Pretty Little Princess

PRETTY LITTLE PRINCESS ROSEHILL ACADEMY BOOK 4 IVY THORN PNK PUBLISHING CONTENTS Prologue 1. Silvia 2. Pyotr 3. Silvia 4. Pyotr 5. Silvia 6. Pyotr 7. Silvia 8. Pyotr 9. Silvia 10. Silvia 11. Pyotr 12. Silvia 13. Silvia 14. Pyotr 15. Silvia 16. Pyotr 17. Silvia 18. Pyotr 19. Silvia 20. Pyotr 21. Silvia 22. Pyotr 23. Silvia 24. Silvia 25. Pyotr 26. Silvia 27. Pyotr 28. Silvia 29. Pyotr 30. Silvia 31. Silvia 32. Pyotr 33. Silvia 34. Pyotr 35. Silvia 36. Pyotr 37. Silvia Epilogue PROLOGUE SILVIA Being sold off like livestock isn’t what I wanted for my life. But I always knew it was coming. Still, when my father promised me to the Matron’s son, I knew my future had taken a turn for the worse. Not only is the Matron public enemy number one in my brothers’ eyes. But the Veles Bratva is supposed to be the most treacherous organized crime family in New York. They’re bloody, vindictive, and cruel. So basically, I’m screwed. Peering around the top corner of the stairs, I barely dare to breathe. With the open banister looking out over my family’s grand foyer, I have to be careful if I want to stay hidden. But I want to catch a glimpse of my betrothed before I have to meet him. Below, my father and mother stand in the open foyer of my family home, looking like the perfect couple they’ve never been. My mother’s elegant hand is tucked into the crook of my father’s elbow, her platinum blonde hair styled to perfection, a look of polite disinterest pasted onto her flawless face. My father stands tall, cutting an imposing figure in his tailored Italian suit, black dress shirt, and crimson tie. Like royalty waiting to meet their subjects, they fill the elegant space decorated in Carrara white marble and contrasting mahogany accents. My mother has decorated every inch of our family estate with class and extravagance. Buying the most expensive paintings and sculptures imported from Italy, she’s an artist herself at showcasing each piece in our vaulted rooms and long hallways. Somehow, she’s managed to fill the immense space of our home. Alfie, our butler, swings the heavy front door wide for our guests, one arm tucked formally behind his back. “Matron Veles, welcome to Chicago. I hope your flight was comfortable,” my father says with the slightest incline of his head. The sharp woman before him looks the definition of severe. Her tight pencil skirt and matching blazer make her look professional, as does the dark French roll holding her gray-streaked hair back from her face. But her sharp gray eyes and drawn lips are what give her personality away. “Thank you, Don Lorenzo,” she says graciously in a thick Russian accent. Her lip curls up at the corner ever so slightly. “With a private jet and one of the best-paid pilots in the continental US, flying is almost preferable to driving these days.” My father hums an amusement I’m sure he doesn’t feel. Then he turns to the person standing in the doorway just behind the Matron. “And you must be Pyotr. I’ve heard so much about you. Please come in.” My father gives a welcoming wave of his arm, gesturing the Matron and her son into our home. They step inside, followed by five massive men who can only be their bodyguards. Each one stands over six feet tall with burly shoulders, watchful eyes, and cold expressions. No doubt they’re prepared to lay down their lives for their employers if this turns out to be a trap. But my eyes linger on them for only a moment before they land on my betrothed. Pyotr Veles, the only son of the Matron and heir to the Veles Bratva. To call him handsome would be an understatement. Dressed in a sleek black suit with a white shirt and narrow black tie, he could almost be on his way to a wedding–or a photo shoot. He wears the formal attire as if born to it, his broad, muscular shoulders relaxed, his posture near perfection. His dark hair has a low fade with longer locks on top styled with brilliantly careless precision. His strong jaw and chin with just the hint of a dimple are shaded with the beginnings of facial hair–not a full Russian beard. Still, I suspect, one day, he’ll be capable of growing a rather impressive one. Full lips curve into the slightest of smiles, as if he finds something amusing but isn’t ready to let the world in on his joke. “Spying on your betrothed?” The silken voice comes from right behind me. Yelping in shock, I slap my hand over my mouth to stop the noise from carrying down the stairs. I whirl, facing the hallway that leads back to my room. Nicolo, my oldest brother and one of my favorite people in the world–perhaps only second to his little daughter–leans against the wall, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “You jerk, you scared the crap out of me,” I hiss, smacking his shoulder. Then I grow self-conscious as I realize I’ve been caught snooping. Biting my lip, I twine my fingers nervously. “I just wanted to prepare myself, you know? Before I meet the family I’m being sold off to.” Nico’s hazel eyes soften, and he pushes off the wall to grip my shoulders. “You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right? Even if it comes down to war, I won’t let the Veles have you–not after what they did to Cass and Bianka. I’ll make this right. I just need more time. Father’s proving… difficult.” I shrug, trying to make light of it. Still, my heart weighs heavy in my chest. “If it’s not Pyotr Veles, it’ll be some other jerk Father thinks will help the family business. At least now I know our odds of beautiful children are pretty good,” I joke. “That’s not funny, Silvia,” Nico growls.