Page 9 of Used Bratva Bride

Eventually, the music slows, and the energy of the party shifts. Some people have left, while others remain, gathered in smaller groups, talking in hushed voices over half-finished drinks. The night is winding down, the electric excitement fading into something more subdued. I realize then that I should probably leave too.

I weave my way through the scattered guests, finally spotting Elise draped lazily over one of the plush lounge chairs on the balcony, a cocktail in hand, still basking in the glow of her own celebration.

“I’m heading out,” I say, leaning down so she can hear me over the faint music.

Elise blinks up at me, then pouts. “Already?”

I laugh softly. “It’s late, and I need to go before I drink enough to start making bad decisions.”

She giggles, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “Fine, fine. Next time, you’re staying until the bitter end.”

I smile. “Deal.”

With that, I step back inside, pulling my phone from my clutch and dialing the driver’s number. “I’m ready,” I say when he picks up. “Meet me out front.”

He confirms, and I make my way to the entrance, the cool night air sobering me slightly as I step outside. The estate is quieter now, the earlier rush of cars and guests dwindling to just a few luxury vehicles waiting in the driveway.

The sleek black car I arrived in pulls up smoothly, and I slide into the backseat without hesitation. My security detail—an older, no-nonsense man named Carter—takes his usual seat up front beside the driver.

“Back home, Miss Spade?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” I murmur, resting my head back against the seat. The exhaustion from the night finally starts to settle in.

The car rolls forward, leaving the estate behind. The streets are quiet at this hour, the city lights casting a soft glow over the roads. I close my eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.

Then everything changes.

The first sign that something is wrong is the sudden deceleration of the car. My eyes snap open as the vehicle slows, and a glance out the window makes my stomach lurch.

We’re surrounded.

Black SUVs appear from every direction, sleek and silent as they cut us off with calculated precision. The headlights glare through the dark, casting long shadows over the pavement.

“Carter,” I whisper, panic creeping into my voice.

He’s already reaching for his gun.

The driver mutters a curse under his breath, hands tightening on the wheel. “Stay inside,” he says sharply, his voice strained but firm. Then he and Carter step out.

I watch in horror as the second the doors open, figures move like ghosts in the night—quick, precise, and terrifyingly efficient. I can tell just from the way they carry themselves that these aren’t common thugs.

They are professionals.

Russian.

The realization sends a shiver down my spine.

Carter barely raises his weapon before a gun is pressed against his temple, disarming him instantly. The driver doesn’t fare any better, taken down with brutal efficiency.

I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping. My heart is a wild drum in my chest, my breath shallow as I shrink back into the seat.

Then I see him.

One man stands out among the others.

Tall, imposing, radiating a presence that demands attention.

Mikhail Sharov.

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