Page 1 of Accidental Bratva Daddy

1

Natalia

The champagne fizzes on my tongue as I take another sip, the bubbles a stark contrast to the heavy weight settling in my stomach.

All around me, Moscow's elite mingle and laugh, riding the high of another successful Orlova Couture fashion show. My latest ready-to-wear designs dazzled on the runway, drawing gasps and applause from even the most jaded critics. By all accounts, this after-party should be a moment of triumph.

So why do I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a deep abyss from which there will be no escape?

I scan the opulent hotel ballroom, taking in the glittering chandeliers and flowing champagne. My gaze lands on my father, Igor Orlov, his salt-and-pepper hair easy to spot as he works the room with practiced charm. Even from here, I can see the slight strain around his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that betrays his easy smile.

The unease in my gut grows. Something's off tonight. I can feel it.

"Did you hear?" A hushed voice from nearby catches my attention. "The Orlovs have some nerve showing up with all the rumors swirling about their family."

I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips.

"What rumors? I normally don't ask, but in this case..." Another voice asks, laden with poorly concealed eagerness for gossip.

The first voice drops even lower, but in the sudden lull of conversation around me, the words cut like a knife. "Igor Orlov got caught meeting with Kirill Baranov. By his own brother’s assistant, no less! Mafia ties, they say."

The crystal stem of my glass creaks ominously as my grip tightens. These whispers, these accusations… They're nothing new. For years, they've stalked our family's footsteps, casting a shadow over everything we've worked for. But to hear them here, tonight, after everything I’ve worked for…

White-hot anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. Before I can stop myself, I'm striding towards the gossiping pair, my emerald green gown swishing around my legs.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice dripping with icy politeness. The two women—vaguely familiar faces from countless society events—turn, their eyes widening as they recognize me. "I couldn't help but overhear yourfascinatingconversation. My family seemed to be the topic of concern."

The taller of the two, a bottle-blonde in a dress at least a size too small, has the decency to look embarrassed. "Natalia, we didn't mean?—"

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't," I cut her off, my smile sharp enough to draw blood. "After all, what could be more entertaining at a celebration of art and fashion than rehashing baseless rumors? Tell me, do either of you actually know my father? Or my uncle? Or are you simply parroting whatever scraps of gossip you can scavenge to make yourselves feel important?"

They gawk at me, clearly unused to being called out so directly. The shorter one, a mousy thing in an unremarkable black dress, stammers out an apology. But I'm already turning away, my piece said.

"Next time," I toss over my shoulder, "try having an original thought. It's far more becoming. And the two of you need all the help you can get."

As I make my way back to the bar, adrenaline courses through my veins. I shouldn't have done that. Making a scene, drawing attention—it's exactly what we've been trying to avoid. But I'm sotiredof the whispers, the sidelong glances, the way people who once fawned over us now treat us like we're contagious.

I know my outburst isn’t going to change anything, but it feels good to get it off my chest. The longer I let people talk about my family within earshot, the bolder they become. Maybe this will take some of the volume out of their words, at least.

"Quite the show," a deep, richly accented voice says from beside me. "Though I have to say, I preferred the one on the runway."

I turn, a biting retort on the tip of my tongue, only to have the words die in my throat. The man standing next to me is, without exaggeration, the most devastatingly handsome person I've ever laid eyes on.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he cuts an imposing figure in a bespoke suit that probably costs more than most people's cars. His dark hair is artfully tousled, as if he's just run his hands through it, and a hint of stubble graces his strong jawline. But it's his eyes that truly capture me—a piercing, icy blue that seems to see right through me.

Paired with his impressive, muscular build, I would say that he both belongs on the runway, and he should stay far away from it. He seems too good for high fashion, if that makes any sense at all.

I realize I'm staring and quickly gather myself. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show," I say, aiming for professional detachment. "Though I don't believe we've been introduced, Mr...?"

His lips quirk into a half-smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Volkov," he supplies. "Luka Volkov. But please, call me Luka."

The name tickles something in the back of my mind, but I can't quite place it. I offer my hand. "Natalia Orlova."

Instead of shaking it, Luka brings my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. The gesture is old-fashioned, almost courtly, but there's nothing chivalrous about the heat that flares in his eyes. "Oh, I know exactly who you are, Ms. Orlova."

A shiver runs down my spine, equal parts excitement and trepidation. There's something dangerous about this man, a coiled intensity that sets every nerve ending on high alert. And yet, I find myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

"You handled those harpies beautifully," Luka continues, nodding towards where I'd confronted the gossiping women. "Though I have to wonder if it was worth the energy."

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