The cemetery was eerily quiet, as though the earth itself was preparing to swallow more secrets.
Isabella Rostov stood beside her brother, Francisco, before the black marble grave.
It bore only one name:
Oscar Rostov
1996 – 2024
A son who lost everything.
The wind toyed with strands of her light brown hair, yet her eyes remained fixed on the carved letters. No tears. No tremor.
A year had passed since his death, and still the pain had not faded—but it had changed.
It had turned from grief into disappointment. From loss into a curse.
Francisco spoke in a low voice, almost devoured by the breath of the wind:
"Do you know? No one visits this grave but us… not even Father."
She answered without looking at him:
"Because he knows… Oscar was the mistake that cost us half the family."
Of all the women in Spain, Oscar had chosen the only one whose shadow should never have been touched—
the wife of a Bratva man.
And in their world, women were sacred, untouchable. Whoever laid a hand on them… was erased.
The night Oscar was killed, it wasn't just a bullet.
It was a spark that ignited a war lasting an entire year, silencing the earth beneath the roar of explosions, filling the streets with nameless corpses.
The war everyone had feared began… because of one reckless, obsessed man, blinded by desire.
Francisco bit his lower lip and muttered:
"In the end… who pays the price? Us."
—
The car crawled slowly along the winding mountain roads that led to the Rostov estate.
The sun hid behind gray clouds, as though ashamed to light such a day.
Inside the car, silence pressed heavy, broken only by Francisco's uneven breathing.
She glanced at her brother without turning her head; the corner of her eye was enough.
He was nervous, rubbing his fingers together in a restless tic. He was never meant for this world, though he was born into it. Good with numbers, with real estate, with clean deals—but killing, blood, and agreements written in bullets… those were far from his nature.
Her voice came calm, yet cold:
"Oscar was a fool."
He said nothing. Only swallowed hard.
She continued, barely audible:
"Of all the women in Spain, he had to cross the Russians? He knew the rule… no one touches their women. Ever."
Francisco finally murmured:
"I know… but he was our brother, Isa."
Her eyes locked on the void ahead.
"And he should have been smarter."
But the fool had played with the Bratva.
The name alone weighed like stone.
They do not forget, they do not forgive, and they do not negotiate—except when death is already at the door.
"Mikhail Malikov…"
The Bratva's leader. The name itself shuddered in her mind.
She had never seen him. He had never shown himself. And that, in itself, was a message.
The Butcher of the Bratva did not visit the dead… he created them.
As Isabella watched the estate gates loom closer, her thoughts darkened.
Would peace be written in reason… or in blood?
Could any agreement with the Russians end something born of a dead man's mistake?
The road narrowed as they approached the mansion, as if pushing them toward an inevitable fate.
---
The grand hall of the Rostov estate was majestic, with its towering columns and a ceiling painted by an Italian master. But tonight, it was not merely a hall of nobility… it was an arena of a different kind.
On the left side of the gleaming table sat the heads of the Spanish mafia family, led by Alejandro Rostov, the patriarch, whose presence had not faltered even after the death of his son. To his right was Raul, the heir apparent, his gaze sharp, his jaw clenched. To his left sat a seasoned lawyer, recording every word as though drafting a testament for Judgment Day.
Opposite them sat the Russian delegation—four men in dark suits, faces as cold and unyielding as stone. At their center was Dmitri Malikov, Mikhail's brother and closest advisor. A man who neither smiled nor raised his voice, yet possessed an innate ability to make an entire room fall silent when he spoke.
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Dmitri's voice broke it, deep and weighted with the gravity of Russian steel:
"We are here… not because we forgive. But because we will not waste time on a fool. Yes, blood was spilled. But your fool tried to stain the honor of a woman of our family. And the Bratva does not forget."
Alejandro shifted in his seat with controlled patience, his tone calm:
"He was killed by her husband's hand. There is nothing left to avenge."
Dmitri's gaze was steady, lethal without needing to rise.
"Blood is not washed with words, Señor Rostov… but with oaths."
The Spanish lawyer interjected quickly:
"And that is why we are here—to lay the foundation for an accord, to end this tension before it escalates any further."
Dmitri's eyes flicked from Raul to Alejandro, before he said evenly:
"We propose a marriage pact. Blood from your family… bound to ours. Thus, the circle is closed, and balance restored."
A suffocating silence followed. Even the ticking of the great clock sounded louder than usual.
Raul's voice was taut with rage:
"And who from your family?"
