Page 1 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

Chapter 1 - Boris

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” a short, white-haired man says, stalking into the dimly lit warehouse, his eyes darting around the stacks of crates and shadows. Quintino Nevio, the premiere arms dealer in Las Vegas, known for his penchant to move guns. And for the many, many men he has killed when they cross him.

I size Quintino up, my gaze lingering on the expensive suit that seems out of place in this warehouse. He's alone, a rare sight in our world. My instincts scream to scan the space, to find the hidden threats, but I resist. Showing weakness is not an option, not now that I'm the head of the Bratva in Las Vegas.

And the last thing I’m going to do, now that I’m the head of the Bratva in Las Vegas, is show weakness. Unbidden, my cousin Kervyn’s booming mind echoes through my head, and I picture him sitting across from me in the dimly lit club, snubbing his cigar on the table. He was relaxed, leaning back, but I couldn’t. He’d called me in for a meeting, and I wanted more than anything for him to entrust me with a branch of the family. To make me an avtoritet—a person of authority in the Bratva. Leader of one of the family’s arms.

And he did.

I could hardly breathe as Kervyn, surrounded by his brothers, laid out the details about the new responsibilities I would be managing in the area. One of which was to expand the family’s operations into arms dealing—no easy feat, considering the local government’s current crackdown on the practice.

“Did you find that in an English phrasebook?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow at the Italian, who laughs, his face showing mirth, but his bright eyes never letting down their guard. Having been raised in a Russian home with immigrant parents who rarely spoke English outside the confines of our house, I’d found myself seeking information about English idioms more than once.

“You seem to have—read me like a book,” Nevio says, raising his eyebrows to indicate I should laugh at the joke.

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse, Nevio,” I say, playing along but keeping a straight face. “Before we joke like old friends, I would like to ensure our business transaction can proceed smoothly.”

If our negotiations go well, Nevio will become our new contact for weapons logistics, helping us supply the family's other arms with weapons and sell them on the black market. Kervyn is convinced that, with the other mobs in the area suffering under the government's thumb, this is our chance to take a piece of the pie.

“Ah, yes,” Nevio says, tucking a handkerchief into his pocket. “I believe the terms of the arrangement are sufficient for me. However, there have been recent…murmurs. Regarding the loyalty of those within the Bratva.”

My entire body sways forward with the urge to grab the little man by his head and smash him against the wall until his brains are nothing more than a pink dribble, but I resist the urge. To insult me—to insult the Bratva—like that, to my face, is a privilege he’s earned through his decades of high-quality arms dealing. And the fact that he’s never once been caught by the police.

Quintino Nevio is likely not even his real name.

“I assure you,” I say through gritted teeth. “That this branch of the Bratva is more than prepared for this arrangement. And if—by some chance—I happen to find even the whisper of betrayal within my men, I won’t hesitate to bring it to a swift end.”

Nevio purses his lips, then nods once, running his hands over his suit to smooth non-existent wrinkles.

“All right, then,” he says, “show me what you have.”

I nod to my men, and they break off on either side of me, unearthing a matte black container from beneath a tarp. The moment they pick it up, and neither of them has to grunt with exertion, a chill runs up my back.

Something is wrong.

I suddenly wish I had brought Roman or Viktor along with me.

But it’s too late—the men set the crate down, and Nevio approaches. One of them unlocks it and opens the lid, revealing the velvety black inside but no weapons.

This morning, when I arrived at the warehouse, the container was filled to the brim with illegal assault rifles, pistols, and even a few grenades. Now, it’s completely empty, with nothing left but the imprint of where the weapons had been before.

And I have no idea who managed to take them right out from under my nose.

I hear the click of a gun, and when I turn, Quintino Nevio has a pistol cocked, pointed right at my head. My men have also drawn their guns.

I’m not worried that Nevio is going to fire—he wouldn’t dare—but I am worried that I have somehow managed to fuck up the very first objective from Kervyn. I need him to respect me and to serve my family in a way that brings us honor.

Instead, I’m staring down the barrel of an Italian’s sleek, black gun.

“A test,” I say to Nevio, eyeing him smoothly. I do not allow my voice to shake or my gaze to waver. The only way I’ll be able to pull this off is if Nevio believes that this little mishap was a purposeful move on my part.

Behind me, the men look at one another. They were both here this morning when I inspected the crate for weapons, and they’re clearly confused, but they know better than to speak. By the time Nevio glances at them, they’re standing with their backs straight, staring straight ahead.

“A test?” Nevio laughs, his gun still pointed at me. “You expect me to believe you did all this as a test?”

“And you expect me to bring more than a million dollars of product to a meeting with a man that I don’t know?” I crack a smile at him, holding my hands up, palms out. “Quintino, let’s not beat around the bush here—this was a test. I came to meet with you here today to ensure you’re a man of your word. And I’ve determined you are. So, we can arrange another meeting to manage the real exchange of goods.”

“A test,” Nevio murmurs, slowly lowering his gun. Then, in a surprising burst of noise, he laughs. “I must admit, I have never dealt with a Russian who took such care in his dealings. If this is how you do business, Milov, I believe we’ll have a long and prosperous relationship.”

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