Promised to the Mafia Heirs

HARPER PETROVSKY

As the private jet lands at McCarran Airport, my heart pounds like it’s trying to break through my chest. Agreeing to the terms of my parents’ will was a mistake, but it’s too late to back out now. I glance at the crumpled letter before stuffing it into my jacket pocket. I’ll have to handle this alone—just like I always have.

The jet door opens, and the warm Nevada air rushes in, making me even more restless. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the nerves bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I know exactly how hard it’s going to be living with the Kireevs. I never should have agreed to this damn clause.

I breathe in again, recalling the lawyer’s words: “Remember who’ll be waiting for you there—it’ll be Viktor Kireev.”

“Like I care,” I mutter to myself, descending the steps with clenched fists.

Down below, I spot two sleek black vehicles with three suited men standing nearby, but only one is stationed next to the car parked directly in front of the jet’s staircase. A man steps out of the vehicle, wearing what looks like a uniform that catches my attention. The smile he flashes in my direction is almost reassuring—but not quite enough. So, I won’t be graced with my host’s presence? I smirk to myself, thinking this might actually be the perfect opportunity.

As I step off the last stair, the man by the car door turns his full attention to me. For a moment, I’m back at boarding school, locked behind high walls, following stupid rules I always hated. That familiar feeling of suffocation begins to creep in.

“Miss Petrovsky, I’m here to take you to the Kireev estate,” he says in a tone so formal it makes me force a tight smile.

“This way, please, miss.”

I try to hide the nervousness growing inside me, already thinking about how I might get out of this. I don’t want to be trapped again—I know that’s exactly what’s waiting for me. If Viktor isn’t here, this might be my only chance to escape. But how?

I approach the car, still weighing my options, subtly scanning my surroundings. The man opens the door with practiced precision, like he’s done it a thousand times. I’m greeted by a luxurious interior, slightly stifled by the desert heat. As tempting as it is to bolt, I know I can’t act on impulse. I need to be smart—plan my escape carefully, make it look effortless.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice soft and polite. “Could I use the restroom before we leave? It was a long flight… and it’s really hot out here—I’m not used to it.” I fan myself gently, softening my expression into a pleading look.

The man hesitates, a slight furrow in his brow, as if he’s weighing the legitimacy of my request. His eyes scan the airport, searching for something only he understands—probably looking for a signal of approval from someone higher up.

“Of course, miss,” he finally says, his voice laced with formality. “But I’ll have to escort you to the terminal. I can’t leave you alone.”

“Of course. Hmm… what’s your name?” I reply, trying to keep my tone light and curious.

“Philip, miss,” he answers with a slight nod, his face unreadable. “At your service."

“Then Philip, thank you. And I completely understand.” I force a smile, following his gesture to walk ahead of him.

He leads me into the terminal, where a security guard steps aside but doesn’t enter the restricted area with us. A subtle wave of relief washes over me—the first part of the plan is working. I walk calmly, absorbing every detail around me, scanning for an exit. Philip stops near the restroom entrance, watching me from a distance but still within my line of sight.

I smile at him before stepping inside, as if I’m perfectly at ease. But the moment the bathroom doors close behind me, I start searching for a second exit or a window that might offer a way out. I press my hand to my chest, like I could force my heart to slow down.

“Calm down, breathe… calm,” I whisper to myself, barely audible, trying to keep my head clear. Adrenaline pulses through my veins—I need to focus and think.

I scan the room for any opening, my eyes running over the walls, the floor, the ceiling—anything that might be a possible escape. I spot a small window high on the opposite wall, but it’s far too narrow. Before making any rash moves, I force myself to take a step back and think. I need to make sure the way out is clear.

“Will I really not be able to get away?” I cling to the only hope I have left.

Carefully, I move toward the door and place my hand on the handle, turning it slowly to avoid making noise. I open the door just enough to peek outside. My whole body is tense—I can feel the knots forming in my shoulders.

Philip is still there, phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen. His expression has softened slightly, a faint wrinkle forming on his brow as he answers a call. He turns slightly, like whatever he’s hearing requires more of his attention than watching the bathroom door.

This is it. My only chance.

As silently as possible, I slip through the door, keeping my eyes fixed on Philip. Every part of me is on high alert, my feet barely making a sound as I slowly move away from the bathroom entrance.

Once I’m out of his line of sight, I quicken my pace, rounding a corner in the terminal and blending in with a few arriving passengers. In one swift motion, I twist my hair into a high bun, trying to change my appearance—even if only slightly.

As I keep walking, I spot a small accessories shop ahead. Without hesitation, I duck inside and grab the first baseball cap I see. The clerk barely notices me as I glance around quickly. My eyes flick toward the shop entrance—I realize my escape has been discovered the moment I spot the security guards who were with Philip scanning the area, alert and on the move. I bite the corner of my lip—I need to act fast, but there’s no way they know I’m here… right?

I pull the cap down over my hair, adjusting it to cover as much of my face as possible. I pay with the crumpled bills I pull from my jacket pocket.

Back in the terminal, I quickly scan the signs pointing to the airport exit. My hands tremble slightly as I grasp the necklace hanging around my neck—an automatic reflex when I’m nervous. The necklace belonged to my father, marked with the Kireev symbol. The last time I saw him, he gave it to me and said it would be my key in. I never really understood what he meant—at least not until his visits started growing more infrequent.

My father always believed I’d be molded in the image of the mafia—obedient and submissive to the men he deemed worthy. The thought makes my jaw clench as I speed up toward the exit. When I pass through the automatic doors, Nevada’s heat hits me even harder—like a dry slap to the face.

Outside. The street is buzzing with taxis, private cars, and buses. I head straight for a taxi that’s just dropped off a couple with luggage, and before anyone else can get in, I slide into the backseat, slamming the door shut behind me with a sigh of relief as I sink into the seat.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asks, casting a curious glance at me through the rearview mirror.

“Anywhere busy in Las Vegas—preferably near some nightclubs,” I reply, my voice a bit more tense than I’d like.

“Las Vegas Strip it is,” he says, already turning the wheel and stepping on the gas.

My fingers still clutch the necklace as I stare straight ahead, the buildings and signs of Las Vegas starting to take shape on the horizon. Las Vegas—the city the Kireevs rule, with their nightclubs and casinos spread all along the Strip. Maybe if I learn their territory, I can use it to my advantage. After all, even though I was shaped by my father’s will, I was never any good at following the rules.