The rain, a relentless percussion against the triple-glazed glass wall, barely masked the tremor in Saskia Radic’s hands. She stared at the man across the obsidian desk, Kazimir Ozerov, a monolith carved from granite and tailored Italian wool. His gaze, colder than a winter squall on the Varosian Sea, pinned her. He had offered her a deal, a gilded cage for her desperate freedom. It was the only path to Miro. “The terms are explicit, Ms. Radic,” Kazimir’s voice was a low growl, more rumble than sound, a threat thinly veiled as a business proposal. “A temporary alliance. In exchange for your brother’s… security.” Saskia’s mouth felt like sandpaper. Her uncle, a viper named Bogdan, had ensured Miro was a bargaining chip she couldn't afford to lose. She took a fortifying breath, the scent of expensive cigar smoke and something metallic – old money and new blood – filling her lungs. “Temporary, you say?” Her voice, a little too bright, a little too flippant, bounced off the heavy silence. “Does that include an optional add-on for a lifetime supply of artisanal sarcasm? Because I’m quite proficient.” Kazimir’s expression didn't shift. Not an inch. The man was a statue of grim intent. Saskia’s stomach lurched, the inappropriate humor her only shield against the abyss. Then, the reinforced glass next to Kazimir’s head *exploded*. A concussive force slammed into her, rattling her teeth. Shards, thick as ice floes, sprayed across the room, glittering like deadly jewels. A jagged hole now marred the pane, letting in a sudden gust of rain and the distant wail of Ostrom’s sirens. The air instantly dropped several degrees. Saskia didn't scream. She didn't even flinch, not really. Instead, she blinked, wiped a stray speck of glass from her eyebrow, and quipped, “Well, that’s certainly a sudden draft. Were you expecting someone, Mr. Ozerov? Or is this just your eccentric way of opening a negotiation?” Kazimir, who hadn't moved a muscle save for a tightening at his temple, turned his gaze from the shattered pane back to her. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker crossed his eyes. Intrigue? Amusement? Saskia couldn't tell, but it was *something* other than pure, unadulterated ice. His head of security, a man named Teodor Vuk, a hulking shadow with eyes that missed nothing, was already barking orders into a wrist-mounted communicator. “Close the perimeter. Identify the shooter. Now!” Vuk’s voice was a low snarl, lethal and immediate. Kazimir ignored the chaos. His focus, chillingly, remained on Saskia. “Your sense of humor, Ms. Radic, is either a profound flaw or an unusual asset. I haven’t decided which.” “Always good to keep a man guessing,” she shot back, a shaky defiance in her tone. Her fingers twitched against the plastic casing of her mobile phone, slick with nervous sweat. “Give me your phone.” Kazimir’s voice was flat, devoid of negotiation. Saskia hesitated. “Excuse me? What for?” “I require all lines of communication to be vetted.” He held out a hand, palm up, an undeniable command. Teodor Vuk had already moved, his large frame blocking the door, his eyes sweeping the room, assessing threats. Two other men, equally imposing, materialized from the shadows of the room, their hands tucked into their jackets. Heat flared in her chest. “You can’t just —” “I can. And I will.” His gaze sharpened, turning into a bore-drill. “The initial agreement was for you to serve as a private chef, under strict supervision. That, Ms. Radic, has changed.” She looked down at the obsidian desk. There, amidst the scattered fragments of glass, lay a document. A marriage contract. The elegant script was now marred by a crimson splatter, a small, dark starburst of blood from one of the security guards who’d been closer to the window. It made the words ‘Kazimir Ozerov’ and ‘Saskia Radic’ look like a pact signed in gore. “Changed how?” she managed, her throat tight. “Effective immediately, you will cease your current residence. You will move into the Ozerov Penthouse. Tonight.” His voice dropped, a predatory rumble that vibrated through the floor. “You will act as my wife. In every public and private capacity required. You will bear my name. You will live under my roof, under my rules.” Saskia froze. “Your *wife*?” Her mind reeled. This was not the deal. This was a complete, violent hijacking of her already precarious situation. She was supposed to be a chef, a phantom in the background. Not a puppet bride. “It’s a more… secure arrangement,” Kazimir stated, as if discussing the weather. “For both of us. Especially for your brother.” The implication was clear: refuse, and Miro pays. The blood on the contract seemed to pulse, a macabre seal on her fate. She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, picturing Miro’s face, pale and scared. She had to save him. Even if it meant walking into the devil’s own den. With a defeated sigh, Saskia pulled her old, battered smartphone from her grip. Its screen was cracked, a spiderweb of tiny fissures, much like her life. She slapped it into Kazimir’s waiting hand. His fingers, long and elegant, closed around it, making it disappear. He gave a curt nod to Teodor Vuk. “Escort Ms. Radic to the private transport. Ensure her belongings are collected from her current address and delivered to the penthouse. And make sure the chef’s kitchen is prepared for a new occupant.” Kazimir’s eyes, devoid of emotion, met hers one last time. “Welcome to your new life, Saskia.” Teodor Vuk stepped forward, his expression unreadable, and gestured towards the door. Saskia felt like a piece of cargo, her world shrinking to the confines of this brutalist fortress. As she walked past him, a cold whisper brushed her ear, barely audible over the renewed downpour outside. “Your uncle sends his regards.”

The Devil's Appetizers