For the first time, Dmitri allowed a faint smile—thin, unsettling.
"The leader himself."
The Spanish lawyer whispered, horrified:
"Mikhail Malikov?"
Dmitri replied, unwavering:
"The Butcher. Yes."
The table trembled beneath Raul's clenched hand, but Alejandro lifted his own slowly, silencing the storm.
"And the woman?" Alejandro asked.
Dmitri met his eyes directly, without hesitation:
"Your daughter."
A deadly hush swallowed the hall, as though all breath had ceased.
Alejandro's gaze locked onto Dmitri, deep and probing, as if to pierce his icy calm, to read the shadows behind his words. But there was nothing. The Russian was a wall—impenetrable, unreadable.
Finally, Alejandro spoke, his voice low, laden with hidden weight:
"You want my daughter… for peace?"
Dmitri answered in the same tone, but with iron finality:
"We do not take women as hostages, Señor Rostov. We bind blood to blood—to preserve what reason remains in this world. The woman who will be the wife of the Bratva's leader will be a queen, yes… but also the keeper of a vow. A sacred vow, unbreakable."
Beside him, Raul's breath seethed, as though fire burned in his chest.
"Isabella is not for sale," he spat, low but venomous, as if still fighting Oscar's ghost, which had dragged their family into this inferno.
Dmitri did not answer. His eyes lingered on Raul, then returned to Alejandro:
"You are not in a position to refuse, Señor Rostov. We offer peace—we do not beg for it."
The silence thickened again, heavy as stone.
At last, Alejandro spoke, as though addressing himself more than anyone else:
"She is my last child…"
His hand pressed flat against the table, fingers tracing its polished surface slowly, before he added:
"But I know what the Russians are capable of, should they choose war. And I am no longer of an age to let graves be opened in my name."
The Russians exchanged glances. His words leaned toward acceptance, though they were not yet consent.
The Spanish lawyer, cautious, asked:
"Señor Malikov, the terms must be clear. If the marriage takes place… what do the Rostovs gain, for the sacrifice of their daughter?"
Dmitri answered smoothly:
"An economic alliance. Full protection from the Bratva. Access to the Eastern markets. And most importantly—a vow of honor from the leader himself that no Spanish blood shall be spilled, so long as the bride remains within this bond."
A shadow of a smile crossed his face as he finished:
"But should you refuse… the Butcher does not negotiate twice."
Alejandro drew a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the closed doors behind them—as though his eyes could pierce through, up into the floor above… to his daughter, who did not yet know her fate had just been sealed.
---
In the evening, a heavy silence settled over the mansion—like the hush that precedes a storm. Or perhaps the storm had already arrived, treading with steps so soft they made no sound.
The Russian envoys had departed an hour earlier, leaving behind a chill in the walls, as though the house itself exhaled the scent of iron and blood.
Isabella ate her dinner quietly in the dining hall, under the discreet glances of the servants, and the anxious gaze of Jenny, her bodyguard, who kept watch over her mistress's strained composure without uttering a word. Something had shifted—Jenny could feel it. Isabella didn't need anyone to tell her.
Before she could rise from the table, one of the guards approached and whispered,
"Señor Alejandro requests your presence in his study, señorita."
She stood slowly, placed her napkin beside the plate, and walked with steady steps despite the unrest stirring within her.
The door to the study was ajar, a faint light spilling through.
She knocked softly.
"Come in."
His voice was weary, quiet, laden with words unsaid.
She entered and closed the door behind her.
Her father sat behind the weight of his ancient wooden desk, half of his figure swallowed by shadow, the other half bathed in the warm glow of a yellow lamp. A glass of cognac in his hand, an open file before him—though it was clear he wasn't truly reading it.
She sat opposite him, waiting.
He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he swirled the glass slowly and asked,
"Do you know how many times I've had to sacrifice?"
She remained silent.
This kind of question wasn't meant for answers, but for bracing oneself against what followed.
At last, he lifted his eyes to hers.
It was the look of a man who knew he was about to lose something that could never be replaced.
"Isabella... matters are out of control. And your brother… has paid the price."
She didn't need details. She already knew.
"And now," his voice steady but collapsing within, "it falls on us to pay what remains."
Her whisper escaped without the rest of her moving:
"What have you done?"
He closed the file slowly, raised the glass to his lips, then set it aside.
"They offered peace… in exchange for marriage. Your marriage, to the head of the Bratva himself."
The gasp never left her throat.
