Page 9 of Bratva Baby

He sets the pen aside. “I’m finalizing an alliance with the Barkov family.”

“Alliance,” I echo, tasting the bitterness of the word. “You’re using me as a commodity. How very fatherly.”

His eyes narrow. “Watch your mouth. This is not a negotiation. You will do as you’re told.”

“I won’t,” I state, though a tremor ripples through me at the memory of him shooting that man in our corridor. “You can’t force me.”

Irritation mars his face. “I can, and I will. The meeting is already set, and we’re having dinner with your future husbandtonight. You’ll come, you’ll be polite, and you’ll accept what’s been decided.”

“You haven’t even bothered to ask if I find the man acceptable. He could be a monster for all I know.”

Father gives a harsh laugh. “Considering the circle I move in, ‘monster’ is a relative term. But since you’re so curious, you might appreciate knowing it’s Grigor Barkov who’s agreed to consider you.”

My knees almost buckle at the name. Grigor Barkov. Long after he’d left, I found out the imposing figure I ran into the other night, the one who towered over me in the hallway, was the very same man. The man with the broad shoulders, intense eyes, and a presence that made me both furious and… Nope. Grigor Barkov did not make me feel anything lust-adjacent.

“You’ve got to be kidding. He’s—he’s—”

Father interrupts. “Yes, he’s vicious. Ruthless, some say. That’s exactly the kind of ally I need.”

I can’t believe this is happening. My father is pushing me toward a man who’s rumored to be the muscle of the Barkov operation, second only to Aleksei Barkov. I remember the way he stared me down, as if I was something he could crush if I pushed him too far.

Father returns to his ledger, the subject apparently settled in his mind. “This will happen. Tonight, you’ll join us for dinner. Wear something appropriate. I don’t need you bringing shame on this family.”

My gaze burns with loathing. “I refuse to stand by while you sell me to the highest bidder.”

“Leave, Seraphina. Your tantrums won’t change a thing.”

I let out an animalistic shriek as I spin on my heels and stomp out. If he thinks I’m just going to roll over and let this happen, that I’ll let him trap me in a marriage proposal that my father and the Barkov Bratva have orchestrated, he’s got another thing coming. I won’t let them do this to me without a fight.

***

Hours crawl by. I spend most of them in my room, trying to decide how best to sabotage this arrangement. Cecily peeks in a few times, offering quiet words of concern, but I brush her off. She can’t help me.

Finally, the dreaded moment arrives: a formal dinner in one of the estate’s lavish dining rooms. The table is set with too many forks and spoons, and the draperies are pulled aside so the setting sun can bathe the place. I swallow the instinct to scream that I don’t want this.

I make my way downstairs, wearing a simple black cocktail dress. Father wanted me in something bright and eye-catching, but I refused. Black suits the mood I’m in—one that suggests mourning for my freedom.

The butler ushers me into the dining room. Father stands at the head of the table, conferring with two men from his organization, both of whom eye me like I’m a piece of merchandise. I try not to look at them.

From a doorway behind me, I sense another presence. My gut twists when I turn to see him step into the room: Grigor Barkov, just as imposing as I recall. His dark suit fits his muscular frame, and his face is just as handsome as I remember. Next to him stands one of his brothers—I can tell from the resemblance—but my focus narrows on Grigor.

He moves forward, offering a curt nod to my father. “Evan Thorne,” he greets. Then his gaze slides to me, and I see the slightest recognition in his eyes. “This must be your daughter.”

My father’s lips curve into a self-satisfied grin. “Seraphina, meet the man you’ll soon call husband, should everything go as planned.”

A rage I can’t contain blooms inside me. I give Grigor a dismissive once-over. “I already made it pretty clear that I won’t agree to that.”

Father bristles, stepping closer, probably to lecture me about decorum, but Grigor lifts a hand. “Let her speak.”

I roll my eyes. I won’t be pacified by that. “I’m only here because my father dragged me. Don’t think for a second that I’m excited to meet you.”

A faint curve touches Grigor’s mouth, but it isn’t a smile. “Noted.”

Father clears his throat as he shoots me a glare. “We should all be seated.”

Dinner starts with forced politeness punctuated by a stilted conversation about “opportunity” and “partnership.” Bowls of soup arrive first, then an array of appetizers—none of which I can bring myself to enjoy. Instead, I push the food around my plate, letting my anger simmer just beneath the surface.

Grigor sits across from me with his dark eyes fixed on me as if he’s sizing me up. He tries to engage me in polite conversation once or twice, likely to keep up appearances for my father. But I refuse to play along. I follow every question with biting remarks, choosing my words carefully to needle him.

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