The Don’s Deadly Cure

Chapter 6-NADIA

The private jet did not have the medical journals or the quiet classical music I usually preferred during travel. Instead, the cabin smelled of expensive leather and gun oil. Two men I vaguely remembered from my childhood sat across from me, their backs straight, their hands folded neatly on their laps. Men with scars on their knuckles and eyes that never blinked. Their silence was a heavy reminder of the world I was re-entering.

I looked down at the signet ring on my finger. The Snow crest caught the cabin light, cold and unyielding. It felt less like jewelry and more like a shackle.

When the plane touched down on a private strip in upstate New York, the air was sharp and smelled of pine and damp earth. A fleet of black SUVs waited at the edge of the runway, engines idling low, patient, dangerous. As I stepped down the stairs, a figure separated himself from the shadows.

Mikhail.

My brother had not aged well. While I had spent ten years buried in medical school and operating rooms, those same years had carved violence and sleepless nights into his face. His jaw was harder, his eyes colder. He did not hug me. He did not smile. His gaze dropped to my surgical scrubs, still faintly stained from my last case, and his mouth curled with disdain.

“You look like a servant, Nadia,” he said.

“I look like a woman who actually contributes to society,” I shot back, the old fire flaring in my chest. “Why am I here, Mikhail? If Father is dying, take me to him. I will read his charts.”

“You are not here as a doctor,” he replied, gripping my arm and steering me toward the lead SUV. “The Snow Syndicate is under siege. The Sokolovs are pressing from Russia, bleeding our ports. The Council believes we look weak. We need an alliance, Nadia. A union that cannot be betrayed.”

“I am not a bargaining chip,” I said, my voice cold.

“You are a Snow,” Mikhail snapped, his hand tightening on my arm as he steered me through the airport terminal. “That makes you whatever the family needs.”

The drive to the estate passed through layers of iron gates and armed checkpoints. The Snow Fortress rose from the forest like a relic—all dark stone and looming towers. I had spent a decade trying to forget the way the shadows clung to these walls. It felt like the forest itself was trying to swallow the house whole, or perhaps the house was swallowing me.

When we arrived, Mikhail didn't lead me to the Council room where the low murmur of men’s voices echoed. Instead, he led me toward the grand staircase.

"Go to your old quarters," he commanded, his voice brookering no argument. "A dress has been laid out for you. A stylist is waiting. Wash the hospital off your skin and try to look like the heiress you were born to be. Our guests are already here, and the negotiations are reaching their final hour."

"Guests?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Who is he, Mikhail? Who is the man I'm supposed to be sold to?"

Mikhail paused at the foot of the stairs, a cruel, triumphant light in his eyes. "A man who makes the Sokolovs look like children. A man who controls the Mediterranean with an iron fist. He’s waiting for his bride, Nadia. Don't keep him waiting."

I was ushered into my old bedroom by two silent maids. It looked exactly as it had ten years ago—a time capsule of a life I hated. On the bed lay a dress of deep crimson silk—backless, elegant, and dangerously expensive. It looked like a spill of fresh blood against the white duvet.

I bathed mechanically, the steam of the water failing to warm the chill in my bones. My mind kept drifting back to Milan. I thought of the man in Suite 412, the way his mismatched eyes had looked at me with such intensity, and the weight of the Beretta in his hand. I wondered if he was safe. I wondered if he was back in his own world, or if the hitmen had finally caught up to him.

The stylist worked in eerie silence, pinning my hair into a sophisticated updo and applying makeup that masked my exhaustion, turning me into a stranger. When I finally looked in the mirror, Dr. Nadia Snow was gone. In her place stood Nadia Orlova, a woman meant for a throne she never asked for.

A sharp knock at the door signaled my time was up.

"It's time," a guard said through the wood. "The Council is waiting. The Don is waiting."

I took a deep breath, the silk of the dress rustling like a warning against my legs. I walked down the long, silent hallway toward the grand library. My heart slammed against my ribs with every step. I didn't want this. I didn't want to be the sacrificial lamb for an alliance between monsters.

The heavy double doors swung open.

The room beyond was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and old money. A dozen men in dark suits sat around the perimeter, their eyes tracking my entrance like wolves watching a deer. At the head of the table sat my father, looking diminished and pale, his once-great power flickering like a dying candle.

But he wasn't the one who dominated the room. My eyes were drawn to the figure standing by the far window, his back to the room.

He was broad-shouldered, tall, and stood with an impossible stillness as he looked out at the winter landscape. He didn't turn when I entered. He just stood there, a silent, dark pillar of power that seemed to command the very air in the library.

“Our daughter has arrived,” my father rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of pride and desperation.

The man at the window didn't move yet, but I felt the temperature in the room drop. This was the man who held my future in his hands. This was the stranger I was supposed to marry.