Page 16 of Bratva Baby

We step through the main entrance, gliding over marble floors and polished surfaces that reflect our silhouettes. A group of staff lines up—some old-timers who served my father, others newer recruits who handle day-to-day tasks. I make a quick announcement: “This is Seraphina. My wife. See that her needs are met.”

She folds her arms and observes the faces like she’s searching for weakness. My new wife doesn’t say a word, so I continue. “Seraphina, this is my head housekeeper, Galina. You’ve met my driver, Konstantin. And—” I tilt my chin toward a bulky man near the end “—that’s Anton. Your bodyguard.”

Her head snaps in my direction. “My what?”

I set my jaw, refusing to let her attitude derail me in front of my employees. “Your bodyguard.”

“Lovely,” she grumbles through clenched teeth. “So I’m a prisoner already?”

I turn to the staff and dismiss them with a quick nod. They scatter, grateful to be out of the crossfire. Anton remains in the background, ready for orders. I address him curtly, “Make sure you stay close anytime she leaves the premises. For now, you’re excused.”

“Understood, Boss,” Anton replies.

She rounds on me the second he’s gone, and her voice lashes like a whip. “Who the hell do you think you are, assigning me some watchdog? I’m not a spy who needs watching, Grigor. Or is that exactly what you suspect?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. The bodyguard is for your protection.”

“Protection from what? Your territory? Your enemies? Or maybe from you? Because I do agree I should have protection against the man who basically coerced me into marrying him.”

I step closer, forcing her to tilt her chin up to look at me. “You don’t get to question my decisions in front of my men. Understood?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Do you expect me to salute too?”

“Watch your tone,” I bite out. “Being my wife comes with certain dangers, and I’m taking precautions to protect what’s mine.”

She scoffs. “I told you before, Grigor. I belong to no one.” Then she spins on her heels and marches down the corridor with her hair swishing around her shoulders with every step.

I follow, refusing to let her walk off in this mood. “Seraphina,” I bark, lengthening my stride until I’m on her heels. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

She whirls around, nearly colliding with me. “Anywhere that isn’t in your immediate vicinity.”

I grip her wrist and tug, just enough to keep her there. My voice drops. “I told you: disrespect me in front of my men again, and we’ll have a problem.”

She rips her arm free. “You want respect? Maybe don’t treat me like a prized horse.”

“You think I enjoy dragging you into my world? I’m doing what needs to be done to secure our position.”

She doesn’t back down. “Let me guess: that’s the same line you feed everyone who’s forced to bend to your will. Spare me.”

I lift a hand to rub my temple. “God, you’re exhausting.”

She glowers. “As if you’re a breeze to be around. To be fair, I did warn you.”

A low sound of frustration rumbles in my throat, but I force myself to stay composed. “We made vows today. Even if you wore black and spat at the idea of being my wife, the fact remains that you are. Get used to it.”

She tosses her head back, laughing “Oh, this number?” she asks, stepping back to give me an eyeful. “I’m mourning one of our deaths. Whose, I haven’t decided.”

A spark of anger ignites in my chest. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Seraphina.”

She steps up to me, fearless. “I’ve been in a dangerous game since the moment I was born into my father’s house. Your little threats are nothing new.”

Silence hangs between us for a tense second, each of us daring the other to break it first. I see the pulse in her throat,rapid and strong, a sign of the turmoil beneath her bravado. Something about her fury draws me in like a magnet. She’s not meek or docile, and even though it grates on my nerves, it also stirs something raw inside me.

She arches a brow. “What’s wrong? Finally ran out of orders to bark?”

I ignore the barb and seize a moment to rein in my temper. “I don’t want you talking about death and mourning.”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Please. Men like you and my father spill blood every day. One day, it’ll be yours. Or mine.”

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