Page 5 of Used Bratva Bride

Chapter Two - Mikhail

The sky is overcast, a blanket of gray stretching endlessly over the cemetery as I stand before the freshly dug grave. The air is thick with damp earth and unspoken words, the weight of the gathering pressing down like a hand at my throat.

Valeri Sharov is gone.

The man who taught me patience when my rage threatened to consume me, who told me that power meant more than fear alone—that same man is now six feet under, another casualty in the never-ending war of survival.

I feel no grief.

Only cold, quiet rage simmering beneath my skin.

Valeri didn’t die of illness. He wasn’t taken by age or misfortune. This was a hit—calculated, deliberate, meant to send a message. And whoever sent it clearly thought they’d be able to walk away unscathed.

They were wrong.

I scan the faces surrounding me, most donning masks of solemnity, their heads bowed in false mourning. They murmur soft words, offer tight nods, but none of them feel the loss like I do. Most of them don’t care. In our world, funerals are little more than another stage in the cycle of power—an ending for one, an opportunity for another. Not this time.

This isn’t just about territory or money. This is personal. My uncle had enemies, but none of them had the reach to take him down so cleanly. That kind of precision comes from the inside. Someone close to him orchestrated this. Someone he trusted.

My fists clench at my sides. I will find out who, and when I do, I will burn their world to the ground.

I step away from the grave, the damp grass muffling my movements. My focus is already shifting, my mind clicking into place, stripping away anything that isn’t useful to me right now. Grief is a weakness. Regret is useless. The only thing that matters is retribution.

A figure approaches from my left—Ivan, my lieutenant, the only man I trust enough to stand at my back without a blade in his hand. His face is grim, his expression tight. He carries a folder tucked beneath his arm, his knuckles white from the grip he has on it.

I don’t need to ask. My eyes flick to the folder, then back to him.

“Who?” My voice is quiet, but the demand behind it is clear.

Ivan hands me the folder without hesitation. “You’re going to want to see this.”

I open it, my fingers careful but swift, flipping through the contents. Documents. Photographs. Testimonies, and a voice recording.

I scan each piece, my pulse steady, controlled—until I see the name. Spade. More specifically, Sophia Spade.

The photos paint a picture of business dealings that should not have happened. Accounts shifting, power moving in silence, all tied back to the Spade family. The testimonies are clear: Valeri wasn’t just a casualty in a larger war. He was a target.

Sophia had a hand in it.

I don’t move. I barely breathe. Then I close the folder, my grip tightening until the edges of the paper bend beneath my fingers. My jaw locks, my body stiff with the barely contained violence threatening to break free. I exhale through my nose.

“They can’t get away with this.”

The papers crumple under my grip, my fingers tightening with the sheer force of my rage. The more I stare at the name, Sophia Spade, the heavier the realization becomes. It’s not just business. It’s not just another power move in the endless war of territory and control. This was calculated, personal.

The Spades used her as a pawn, thinking I wouldn’t notice. They were wrong.

Ivan watches me carefully, waiting for my command. He’s smart enough not to speak before I do, but I can feel the weight of his expectations. He knows what comes next—retribution, the kind that leaves no survivors, no loose ends.

“Take the documents back to the study,” I say, my voice cold, measured. The anger is there, seething beneath the surface, but I don’t let it control me. Not yet. “Go through every detail. Find out everything there is to know about Sophia Spade. Who she is, where she moves, what she values. I want to know what makes her tick.”

Ivan nods. “Consider it done.”

I don’t look at him as he walks away. My eyes remain fixed on the grave, on the freshly turned dirt that covers the only man who ever gave a damn about me beyond my usefulness.

Valeri never treated me like my father’s shadow, never made me feel like I had to atone for the sins of my bloodline. He saw me. Not just a Sharov. Not just the heir to a kingdom built on blood and fear.

Now he’s gone.

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