Page 1 of Hating the Bratva

Delaney

“Smile,” my mother whispers in my ear. Her Chanel perfume fills my nose as she leans away to talk with the mayor’s wife. I plaster on a fake smile, but I’m not able to hold it up for long. I’m not sure how my mom does it. She wears that counterfeit smile like a second skin. The ballroom in the hotel is decorated with black and gold. From what I’ve overheard, they explicitly asked the event planners not to use any red in the decor because some of the politicians could be changing parties next year. This place is full of politicians, just like my father. They look the part, dressed in nice suits and clean-shaven. They also have wives with fake smiles who speak to my mom about all the rumors swirling around this elite group of people.

Among them, blending in and mingling as if they belong, are Russian mobsters. I recognize them from growing up in the Bratva. They blend in well, just like my father. I’ve attended many events like this over my nineteen years, each one more painful than the next. Or maybe that’s because my tolerance for bullshit lowers with each year of my life. I take a sip of the champagne set in front of me, and my father gives me one of his famous “watch yourself, Delaney” looks from the corner of his eye. If my parents didn’t want me to drink, they shouldn’t have brought me to a place that serves champagne. All the food has been served, which means, hopefully, the torture will end soon.

A man in a pressed suit approaches the stage. Great. Now we enter the part of the event where everyone gets up and tells us their life journey and how they got into politics while throwing in terrible jokes that everyone laughs at so that he feels better about himself. I stand up.

“Where are you going?” my mom hisses quietly.

“Can’t I go to the bathroom?”

She scrunches up her nose. “Come right back.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Instead of heading to the bathroom, I walk out the French doors that lead to a balcony. I’d spotted this escape cove on my last trip to the bathroom. I hoist myself up on the ledge, not caring if my Vera Wang dress gets ripped up in the process. After pulling out my pack of cigarettes from my purse, I place one up to my mouth and light it. I inhale the Newport, allowing the minty taste to relax my body. The cool Boston wind glides against my skin. If I’m quiet, I can hear the waves crashing against the Massachusetts Bay. As a girl, I dreamed of living near the water; it always calmed me. When my parents would fight, my nanny and bodyguard would take me out to the beach.

The French doors behind me open, but I don’t turn around because I know who it is. His presence can be felt in any room he walks in. Goosebumps rise over my skin.

“I should get home. I have homework to do.” I take another drag of my cigarette and sneak a peek at him. “Don’t say it. Just let me dream for a little while longer.”

Despite the danger that oozes out of him, there is something about Alek. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t act like I’m invisible like all the other Bratva men do.

Women are expected to keep the house, pop out children, and obey their husbands. I don’t have an obedient bone in my body. Everyone knows I’m going to be married off to Alek.

He’s next in line to be Pakhan, and he needs a wife. At least with him, I know what I’m getting into. I’ve heard horror stories of beautiful, young women getting married off to the grossest man in the Bratva. Alek is far from gross, but he’s eleven years older than me. At just nineteen, most of the men in the Bratva are older than me.

“How’s the nursing thing going?” he asks, putting his hands in his pockets. His suit fits him perfectly, hiding the tattoos that I know cover his arms. His green eyes seem to glow in the night sky. It’s almost creepy. He’s always reminded me of the superhero Thor, with his short blonde hair and broad shoulders. He’s usually clean-shaven when I see him, but sometimes he has a bit of a scuff along his jawline.

I shrug. “It’s good. I wish I could live on campus.”

Alek chuckles. “Your father would never allow that.”

I flick the cigarette, watching as the ash hits the wet grass below. “Yeah, he wouldn’t want me to be far when it’s time to marry me off.”

A look of sympathy crosses Alek’s face, but he quickly masks it. He probably feels sorry for me, but he follows the rules like all men in the Bratva. They live by a code of ethics; the main pillar of those ethics is complete loyalty to the brotherhood. If it’s in my destiny to be married off to one of them, Alek has to stand by that.

“What’s going on with you?” I say, wanting to shift the focus away from my little pity party.

He joins me on the edge of the balcony. I’m surprised the wood doesn’t snap in half from his massive frame. He smells like fresh soap. It’s a nice change from the overwhelming scent of cologne that is ever too present in the ballroom. “Business as usual. Nothing that I can tell you about.”

“I heard you bought a house,” I say before taking another drag. Rumors have been circling that he bought it to settle down. I know my time is coming. Alek’s thirty years old. It’s time for him to settle down and start popping out a few kids. Kids that he’ll expect me to carry.

“You listen to too many rumors.”

“So it’s not true?” I ask.

“It is, but I didn’t expect you to know about it.”

“Dad talks loud when he’s on the phone and even louder when he’s visiting with other men in the brotherhood. I pick up on things.”

He nods. “It’s a big place. Nice yard. It’s under renovations, but that doesn’t bother me since I’m not home much.”

Alek’s definition of a big place means it’s probably a mansion and the yard is bigger than a football field. I take another drag.

“You think, as a nursing student, you’d know how dangerous those things are for you.”

“Let’s not talk about dangerous activities,” I challenge. Alek’s entire life is wrapped around danger. All of the men in the brotherhood are always in danger. My dad might have the most straightforward job there is. Yes, he has to get re-elected every year and pretend he’s this upstanding politician, but his life is on the line, just like everyone else. If anyone found out his connection with the Boston brotherhood, his head would be on the chopping block.

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