step to follow, but the guard who opened my door blocks me.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to follow me.”

I look into his deep-set brown eyes and try and find some humanity in them. If it’s there, I certainly can’t pick it out.

“I want my son.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

He grabs my wrist, but I yank it away furiously. “Don’t touch me.”

He backs away and eyes me, considering whether I’m worth the hassle. In the end, he just gives me a small nod and gestures for me to walk ahead of him.

I weigh disobeying. Running away, throwing dirt in his face, kicking this smug prick right between the legs. But I know that none of those things are truly options. I may not have literal chains around my wrists, but I feel their weight nonetheless.

So I trudge along the way he points. We approach the don’s quarters. The façade is adobe so smooth it looks like a cloud. Huge swaths of glass drink in the light until the whole place glows like a diamond.

The front door pivots inward and sucks us in with the promise of air conditioning. It must cost a fortune to cool this place, based on the triple-height ceilings and endless open floor plan. I have a feeling that money was no object.

The furniture is as minimalist as the rest of the compound, but it screams money. Fine leather couches, gilded portraits, handwoven rugs lying here and there on the stone floors. Everything luxe and ultra-modern.

The guard leads me to the second floor. I’m shown into a beautiful room with wraparound windows overlooking the garden. My jaw almost drops at the sight. The whole spread is unbelievably green. An oasis in this sandy wasteland. Birds chirp and butterflies flit from bush to bush.

It’s beautiful—but I resent the beauty.

Because it’s a silent insult. A taunt. Phoenix is using this grand house to force me into a life I didn’t choose and then expecting me to be grateful for it.

I turn around to realize the guard who led me here is already backing out of the room. “Hey, wait—!”

He does not wait.

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