Page 6 of Forced to Marry the Bratva

“Of course, Father.” My words are carefully measured.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, offering his arm solemnly. “The Zolotovs have set up a beautiful spot for the ceremony in the private gardens at the back of the house.”

I begin to walk, and Gael disappears ahead of us to take his seat for the ceremony. My heart races, my hands feel clammy, and I try to tell myself that it’s all just a game. Eventually, when the time is right, I will win, as long as I play my cards right. I’ll find a way out of this marriage and regain control over my life.

***

The grand makeshift doors to the wedding lawn open with a hushed creak, and I find myself standing at the precipice of my new life.

Swallowing hard, I discreetly peek at the guests gathered in the dimly lit room, their faces unfamiliar, albeit curious. My heart pounds like a wild animal running to save its life from a hunter at large.

“Chin up, Genevieve,” Father whispers, his grip on my arm tightening ever so slightly.

As we take our first steps down the aisle, my gaze sweeps across the room and lands at the altar. Suddenly, my eyes lock with those of a man standing at the altar, his confident posture and smug expression radiating an air of arrogance. He’s got shoulder-length black hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He’s tall. Probably the tallest in this room.

And then, to my horror, he winks at me. I look away, instantly terrified. What the hell am I getting into? Is this the way a gentleman should treat a wife he’s about to meet for the first time? Is this how he hopes to put me at ease?

Or does he not wish to put me at ease? I begin to feel afraid and nervous. What if he’s just a player, a cruel man with no regard for what I’d like?

The helplessness of my situation begins to dawn on me truly. It’s an arranged marriage, and for all I know, I could end up with a monster.

My knees begin to tremble, but Papa keeps tugging me forward.

I look down at my feet, willing them to keep moving, and when I look back up, the man who winked at me now stands behind another. Was he… the groomsman?

In his place is a tall man wearing glasses, with perfectly slick hair. He’s got a flower in his coat pocket. A hint of a tattoo creeps up his neck below the dress shirt he has on. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wink. He just stands there patiently, coldly, waiting for me to reach his side, without a single emotion on his face. There isn’t a flicker of doubt, an ounce of joy, an edge of nerves, a moment of regret. He stands there like it’s just another day on the job where he’s shown up for a meeting with no room for negotiation.

I believe I’ve just laid eyes on the actual groom, and looking at how imposing and controlled he seems, I wonder if the flirt would have been the better bet.

Chapter 3 - Damien

I stand at the altar with my wedding party: my brother Lev, and cousins Mikhail and Sergei. The leaders of our families, Boris and Ivan, sit on the front seats with our sisters. I catch Anoushka’s eye, and she motions at me to step a few strides to my right, where Lev stands.

I inch to take my position. “Relax, Brother,” Lev whispers from beside me now, a smirk on his lips as he nudges me gently. He’s already taken his jacket off, a reminder of his ardent love for rebellion. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“Feels like it,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze returning to my bride-to-be. Gerald Russo is an asshole if I ever met one. I have no doubt his little princess is going to be a spitting image of him, an entitled brat, making my life hell as he’s made mine.

Yet, despite the uncomfortable truth of this situation, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride for having stepped up to protect my family’s interests. I don’t need to care about who Genevieve Russo is. She could be a brat, entitled, or maybe even nice. Yet, none of it matters. I am doing this to appease Russo, and this wedding is to make sure he remains contained.

My heart flutters in a steady rhythm against my chest as I continue to watch my future wife being walked down the aisle by her father. The veil covers her face, but she’s walking with an ethereal grace. Each step she takes is elegant, soft, and controlled, almost made to draw attention to that tight-fitting white satin and lace dress accentuating her figure.

I begin to ponder what lies beneath that veil—the face of the woman I am bound to spend the rest of my life with. I straighten my posture, ready to face the consequences of my actions. For better or for worse, this is the path I have chosen, and I will see it through. This marriage may be a business deal to me, but it’s still a lifelong commitment.

A flicker of movement catches my attention, and I glance toward my eldest brother, Boris. His eyes are fixed on me, observing me intently. He’s always been more perceptive than most give him credit for.

As I try to lock eyes with him, the weight of his guilt is almost palpable. He looks away instantly, unable to maintain the gaze. I know what he’s thinking—that it was supposed to be him standing here, taking on this arranged marriage as the eldest brother, but I couldn’t let that happen.

“Damien, are you sure about this?” Boris asked me with a little sad tune in his voice, just weeks ago when I first told him my decision. He knew what consequences I would face—the chance to never find love on my own accord. But none of that mattered to me. All that mattered was protecting our family’s interests and his happiness with Robin, the woman he loves and the one he married.

“Of course I’m sure,” I had replied then without wasting a second. What I didn’t say was: what other choice do we have?

Now, Boris is struggling with this guilt, and I don’t want him to feel any worse than he already does. As our oldest brother, he’s given up too much for our sake. Our parents died young, and back in Russia, we had enemies on all sides. Boris gave up his youth and his dreams just to ensure he could build a legacy for us all to bank on.

I owe him my life, and this is just a small payment for his sacrifices. To make sure Boris doesn’t drown in guilt, I must not show an ounce of fear, nervousness, or regret. I lock my jaw and maintain a neutral expression, careful not to let any trace of hesitation show on my face. I know Boris is watching me closely, and the last thing I want is for him to step in and disrupt this wedding, thinking he’s saving me from a fate he believes should be his own.

As the soft notes of the organ rise in crescendo, I watch my bride-to-be gracefully reach the end of the aisle, her delicate hand clasping her father’s arm. They come to a stop beside me, and the world around me fades away. All I feel is the blood rushing to my ears. I reach over to take her hand from her father’s, and on the first touch itself, I feel her thin, twig-like fingers tremble. The future has never felt more uncertain, both for her and me.

“Take care of her,” Russo says, making me clench my jaw slightly. For a brief second, I feel angry at his hypocritical demand.

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