10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 7

I used to have this recurring nightmare as a kid. In it, I’m standing at the edge of the roof of our brownstone in Brighton Beach, toes curled over the lip of the building. Ahead of me lies only empty space and a four-story drop to the concrete below. Behind me, something dark and hungry is slinking closer.

Jump or be devoured. Those are my options.

Story of my life, really. But standing here in this glistening ballroom with Sasha’s words still burning in my ears, I finally understand what those nightmares were trying to tell me: sometimes, the monster behind you and the abyss in front of you are the exact same thing.

I ought to be scared—scratch that, fucking terrified—and to be sure, part of me is. I can feel that fear coiled up and quivering in my belly, an old, familiar terror that’s never quite gone away.

But another part of me is angry.

I didn’t spend twenty years scrubbing “Makris” off my skin like a stubborn wine stain just to let my father swap me for two cows and a fucking goat.

But therein lies the problem with men like Leander—they don’t ask. They don’t negotiate. They don’t even have the decency to send a “Hey, thinking of pimping you out to a Russian warlord. Thoughts?” text. No, they just drop the bomb, light the fuse, and walk away whistling like they’ve done you a favor.

Case in point: the smug son of a bitch is already halfway across the ballroom, schmoozing with a senator whose hair plugs I could see from outer space. Meanwhile, I’m left standing here with his “gift”—a six-foot-two slab of Bratva monster who looks like he’s two seconds away from either kissing me or slitting my throat.

Maybe both.

You weren’t afraid I’d kill you. You were afraid I’d ruin you instead.

I snort, mostly to myself, and hustle off the dance floor. “This isn’t happening.”

Sasha arches a brow. “It quite literally is.”

“No, see, ‘literally’ implies reality. And this?” I gesture wildly between us, from my borrowed dress to his oxblood leather shoes. “This is a network TV plotline. It’s bad fan fiction. The kind where the writers ran out of ideas and started huffing glue.”

“Reality is not quite as buttoned-up as your telenovelas,” he says with a dark chuckle. He crowds me close against a marble pillar as the other dancers go swirling past us, casting curious glances in our direction.

I plant a palm on his chest. “Back. Up. Unless you want my knee to make intimate friends with your groin.”

His lips twitch. “Promises, promises.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He catches my wrist, thumb skating over my racing pulse. “But by all means, scream. Cause a scene. Let your dear old dad explain to his esteemed guests why his long-lost daughter is assaulting his business partner in the middle of⁠—”

“Shut up.”

“I dare you to try and make me.”

God, I want to. I want to claw that infuriating smirk off his face. I want to scream until the chandeliers shatter. But mostly, I want to run—far away from this gaudy, gilded nightmare. Back to my shitty Bushwick apartment with its IKEA furniture and persistent mold problem. Back to a life where my biggest worry was whether Sportswriter Steve would notice I swapped his oat milk for half-and-half.

Instead, I do what I’ve always done best: bluff.

“This marriage isn’t happening,” I say, chin lifted. “I don’t care what deal you and Leander made. I’m not a bargaining chip.”

Sasha tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s decided to solve out of boredom. “You think this is about you?”

“I think your ego’s too big to share a room with my father’s, so yes, this is absolutely about⁠—”

“The only outsized ego here is yours, if you think that I give a single fuck about you or what you want,” he snarls.

My mouth drops.

He’s not done.

“This is not about you. This is not about your father. This is about power,” he interrupts, voice sharpening, tightening “Control. A union that yokes together our organizations and ensures neither side gets… ideas.” His grip tightens. “You? You’re just collateral.”

Collateral. I’ve seen what that looks like—and it looks like Jasmine. In my mind’s eye, I see my sister’s face the day she left home. That’s been happening a lot tonight. Being back around these people makes it harder to replace even a few minutes at a time where I don’t think about her.

I ran to avoid exactly this, exactly what happened to her. Apparently, I didn’t run far enough. I reached the roof edge, the abyss in front of me, and I hesitated.

This is what I get.

“Gee,” I whisper hoarsely. “And here I thought you liked me for my personality.”

“I don’t know a thing about your personality,” he retorts flatly. “I liked your mouth… When it wasn’t spewing nonsense.”

“And people say romance is dead.”

“It’s not just dead,” he agrees. “It’s six fucking feet under.”

Before I can retort, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. “Ari! There you are!”

Uncle Kosti, my father’s brother, pops up at my side, his salt-and-pepper beard crinkling with a smile. He’s the human equivalent of a cashmere sweater—soft, worn-in, and tragically out of place in this den of wolves. If there’s anyone I’ve missed since I ran away, it’s Uncle Kosti.

Sasha’s gaze flicks to him. “We’re busy.”

“And I’m her favorite uncle.” Kosti loops an arm around my shoulders, steering me away. “I’m only borrowing her for a dance. Yasou, Mr. Ozerov.”