Even the air refused to carry her reaction.
"Mikhail Malikov?"
She spoke his name as one might utter the name of the devil—as though life itself had thrust her into the monster's jaws.
"It is the only way to stop this war. Believe me, my little one, no one survives a war with the Russians."
She shut her eyes for a moment. She didn't weep. She didn't scream. Her features only drained of color, her hand trembling faintly against her thigh.
"Did you agree?"
Her voice was soft, a funeral in itself.
"Not yet. But I need your decision before dawn."
Silence weighed down the room, freezing everything in place. Isabella stared at him long and hard. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. Her eyes carried all the words suffocating in her chest. He knew that silence—he had seen it since her childhood, when she would measure every choice carefully, never reckless, never a fool.
At last, she raised her gaze, her voice calm and cold, like a night breeze concealing its secret:
"Why me?"
Alejandro blinked slowly, absorbing the question.
"You have another daughter—Lucía. Three years older than me. She lives outside this hell. Why not her? Isn't she closer to the age for marriage?"
He drew a deep breath and met her eyes, as though confessing to a crime he knew she would judge him for, not today, but forever in her heart.
"Lucía has always lived elsewhere, Isabella. She stayed with her mother, in peace—far from this world. She knows nothing of our bargains, our blood, the laws that rule us. She was never part of the game."
A bitter, hollow laugh slipped from her as she turned her face slightly aside.
"So you sacrifice me… to protect her."
He could have denied it, defended himself, lied.
But he didn't. He only said, with more honesty than she expected:
"I am trying to protect all of you—each in different ways."
Her eyes locked on him again, quiet but piercing.
"And this is how you protect me? By handing me to a Russian wolf?"
He didn't rage. He didn't raise his voice.
He placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward slightly.
"Mikhail Malikov is not just a killer… he is the head of the beast. If we don't shake his hand, he will open his mouth and swallow us whole. Francisco, Raúl, Lucía, you… What Oscar did has cursed us. Either we offer peace—or prepare for slaughter, until we are corpses on the ground."
He fell silent, then added, in a low voice heavy with the weight of a father and a leader:
"Do you know what happens if we refuse? Malikov will send his men, one by one… and we'll watch them fall—each of us, everyone we love. This is not a threat, Isabella. It is the only truth I know."
She sat silent for long seconds, then exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair, as though absorbing what could not be spoken.
"And do you really believe… marrying him will stop them?"
"I believe it will buy us enough time to rebuild what was broken. And I know… only you can face the monster without being devoured."
This time, she looked at him differently—not with anger, not surrender, but the gaze of someone who knows her worth and the price demanded of her.
"I'll think. You'll have my answer by dawn."
She rose, turned, and walked toward the door with steady steps. Her hand rested on the knob, and for a moment she paused, speaking without looking back:
"If only Lucía knew… how lucky she is not to belong to this family."
And then she left.
---
Isabella entered her room with quiet steps, carrying a silence heavier than any words spoken that day. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it for a moment, as if she needed a pause of stillness before facing her solitude.
The chamber was spacious, elegant, touched with the warmth of the classical style she had always loved. Velvet curtains swayed gently with the evening breeze, while the muted glow of the side lamps cast her shadow along the walls.
She moved toward the bed slowly, sat at its edge, and rested her hands in her lap. Her heart beat with a rhythm she knew well—not of fear, but those faint, faltering thuds that carried more than mere emotion. She had inherited them.
From her mother.
A face she barely remembered except in faded photographs... a smile blurred in the haze of childhood. Her mother had died when Isabella was only three, taken by a frail heart that had endured too much betrayal and exhaustion.
As a child, she hadn't known the details. But when she grew older, when she discovered that her father had fathered another child during his marriage, the truth settled like cold iron in her chest.
Her mother had been fragile. The world had been merciless to her.
Now Isabella bore the same weakness—a hereditary flaw in her heart. "Like your mother," the doctor had said. Since that day, every beat of her heart carried her memory.
But no one knew. Not her father. Not her brothers. No one. She hid it, as she always hid her pain. In their family, men disguised illness with strength, and women disguised it with pride.
She studied at the best universities, earned degrees that sons of mafia lords could never dream of. Her father was proud, though he seldom said it. He granted her freedom—within his rules.
And she always knew the rules:
Never endanger the family.
Never show weakness.
Never shatter his image before anyone.
And she obeyed. Not because he forced her, but because she never wanted to disappoint him. For despite everything, he was her leader. Her father.
