A Kingdom of Blood and Vows

Isabella ‎ ‎Blood tastes like copper and bad decisions. ‎ ‎I learned that at twelve when I split a man’s lip for calling my mother a w***e in three languages. I learn it again tonight, with my knee pinning Marco Santino to the floor of his own penthouse, my forearm crushing his windpipe just enough to make his eyes bulge without killing him. ‎ ‎“You’re going to listen to me,” I tell him, voice low. The kind of low that makes grown men stop breathing. “Because I’m only going to say this once.” ‎ ‎Marco claws at my arm. His diamond pinky ring scrapes my skin. It’s gaudy. It’s stupid. It’s exactly the kind of ring a man wears when he thinks buying a Kim daughter buys him the Kim empire. ‎ ‎My father isn’t here. He’s at the docks, cleaning up the mess the Romanovs left last night. Four of our men dead. A life for a life, he always says. He sent me to deal with Marco. 'Make sure the Santino boy understands his place, Isabella. Remind him who he’s marrying into.' ‎ ‎I understood the assignment. I just chose a different interpretation. ‎ ‎“I don’t—” Marco chokes, face going red. “Can’t breathe—” ‎ ‎“That's the point, stupid,” I say, easing up a fraction. Only a fraction. “Because if you marry me, you’ll spend the rest of your short, miserable life not breathing. Do you understand?” ‎ ‎His house is empty. He sent his guards away. 'Give us privacy', he’d said to them, leering at me like I was a dessert tray. He thought he was safe. He thought because my father wants this alliance, I’d be demure. Compliant. The word my father’s consigliere used this morning. "The Santinos prefer demure, Isabella." ‎ ‎I’m twenty four years old. I’ve put more Romanovs in the ground than I can count. I’ve been shot twice. I have a scar through my eyebrow that my mother used to cry over. Demure got buried with her. ‎ ‎“Say it,” I demand, pressing down again. “Say the engagement is off.” ‎ ‎His lips move. No sound. ‎ ‎I lean closer, my hair falling around us like a curtain. “My father wants me married so he can add your shipping routes to his. He wants your father’s senators in his pocket. He doesn’t care if you beat me, if you parade me, if you put a baby in me to seal the deal. But I care, Marco.” I let him see my teeth. “And I’m the one you’d be sleeping next to.” ‎ ‎Terror finally wins out over pride. He nods, frantic. ‎ ‎“Louder,” I say. “So your security cameras hear it. So your father hears it. So there’s no 'dishonor' on the Kims.” ‎ ‎He wheezes, tears leaking from his eyes. “It’s...off. The engagement. It’s off. I don’t want you. I don’t—” ‎ ‎I let him go. ‎ ‎He collapses, coughing, scrambling backward until his back hits the leg of his expensive couch. He looks at me like I’m a rabid animal. He’s not wrong. ‎ ‎“Smart boy,” I say, standing. My knuckles are split. Blood wells, bright and red. I flex my hand and feel the sting. Good. Pain keeps you sharp. “Tell your father you changed your mind. Tell him you realized you’re not man enough for a Kim. If you blame me, if you tell him I threatened you, I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t stop at your throat.” ‎ ‎I don’t wait for a response. I walk out, past his gaping guards who suddenly can’t meet my eyes. I’m Isabella Jisoo Kim. My father’s only child. His weapon. His problem. ‎ ‎The drive away from Santino’s penthouse does nothing to cool the fire under my skin. My hands shake on the steering wheel. Not from fear. From rage. From the fact that at twenty-four, my life is still a chess piece my father moves around his war board. ‎ ‎The Romanovs killed my uncle twenty years ago, I think. 'A life for a life', my father swore at the grave. He’s been trying to trade mine ever since. First to the Lombardis. Then the Gallos. Now the Santinos. Alliances, he calls them. Leashes, I call them. ‎ ‎I need a drink. ‎ ‎Not at any of our places. Too many eyes. Too many men who whisper every move I make back to my father. I want to be nobody for one night. Not a Kim. Not an asset. Just a woman with blood on her collar and a throat that’s raw from screaming silently for years. ‎ ‎I pick 'Obsidian'. It’s neutral ground, technically. But it’s two blocks from Romanov territory. Close enough to be an insult. My father would call it reckless. ‎ ‎I call it breathing. ‎ ‎The bar smells like spilled vodka and sin. The lighting is low, the music is loud, and the crowd is the kind that minds its own business because it can’t afford not to. I slide onto a stool at the far end, order whiskey, neat. The bartender takes one look at my split knuckles and doesn’t ask for ID. ‎ ‎The first sip burns. The second settles. By the third, my shoulders drop half an inch. ‎ ‎That’s when I feel him. ‎ ‎It’s not a sound. It’s a shift. The air gets heavier. The hair on my arms lifts. My body knows it’s being looked at before my brain does. It’s the same instinct that keeps me alive in a firefight. ‎ ‎I turn. ‎ ‎He’s standing