For a heartbeat, I think Sasha might snap. His jaw clenches, eyes glacial. But then he dips his chin—a barely-there nod—and turns on his heel, melting into the crowd.

My father and fiancé are both busy now. I could run.

But they’d replace me. The only reason Baba didn’t do it sooner is because he didn’t need me yet. Now that I have a purpose, I won’t be getting away anytime soon.

“You okay, koukla?” Kosti murmurs as we shuffle awkwardly to a Viennese waltz.

“Peachy. Just found out I’m engaged to a human weaponized suit. How’s the canapé selection?”

He sighs, the sound heavy with decades of Makris family baggage. There’s no way he didn’t know the plans for my future—not that he could’ve warned me, either way. He’s just as trapped as I am. “Your father means well.”

“He doesn’t care about me. He wants to control me.”

“Same thing, in his world.” Kosti spins me gently, his hands calloused but kind. “He’s missed you, you know. Talks about you like you’re still six—his little girl, sneaking cookies before dinner.”

A lump rises in my throat. Six-year-old me hadn’t yet learned to check her shoes for tracking devices. Hadn’t started sleeping with a knife under her pillow. Hadn’t watched her mother walk out the door and known, deep down, she’d never come back.

“I’m not his little girl,” I say roughly.

“No.” Kosti’s smile is sad. “You’re a storm wearing his daughter’s face. And storms? They don’t bend. They break.” He squeezes my hand. “So break it, koukla. Break it all.”

Two hours and four martinis later, I’m slumped at a dive bar three blocks from the Met, picking at the label of a Brooklyn Lager while Gina side-eyes me like I’ve announced plans to join a cult. I’m passing through stages of grief that I didn’t even know existed. All the standard stuff—denial, anger, bargaining—is long gone. I’ve moved onto cackling like a deranged hyena and drinking until the pain goes away.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, waving her cosmo. “You hooked up with Jason Bourne’s hotter cousin, then found out he’s your mobster daddy’s new BFF, and now, you’re supposed to marry him?”

“In my defense,” I say, “the hookup happened before the whole ‘surprise, you’re getting hitched’ reveal.”

How’s that for a PSA against random hookups?

“Uh-huh. And the part where you didn’t tell me you’re, like, Greek mafia royalty?”

I wince. “In my defense again, I don’t lead with that. It’s not exactly LinkedIn material.”

Gina rolls her eyes. “Maybe you should reconsider. I’ve seen your LinkedIn. The only thing on there is that sad internship at Cat Fancy Monthly.”

“They were ahead of their time.”

“They paid you in Friskies coupons! And you don’t even have a cat!” She stabs her straw at me. “So what’s the play here, Ari? You’re really gonna let your dad marry you off to some Russian Terminator?”

“Fuck no.” The words come out sharp, final. “I’d rather gargle broken glass.”

“Then what’s next? A scathing exposé? ‘My One-Night Stand Is My Mobster Fiancé: A Love Story’ by Ariel Ward?”

“No. I’m going to do what my uncle said: burn it all down.” I throw back the dregs of my beer. “Disappear. Fake my death. Join a convent in Saskatchewan. Whatever it takes.”

Gina leans back, assessing me. “Saskatchewan’s a vibe, but have you considered a girl’s best friend instead?”

“Diamonds?”

“Arson,” she says flatly.

“Gee!”

She rests a hand on my forearm. “Hear me out. We torch Leander’s favorite yacht, blame it on Sasha, and then hop a flight to Bali. You can bang sexy surf instructors, I’ll seduce Australian heiresses. It’ll be iconic.”

I smile sadly at her. “You’d really set a yacht on fire for me?”

“Babe, I’d steal a nuclear submarine for you.” She grins back. “But only if you promise to name your firstborn in my honor.”

“Deal.” I clink my beer against her glass. “But first, I need leverage. Something to make both these psychos back off.”

“Easy.” She flags the bartender for another round. “Find Sasha’s kryptonite. Does he have a secret family? A crippling fear of clowns? An OnlyFans?”

“He’s a Bratva pakhan, Gina. His OnlyFans is probably just unboxing videos of human teeth.”

“Hot.” She pauses. “Wait, is that a thing?”

The bartender slides over two tequila shots. Gina downs hers in one gulp, licks the salt off her wrist, and smirks. “Relax, Ariel. We’ll figure it out. You’ve survived worse than a six-pack with a murder kink.”

I knock back my shot, the burn grounding me. “I’m not marrying him. Not ever.”

“Atta girl.” She slings an arm around me, her perfume—something aggressively floral she definitely shoplifted—filling my lungs. “Now, let’s get shitfaced and key your dad’s car.”

“His car’s bulletproof.”

“Won’t stop me from trying.”

As we stumble into the neon-soaked night, I cling to the promise like a lifeline. I’m not marrying him.

But somewhere, in the darkest corner of my mind, Sasha’s voice whispers back.

We’ll see about that, ptichka.