She walked slowly to the window, cracked it open, and closed her eyes as the night air brushed her face.
Lucia... had never belonged to this chaos. Isabella had seen her only a handful of times—formal gatherings, brief visits, distant glances. There was no jealousy, no bitterness—just different paths, each carved away from the other.
But tonight, in this silence, Isabella found herself wishing—for the first time—that she were in Lucia's place. That she lived outside this palace, beyond its rules, beyond the blood, the deals of honor, the guns, the watchful eyes of guards.
She only wanted choice. But choice had never been hers.
So she would do what she had always done.
She would follow the rules.
Seating herself before her mirror, Isabella studied her reflection as if searching for something hidden between its lines. Her hand rose to her hair, slowly undoing its knot, letting the chestnut strands fall across her shoulders. Each motion, each sigh, was quiet—yet heavy with unspoken emotions.
Inside her, a war raged without sound—only the warnings of her own heart, pulsing at every decision.
Softly, she whispered to herself:
A political marriage... to a man I've never met... because someone else couldn't control his desires.
She lifted her gaze once more to her reflection. She wasn't crying. Isabella never cried.
But she felt it—the strange blend of loneliness, betrayal, and the stillness before a storm. She had always been rational, always silenced her heart. Yet what they asked of her now was not simple.
To be given to a stranger, in the name of peace.
To be surrendered to an enemy family, in the name of alliance.
To sacrifice her freedom, in the name of blood.
Was this truly her purpose? To be the piece moved across the board whenever choices ran thin?
She closed her eyes and remembered childhood. Running through palace halls, laughing as her father lifted her hand in play. A time when life had felt simple. Safe.
He had told her once: "When you grow older, you'll understand the duties of a leader's child."
And it seemed... she had grown.
She rose with deliberate grace and stood once more at the window. The night had drawn its curtain, and stars shimmered far above, like distant eyes watching from another world.
Quietly, she whispered to herself:
If there is no escape... then it will be on my terms.
Isabella had never been a girl to walk blindly into chains. She never would be. She might enter this alliance, but she would do it with her eyes open—with her mind, with her strength. Not with submission.
The Russians might be powerful. The name Mikhail Malenkov might strike fear. But she was not weak. Not anymore. Not ever.
No one truly knew who Isabella was—yet.
---
The office door opened softly, and Isabella stepped inside with measured confidence, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, her face set in the quiet resolve she had inherited from her father. Alejandro sat behind his desk, a half-filled glass of wine before him, a cloud of heavy thoughts hanging in the air.
She met his gaze steadily, then spoke in a calm voice:
"I've agreed."
Alejandro raised his eyes slowly, as though the word alone wasn't enough. He said nothing, only waited.
"But on my conditions."
He leaned forward, bracing his palms against the desk, ready to hear the terms that might fracture the deal entirely. He did not interrupt.
"First, my personal guards—Sergio and Jenny—will accompany me. I will not go into their land alone."
He nodded slowly. Reasonable.
"Second, I refuse to be used as leverage, or a bargaining chip—against you, or against Spain."
His brows knit, but he held his silence.
"Third, there must be a termination clause. If I suffer any physical abuse, I have the right to leave—without bloodshed, without disgrace."
He drew a long breath, his hand twitching toward the glass before pulling back.
"Fourth, I want the truth about Oscar's death. Who was responsible? I will not sign anything until I know."
He said nothing. At last, only: "Continue."
"Fifth, my work as a painter will remain untouched. I will continue to paint, to share my art. I will not be locked behind their walls."
He gave the faintest nod—he knew what her art meant to her.
"Sixth, I will not be drawn into any conflict between the families. I will not be forced to choose sides."
"Understood..."
"Seventh, my privacy is mine. No intimacy will be forced. When I decide—if I decide—it will be on my terms."
And at last, she ended, her tone steady:
"Eighth, these conditions will be written into a formal contract, signed by both parties, in front of witnesses."
Alejandro was silent for a long while. He studied his daughter as though seeing her for the first time. These were not the words of a girl—but of a woman prepared to walk through fire without being consumed.
At last, he exhaled, his lips curving into a weary, almost bitter smile.
"They won't like this... especially the Russians."
She answered without hesitation, her voice calm, resolute:
"Then they don't want peace. They want a pawn. And I am not that."
He stared at her, then finally nodded, his smile lingering like a shadow.
"I know you well, Isabella... I'll tell them."
____