Page 37 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

Despite everything—the connection between us, the sex, the deep conversations—I can’t forget that ultimately, Boris is a Bratva boss, and I’m just a woman he tried to kidnap. We’re not even legally married, technically, and he hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend or partner. I don’t even know if we’re exclusive.

My blood boils at the idea of another woman putting her hands on Boris, and I have to take a deep breath to push the feeling away.

I love being in this world and spending time with his family, and I’d like to stay, but beyond enrolling me in classes and making it clear that he can’t “let me go,” Boris hasn’t done much to communicate that we’re together, or that, at the end of this thing with Mr. Allard, he intends to keep me around.

After talking to Anya, I head back to the main house, my mind reeling. If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I’d be getting ready for online classes and wondering what, exactly, my relationship with a Bratva boss meant, I wouldn’t have believed them.

When I step in the front door, Boris is in the entryway, talking to someone on the phone.

“Yes, cousin. Absolutely. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

“Who was that?”

Boris looks up from the phone call as if he didn’t realize anyone else was in the room. I raise an eyebrow at him—it’s very unlike him to be distracted like that.

“That was my cousin Kervyn,” Boris says, letting out a long breath. “Inviting us to the Milov Family reunion next weekend.

“Oh,” I say, trying to disguise how exciting that is to me. Growing up, the idea of a family reunion felt so foreign. My father was an only child, and both of his parents were only children, as well. It made for a long, straight family tree with no cousins or distant relatives. It meant that, by the time my grandparents and dad were all dead, I was marooned in the world without any kind of family—close or not—to anchor myself to.

“What,” Boris laughs, scrubbing a hand over his head, “you like family reunions?”

“I’ve never been to one,” I say, meeting his eyes.

“Oh,” he says, glancing down at his phone. “Well, how would you like to come along?”

I would really like that—my insides are practically jumping for joy at the thought—but I have to play it cool. I can’t let him know how much fun I would have observing his whole big family in the wild.

“I would love that,” I say, jumping into his arms. Apparently, it’s not so easy to keep my cool about something like this.

We stood like that for a second before, and after a moment of hesitation, Boris wrapped his arms around my lower back. He buried his face in my shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Oh, yuck,” someone says, and we jerk apart when Anton and Roman come barreling into the kitchen. They glance between Boris and me with wide eyes, then their focus narrows down to Boris.

“Hey, boss,” Roman says, grabbing an apple from the counter and taking a loud bite. “We got a situation over on the docks.”

With that, the three of them turn and leave in a flurry of activity, and I’m left standing in the middle of the kitchen. I’m conflicted—on one hand, I’ve secured an invitation to the family reunion, which can’t mean nothing—but on the other, it’s clear that Boris and his brothers don’t trust me with any information about their operations, despite how I’ve sworn off James Allard and even told Boris about my lack of faith in Olive.

I run my finger over my new laptop and wonder what I’ll have to do to gain their trust.

***

When I was in eighth grade, a friend of mine told me about her family reunions—every summer, her great-great-aunt would rent a pavilion in the state park, and all the cousins and aunts and distant relatives would flock to the event, bringing hot dogs and firecrackers. They’d play pick-up basketball and sneak down to the lake to take rides on the paddle boats. She said it was always sweaty and uncomfortable because the grills overheated the pavilion, and the aunts would insist on taking four thousand pictures before the day was done.

But the Milov family reunion is nothing like that. When I came down the stairs dressed in jean shorts and a t-shirt and saw the rest of the Milovs wearing formal wear, Anya had to hurry me back up the steps and curl my hair while I hurried to do my makeup. I came back down wearing a ruby red dress and matching lipstick, and Boris looked relieved.

Now, Boris and I are riding in a limousine to the place—which is just a further difference in my understanding of family reunions.

But it makes sense that the Milovs would do things differently. They’re not just a family, they’re a Family.

Next to me, in his custom suit, Boris is jigging his leg and looking out the window, his left thumb tapping rhythmically against the inside of his thigh.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching over and putting my hand on his. He blinks and glances at me like he’s forgotten I was in the limo with him. It stings a little, but I also know that feeling. Sometimes, when things get too stressful, you have no choice but to disassociate right out of your body.

Boris takes a huge breath, then lets out all the air slowly.

“A Milov Family reunion isn’t just a chance for us to catch up with our dear cousins,” Boris says, “it’s also like the annual performance review. And I’m afraid my performance since taking over this role hasn’t been particularly stellar.”

“What do you mean?”

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