Page 6 of Heritage of Fire

My father is sitting behind his desk, gaze boring into my skull, when I’m plopped into the seat across from him. My mother is in the seat next to me, her chin lifted, eyes averted.

“What were you doing, Luna?” my father asks, his voice quiet.

“I–I’m sorry,” I stutter.

He leans back in his chair, arms resting on the dusky leather arms. Most of the office is filled with dark wood and leather, and the smell of cigars lingers in the air. Behind my father rests floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed full of books with brokenspines, and leather bindings. Antique guns in display cases also line the shelves, right next to family photos from our younger years. My sister and I in mismatched clothes, each of us atop one of my father’s shoulders—such a normal photo in an abnormal world.

“How much did you hear?” my mother asks, still avoiding eye contact.

“Maria,” my dad snaps, “leave us.”

My brows lift. This is different. He never asks my mom to leave. One thing I’ve always respected about my dad is his desire to include my mom in Cosa Nostra conversations and business dealings.

She gets up, offering my shoulder two robotic taps before leaving the room. My gaze moves from the empty doorway back to my father, and my stomach rolls.

“We have an opportunity,” he starts, “to mend the rift between the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva—through an alliance.”

Uh-huh. This is the part I did catch, but the joyless smile my father is offering me has a pit forming in my stomach.

“We have decided an alliance through marriage would be the best course of action. The pakhan has agreed to consider a contract for a marriage between his second, Nikolai Balakin, and you.”

It feels like the air’s been knocked out of me. The only thing in my chest is my wild, racing heart.

I stare back at my father, tears prickling behind my eyes, but I blink them away—Icannotcry.

No, no, no, this isn’t happening. A contract? Does that make me anything other than a legal exchange?

“N-No.” I barely push the word out.

My father’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow at my defiance. “You will marry him and do your part for the Cosa Nostra.”

My body stiffens, heart hammering in my chest—he isn’t giving me a choice in this.

“But if you’d just?—”

“Know your place, Luna!”

I flinch.

“If you want to survive the Bratva, I suggest you learn to keep your spying in the shadows at a minimum—and your tongue leashed.”

My eyes find the floor and I shrink back into the chair.

“Yes,Papà.” The words come out as a whisper, my voice unable to muster anything else.

“Very good.” With a tight nod, he dips his nose back into his paperwork. I’ve been dismissed.

I don’t remember walking to my room, nor do I remember fishing out my swimsuit. And yet, here I am, standing at the edge of the pool, feet halfway hovering over the cold, sparkling blue.

I tremble. I want to explode. My mind is pushing, rebelling against what my father has demanded of me.

My feet tip forward until my balance fails and I tumble in. The chill reaches deep into my bones, numbing my mind as I cross my feet and sink to the bottom.

Marriage.

“You will marry him and do your part for the Cosa Nostra.”

My father’s words swim around in my head. My chest aches, the feeling of loss settling there, though I can’t put my finger on why.

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