Page 2 of The Russian's Forced Bride
He appeared to be walking away from the voices now, and although I wasn’t comfortable knowing he was with those criminals, I swallowed a lump in my throat, waiting to hear what he had to tell me.
“Go on.”
I could hear him talking to someone for a split second, and as I opened my mouth to try and catch his attention again—
BOOM.
A sharp sound rang out through the phone, nearly deafening me, and my ears buzzed as I held the phone away.
My heart pounded erratically against my chest as the line suddenly went dead, and my breathing grew ragged each time I redialed Father’s number to no avail.
Tears burned in my eyes as I tried to understand what had just happened. We were talking, and suddenly, it sounded like an explosion had gone off. My heart clenched as I tried to calm myself, gripping the railings of the terrace.
Dad was safe. It was all an accident. I tried to convince myself that nothing bad could have happened to him. But then I realized he had met with the Bratva, and I knew nothing good ever came from them.
I stared down at my phone in horror because deep down, I was certain that my life was about to take a twisted turn for the worse.
A turn that was sure to leave me marred for life.
Chapter 1 – Rafael
The oldest Kamarov mansion was a citadel built upon blood.Literally. Its Neo-Gothic architecture didn’t just loom over me; it watched me with grim, stoned towers and arched windows for eyes that held secrets and hid bodies.
The structure had endured years and generations of bloodshed and shared trauma, as it had been the foundation—the rock on which the Russian Mafioso—the Bratva—had been born. And though the evening air around it was crisp, refreshing even, beyond the walls, I could still smell the stench of blood hidden beneath the building’s polished floors.
Armed guards were stationed just beneath the terraced stairway, donned in black suits and Ray-Bans, a quiet air of danger reeking off them as I approached them, adjusting the collar of the coat that brushed against the hairs of my skin.
They immediately stepped aside from the stairway, regarding my authority and presence with a quiet nod, which I returned, my eyes set ahead to the gigantic mahogany twin doors that were also manned by guards, who immediately drew them open upon noticing me.
And though it had been ages since I had been summoned to the mansion, they all knew just who I was and didn’t bother asking questions.
Upon stepping into the foyer, the doors clanked shut behind me, their resonance echoing through the building.
I brushed dust off my boots as my eyes scanned the place. Nothing had changed. The marbled floors gleamed brightly, and the arched windows were decorated with paintings of fallen angels, resembling a cathedral.
The golden pool of light flooding the room from the chandelier seemed to add warmth to a building that could only ever be truly cold.
A scoff escaped my lips as I headed for the sweeping staircase, covered in a red, flowing carpet that draped onto the floors. A blood-curdling silence filled the building, and if it weren’t for the slow, rhythmic tapping coming from above, I would have believed the building was empty.
I had been in my penthouse in New York when Matvey—our most recent Pakhan—had called. He had literally growled into the phone, ordering me to fly my ass all the way to Chicago, the true home of the Bratva.
His voice had sounded somewhat urgent, even with its authoritative undertones, and though I had been mildly irritated by his abruptness, I couldn’t exactly refuse his demands. As powerful as I deemed myself, there was a hierarchy—a system—and a Pakhan I had to answer to.
Even if that Pakhan was my cousin.
The urge to smoke to soothe my growing nerves filled me as I took a deep breath, ascending the stairway with an annoyed, hardened expression. My mind raced through the countless reasons I must’ve been called. As the overseer of the Bratva’s affairs in New York, there was truly no reason for me to be physically present in this building.
But knowing Matvey, summoning me here must’ve been a way for him to wave his authority in my face.
Once off the stairway and into the dimly lit halls leading to Matvey’s office, my attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of the office’s oak door slamming shut. Almost immediately, Jaxon Whitmore—a seasoned American businessman who closely partnered with the Bratva—came into view, his expression appearing troubled despite his elegant looks and neatly slicked-back grey hair.
His posture was upright, a clear sign of his polished background. As my eyes raked over his form, I suddenly remembered that he had gotten his daughter engaged to Matveysome time ago in an effort to expand the roots of his empire. But it hadn’t worked out in the end, as Matvey pulled out of the engagement and married another woman.
I wondered if he had come to propose a marriage deal again.
“Rafael,” he acknowledged me with a nod, his voice gravelly and somewhat weathered from age.
I returned the acknowledgment with a nod of my own and a polite smile that faltered once he strode past me and disappeared down the stairs.
