Like the Flower?
𝑅𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒢𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝑜
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The night after the party passed in a blur of adrenaline, blood-red lipstick, and my father yelling in my face about "diplomacy" and "making a scene."
Apparently, kneeing a pervy heir to a loyal family in the dick in front of fifty people counts as causing a scene. Oh well. His moaning sounded better than whatever cheap pickup line he was planning next.
I smiled the whole way home.
But now? That smile is gone.
I sit in my father's office again—same chair, same polished floor, same suffocating weight of expectations pressing on my shoulders. Only this time, it's worse.
This time, we're talking about marriage.
"Alright, Principessa," my father says, clearing his throat and adjusting the sleeves of his tailored suit. He sits behind the desk like he's about to announce a business merger. Not like he's about to hand me over like a pawn.
I don't answer. I just glare. Hard.
He meets my gaze over the rim of his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's nervous I'll explode. He should be nervous.
"The wedding will be held in two weeks," he begins. "It will take place in the cathedral. After the ceremony, you'll move into the Kozlov estate."
My jaw tightens.
"You'll be married for twelve months," he continues, voice flat. "Once the year is over and peace is secured, you'll be free. You'll get everything you want—your own seat, your own control. But you must follow through."
I blink slowly, blood humming beneath my skin like fire.
"Move in?" I repeat. "You're out of your fucking mind."
He doesn't flinch. Just clasps his hands and leans forward.
"You'll be his wife. You'll be expected to obey him. Respect him. He's not just any man—he's dangerous."
I let out a dry laugh. My own father—Don of the American-Italian Mafia—afraid of someone?
"You think I'm going to obey some Russian asshole because you're scared of him?" I hiss, eyebrows raised. "Do you even hear yourself?"
His jaw tightens, but there's something else in his eyes.
Fear.
Real fear.
"He's not a man you want as an enemy," he says carefully. "He's calculated. Cold. He knows exactly where to hit you so it hurts."
I lean forward too, eyes narrowing into slits. "Good thing I don't have a heart for him to hit."
Silence stretches between us. Thick. Unforgiving.
"You knew I never wanted this," I say, standing abruptly, my voice low but sharp as a blade. "I told you for years—I don't want to be some mobster's housewife. I don't want a fucking ring. And I sure as hell don't want to move into the Kozlov mansion and play nice with the enemy."
His face hardens. "And I told you—this is the only way to protect the family."
I scoff. "No. It's the only way to protect your legacy."
He sighs, running a hand over his face like he's aged ten years in ten minutes.
"Tonight," he says finally, "we'll be having dinner with the Kozlovs. You'll meet your fiancé."
Fiancé. The word feels like acid on my tongue.
I don't want a fiancé. I don't want a dinner. I don't want any of this.
"Yeah. Whatever," I mutter before storming out of his office, heels echoing like gunshots against the marble floor.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
I flip through the row of designer dresses laid out for tonight like I'm browsing a crime scene. One of them has feathers—actual feathers.
What am I, a mafia bride or a Vegas showgirl?
None of them scream "Don't fuck with me or I'll castrate you with a steak knife."
Until I see it. Black. Tight. Glittering like sin. Short enough to be considered a threat.
Now this? This is me.
I smirk as I slip it on, tugging it down my body with the confidence of someone who knows the room will stop when she walks in. I turn to the mirror, sucking in, then relaxing. I do it again until I'm satisfied with the illusion.
Perfect.
From the desk, I grab the small pistol, its weight familiar and comforting in my palm. I slide it into the garter on my thigh and grab my purse—where, naturally, a backup gun waits too. I will always be prepared for anything.
I slip into my black stilettos and strut out the door like I'm walking into battle—which, in a way, I am.
My father stands downstairs, looking up as I descend the steps.
"You look—" he starts.
I walk right past him like he doesn't exist. Compliments don't fix betrayal.
The car ride is tense. Silent. I look out the window like I'm staring into a better life. One where my father didn't just promise me to a Kozlov like I'm some kind of olive branch wrapped in lipstick and leather.
We arrive at a high-end Italian restaurant—one of those overpriced places where everyone pretends not to be in the mob while ordering imported wine and homemade pasta.
I climb out before anyone can open the door for me. My heels click against the marble, sharp and final. My father hurries behind me with his guards, but I keep my pace. I don't slow for cowards.
The restaurant doors swing open and eyes shift to me instantly.
I scan the place like I'm taking inventory of weaknesses, then follow my father through the tables. He leads me toward the back, where a private booth waits. Two men already sit there—shadows in tailored suits.
I can't get a good look before my father leans down and whispers something to one of them.
He steps back, and then I meet his eyes.
Baby blue. Piercing. Cold enough to freeze lava.
Black hair, messy enough to scream effortless power. Sharp jaw, cheekbones carved like sin, tattoos peeking from beneath his collar.
Isaac Kozlov.
My so-called fiancé.
It makes me sick to my stomach just looking at him while knowing I am marrying him in less than a month.
He raises a brow, his eyes trailing down my body—slowly. Deliberately. Not like a man admiring, but like a predator assessing.
Beside him is another man, similar but not quite the same. Buzz cut. Lighter eyes. A little more smug, a little less deadly. Probably the annoying little brother who thinks he's hot shit.
He smirks at me.
I want to slap it off his face. My father nudges me with that look: Be nice.
I sit down across from Isaac, smoothing my dress like I'm not seconds away from grabbing the steak knife on the table and carving my initials into someone's forehead.
"I'm Rose," I say, voice sweet like poison. "Your worst nightmare." Isaac doesn't blink. He just studies me like I'm a riddle he doesn't care to solve.