three feet away, and the rest of the bar goes dim. ‎ ‎Tall. Broad shoulders under a black suit jacket, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Tattoos crawl over his skin, disappearing under his cuffs. Black hair, too long, like he hasn’t had time to cut it or doesn’t care. And his eyes... ‎ ‎Gray. Not blue. Not green. Gray, like a blade before it’s been cleaned. ‎ ‎He looks like violence. He looks like every warning my father ever gave me about the kind of man who’ll get you killed. ‎ ‎He looks like exactly what I want tonight. ‎ ‎“You’re in my light,” I say. It’s the first thing I can think of. ‎ ‎His mouth quirks. Not a smile. Something more dangerous. “Is that a problem?” ‎ ‎His voice is deep and accented. Russian, maybe, but softened, like he’s lived other places. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t leave either. ‎ ‎“Depends,” I say, turning back to my drink. “You planning on staying there?” ‎ ‎“Two whiskeys,” he tells the bartender, ignoring my question. Then he slides onto the stool next to mine. Not touching. But close. Close enough that I smell him: smoke, leather, and something clean underneath. Gun oil. I know that smell. It’s home. ‎ ‎“I didn’t say you could sit,” I say. ‎ ‎“And you didn’t tell me to leave.” He picks up his glass when it arrives. “So.” ‎ ‎We drink. Silence stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s charged. The music throbs. Someone breaks a glass. No one looks. ‎ ‎“What’s your name?” he asks finally. ‎ ‎I should lie. I should give him nothing. Names are power. Names get people killed in my world. ‎ ‎“Mia,” I say. My mother’s middle name. A ghost I can loan for the night. ‎ ‎“Andrei,” he says. ‎ ‎Just Andrei. No last name. Smart man. ‎ ‎“To bad nights,” he says, lifting his glass. ‎ ‎I clink mine to his. “I don’t have any other kind.” ‎ ‎That gets me a real look. Those gray eyes drag over me, slow, cataloging. The scar on my eyebrow. The bruises on my knuckles. The way I sit, balanced, ready to move. I don’t hide it. Let him see. ‎ ‎“You hurt your hand,” he says. Not a question. ‎ ‎“You should see the other guy,” I say, and it’s true. ‎ ‎His laugh is quiet. “I believe it.” ‎ ‎We talk after that. Not about anything real. Movies. Cities. The way this bar’s whiskey is better than it should be. His knee brushes mine under the counter and neither of us moves away. His fingers tap once, twice against the wood when I say something that surprises him. ‎ ‎He asks what I do. I say, “I disappoint my father for a living.” ‎ ‎He grins at that. Full, real. It changes his whole face. “Family business?” ‎ ‎“Something like that.” ‎ ‎“You too,” I guess. ‎ ‎“Something like that,” he echoes. ‎ ‎His hand finds my lower back when we move to a booth. It’s warm. Heavy. Possessive without asking. I should step away. I don’t. My knife is in my boot. I’m sure he’s carrying too. We’re two weapons pretending to be people for the night. ‎ ‎“Tell me something true,” he murmurs later. The bar is emptying. It’s past two. His forehead is almost against mine, his breath mingling with mine. ‎ ‎I think about saying no. About keeping every true thing I have locked behind my teeth. But I’m tired. And he’s looking at me like I’m a person, not a deal. ‎ ‎“I’m not safe,” I whisper. ‎ ‎His thumb brushes my jaw. “I wasn’t looking for safe, Mia.” ‎ ‎The way he says the fake name makes it sound real. ‎ ‎And then, he kisses me. ‎ ‎The kiss starts slow. A question. I answer it by fisting my hand in his shirt, pulling him closer. It turns hot fast. Teeth. Tongue. Years of anger and isolation finding a target that isn’t a body bag. His hands are rough. Mine are worse. We don’t fit together gently. We fit together like a fight. ‎ ‎“Your place or mine?” he rasps against my mouth. ‎ ‎“Yours,” I say. Mine has cameras. Mine has guards. Mine has my father. ‎ ‎His car is black and expensive. We don’t talk on the drive. We can’t. His hand is on my thigh, and my nails are digging into his wrist, and the air between us is electric. ‎ ‎The hotel is anonymous. High floor. Clean sheets. He locks the door behind us and it’s like a dam breaks. ‎He pushes me against the wall. I pull his jacket off. His hands are under my shirt, on my skin, and I gasp because no one touches me. Not like this. Not like I’m wanted instead of owned. ‎ ‎We don’t stop to think. We don’t stop to check names or allegiances. There are scars on his body I feel under my palms. There’s a knife wound on his collarbone I trace with my mouth. He groans my fake name like a prayer. ‎ ‎We fall into bed and it’s messy and desperate and perfect. It’s two people who’ve lived in war finding peace for a few hours in each other. No past. No families. Just skin and heat and the way he says “look at me” when I close my eyes. ‎ ‎So I do. I look at him. At Andrei, with no last name, with gray eyes and hands that know how to be both cruel and careful. ‎ ‎And for one night, I let myself have him.