Page 1 of Brazen King

1

NATASHA

My father’s charity events never fail to entice the cream of the crop when it comes to socialites, trust-fund babies, and the highest rollers of New York society. As the head of the Sokolov empire andpakhanto the Bratva our family has run for generations, we’re as good as Manhattan royalty.

And tonight, it feels like it.

“Did you see the Rudins are here?” I murmur, leaning into my sister’s shoulder as we stand on the platform behind my father.

Dressed in a formfitting crimson velvet dress, Tatiana is striking. Two years my senior, she’s the spitting image of our mother—auburn hair that falls in cascading waves down her bare back, crystal-blue eyes, and curves for days.

If a real person could look like Jessica Rabbit, that’d be my older sister. And from the number of eyes that linger on her, I’d say I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“I’m pretty sure I saw Old Man Rockafeller here, too, though I heard his health is failing.”

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man in question, but it’s impossible to distinguish one face from another in the sea before us. The dance floor that leaves a considerable gap between our platform and the lavishly set dining tables doesn’t make it any easier.

Nor do the massive flower arrangements at the center of each table.

“Welcome,” my father says, his deep and thickly accented voice carrying across the private ballroom that lies several floors beneath our penthouse in Central Park Tower. “And thank you all for your generous donations to this year’s spring charity event. It’s an honor to host this annual ball supporting the Save the Children Federation and the Coalition for the Homeless.”

My mother, dressed in an elegant gold-beaded cocktail dress, beams out at the crowd as she stands by my father’s side. The perfect image of a sophisticated housewife, she once held the title of the most beautiful woman in New York—a title Tatiana has claimed recently, now that she’s reached a marriageable age.

“My husband, Boris, and I can’t thank you enough for all the impressive checks you’ve written tonight,” Mama says cheekily, leaning in toward the microphone as she grasps my father’s study forearm. And she gives the slightest of affectionate squeezes.

To love like they do…I can only hope I find that with a man someday.

But in my sister’s shadow, I’m less than consequential.

Because not only is she strikingly beautiful, but she’s also the heiress to my father’s entire empire. Which makes her New York’s hottest woman on the market.

“You could give us a proper thank-you by auctioning off a daughter or two,” someone calls from the crowd, the lilting voice carrying a hint of Irish brogue.

And the room goes deathly silent.

Killian King, head of Brooklyn’s Irish syndicate stands cockily from his seat at one of the most expensive tables in the house. My stomach lurches as my eyes find his impressive frame.

Broad shoulders, a square jaw, and devilish dimples that flash when he gives an impish smile; he’s well-known for being a ladies’ man.

And though I wouldn’t be caught dead swooning over a cocky jerk like him, I can’t deny he’s insanely handsome.

He’s tall, muscular, and fills out his tailored suit like no one’s business. Not to mention the light-green eyes and blond hair that falls haphazardly into them.

Every inch of him screams trouble—rebellion—from the ever-present smirk on his perfectly shaped lips to the tattoos that peek out above his casually loosened collar and curl across the back of his hands.

Sputtering disbelief crackles across the speakers as my father struggles to maintain his composure from the interruption, and I can tell from the color that creeps up his neck that Killian has gotten under his skin with the brash comment.

“I beg your pardon?” my father demands, his Russian accent thickening in his sudden anger.

“I mean, either that or you could just hand over your throne now, old man, since you have no sons to pass your empire onto. I’d be willing to marry one of your daughters to put them out of their misery—I can even offer them protection…in exchange for their half of the inheritance.”

“I’d sooner drop dead than give either of my daughters to an arrogant, conceited Irishman who’s nearly old enough to be their father,” my father snarls, momentarily losing his self-control.

It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. Killian must be in his midthirties by now, and nearly thirteen years older than I am.

A collective gasp rushes through the crowd as the cocky Irishman strides casually onto the dance floor despite the silent and subtle protests of his hulking right-hand man. “Let’s face it,” he says glibly. “If they don’t marry, your daughters will be ripped to shreds as soon as you die.”

Heat radiates in my cheeks as a combination of humiliation and anger crackles through my body.

---