The ogre next to him snorts. "Fiery. This one's going to be fun."
I ignore him.
"Rose," Isaac repeats, tasting the name like it's a bad aftertaste. "Like the flower?" I lean in a little, resting my arms on the table. "Yeah. Be careful—I've got thorns. Sharp ones."
Still no expression. The guy has the emotional range of a brick wall. "I'm Isaac. This is my brother, Alec," he finally says, like we're exchanging insurance information and not being shoved into an arranged marriage.
"How cute," I deadpan.
A waiter approaches, all smiles and sunshine. "Hi, I'm John, I'll be your waiter tonight! Can I start you off with some drinks?"
I fake smile politely. "Old Fashioned." He nods and jots it down, then moves on to the rest of the table while I glance back at Isaac—just in time to catch him staring.
"What?" I snap and snarl.
"Old Fashioned," he says, thick Russian accent curling around the words. "Interesting choice."
I raise an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?"
His face remains unreadable. "No."
Good. Because if it was, I'd have to add drinks like a sexist asshole to my ever-growing list of reasons to hate him.
Our drinks arrive and I waste no time. I take a long sip—big enough to draw judgmental glances from the entire table. Let them judge. They're not the ones being sold off like cattle.
"Slow down, Rose," my father whispers, leaning toward me like he thinks I'll behave if he says it gently.
I turn to him, giving him the 'Are you fucking serious?' glare. He backs off immediately, exhaling through his nose like I've already exhausted him—and we haven't even gotten to appetizers.
Isaac watches the exchange closely. Alec watches me like he wants to see what button he can press next. I sip again, slower this time, only because the burn feels good.
A moment passes.
"So," Alec finally says, leaning his elbow on the table. "You planning on stabbing Isaac in the back like your father did mine on the wedding night, or are you going to wait until the honeymoon?"
I flash him a sarcastic smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.
"Oh honey," I purr. "If I were going to stab him in the back, I'd do it at the altar. I like to make a scene."
Isaac glares at me like he is threatening me to do something. I smile.
The waiter returns to take our food orders. My father asks for some overpriced pasta dish. Alec orders the steak rare, because of course he does. I ask for something simple—just to get this damn dinner over with.
The small talk begins, led by my father and the Kozlov brothers. Business. Money. "The future of peace between our families." I tune it all out and stare at my drink like it has answers.
When dinner finally arrives, I eat in silence, ignoring the occasional backhanded comment from Alec and my father's forced attempts at polite conversation. Isaac says almost nothing.
But he is watching me deliberately,
Studying.
Calculating.
Like I'm not his future wife—but a weapon he's trying to figure out how to wield. Or destroy.
Let him try. I'll break him before he ever thinks about bending me.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The second the car pulled into the estate, I was already reaching for the door handle like it was a detonator.
The ride home from the dinner was silent. Not the peaceful kind—no. It was the type of silence that screamed. My father didn't say a word. Neither did I. I stared out the tinted window like I was watching my life disappear with every passing streetlight.
No goodbyes. No pleasantries. Just me, surrounded by Russian wolves and silence thick enough to choke me.
As soon as the door opened, I stepped out and stormed inside, my stilettos echoing off the marble floors like gunshots—each one punctuating how done I was.
My father called after me once. I didn't stop.
I didn't owe him anything anymore.
The halls of our mansion were cold, grand, and lifeless—just like the path he'd set me on.
I pushed open the door to my room, slammed it shut behind me, and finally—finally—let out the breath I'd been holding since the dinner started.
I was suffocating in this life. Caged in gold and drowning in expectations I never asked for.
I ripped the dress off like it was burning me and walked straight into the shower. I didn't wait for the water to warm. I let it run ice-cold, letting it sting my skin until the makeup and lies washed off and I was just... me.
Standing under freezing water, arms wrapped around myself like I could hold all the broken pieces together.
How the hell did I get here?
How did I go from the girl who wanted to rule the empire to the girl being handed off like a peace treaty with legs?
An hour and a half later, I stepped out, dripping and hollow, and pulled on black pajama shorts and a loose tank top. The cold hadn't warmed me. Not even close.
I padded over to my desk, grabbing my phone from the charger just as it buzzed.
Unknown:
This is Isaac, your fiancé. Save my number.
I stared at the screen, jaw clenched. Of course he had my number. My father probably handed it over like a good little lapdog. Anything to please the Russian devil in a suit.
I typed back without hesitation.
Me:
Yea, yea. Fuck you. 🖕🏼
I tossed the phone onto my bed like it was covered in slime. I should've left it there.
But of course, it buzzed again.
Russian Tyrant:
You wish.
I made the most disgusted face known to mankind, like the phone itself was trying to flirt with me.
I grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Not because I was scared. Not because I was weak. But because I was furious.
Because every man in my life had treated me like a weapon to be used, a game piece to be moved.
And now this smug, stoic, power-hungry mobster thought he could flirt his way into my tolerance?
Wrong bitch.
I threw the phone to the side of the bed and flopped down on my back, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. The sheets felt too cold, the room too big, my chest too tight.
I hated this.
I hated everything about this.
The deal. The dinner. The name Kozlov. The way Isaac had stared at me like he was already calculating how to break me.
I tossed. I turned. I checked the time. Again and again. Sleep came in short, restless bursts—like my body was trying to prepare for the war I was about to walk into.
Because tomorrow, this engagement would become real. The press would know. The families would know. The world would know.
Rose Bianchi. Engaged to the Russian boss.
My reputation? In flames.
My freedom? Gone.
But one thing they'll never take from me?
My fire.
If they want a docile mafia bride, they've picked the wrong girl.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･