Page 3 of Bound By Hate (Born in Blood)

Everything will be ok for me too.

The women of the Bratva in New York are some of the most elegant women you will ever meet.

As well as the cattiest.

This is my first invitation to Vera Smirnov’s lunch gathering at the Ritz. She’s a powerful woman in her fifties, with bleach-blonde hair and a vicious smile. She has the power she does because she’s married to Grigory Smirnov, the leader of the Bratva in New York after Boris died.

I can tell by how she’s smiling and soaking in the other women’s compliments at the luncheon that she loves having the power she does.

My mother, Ania, was once in Vera’s position.

Until she died.

As I sit at the table decorated with fine linen and cucumber sandwiches in the elegant dining room at the Ritz, I wonder what Vera would look like dead. I bet her blonde hair wouldn’t stand so tall. It’s like she’s trying to get closer to God.

I may have thought myself immortal at one point, but that all changed after my parents’ deaths.

“So, Viktoriya,” Vera says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “How kind of you to finally join us. This is your first luncheon with us, correct?” Her sickly sweet voice is grating to my ears.

“Yes, it is,” I respond.

Vera claps her hands together and shares a smile with the woman next to her—a busty redhead named Darya with too much makeup. She and the rest of the women at the luncheon are all married to men in the Bratva. I’m the odd one out as a single woman.

“How wonderful,” Vera says. “Your father never let you or your sisters join us for lunch before. Why was that, do you wonder?”

Because he could be controlling. Because I worked my ass off to please him every day. Because I suffered through broken toenails and bruises from ballet to make him happy.

And it was never good enough.

Of course, he wouldn’t let me out of his sights. I wasn’t allowed to enjoy my time with other women. Just ballet and nothing else.

Now, I don’t even have ballet.

“I’m not sure,” I lie. “He wanted me to focus on ballet, so that’s what I did.”

“You didn’t have any time for fun?” Darya asks. “I heard about your ankle. That must have been terrible.”

I can feel my lips thin as I force a smile. “It wasn’t fun, Darya.”

“Breaking an ankle usually isn’t,” Vera says, laughing and making the other women around the table laugh with her. There are five of us in total. Vera and Darya, as well as Olga (unfortunate name, but at least she’s not ugly, with her tan skin and black hair) and Jasmine (who married into the Bratva life unlike most of us).

Then there’s me.

I don’t typically feel out of place … until now. Honestly, I fucking hate it.

“So,” Olga says, turning to me, “What are you going to do now? Find a man to marry?”

“It’s expected,” Vera answers for me.

“I’m still going to dance. I just need to let my ankle heal a little more.”

The four women share pitying glances. I seriously hate these women.

Olga pats my hands. “You keep telling yourself that, dear.”

“Such a shame,” Vera says, bringing her champagne glass to her lips, “that you haven’t found a man to marry you yet. Why do you think that is?”

“Why do you ask?”

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